“You are right,” she said softly. “We must put the past behind us. It does Scotland scant good for her rulers and councillors to be at odds. I will draw up a pardon for you all, and present it to Parliament.”
“We have a draft of one ourselves,” said Ruthven, moving. His knee was indeed stained, and the place where he had ground the crust by kneeling had a depression in it. Mary felt truly sick.
She took the paper and pretended to study it. “This looks complete,” she said. “We will have it copied, and subscribe my—and my husband the King’s—royal signatures to it.” She paused. Now was the moment.
“I feel faint,” she whispered, leaning up against Darnley. Alarmed, he took her in his arms. She sagged, and clutched her belly.
“Pains…” she murmured.
“Midwife!” cried Darnley.
“No … no midwife,” said Mary. “The pains will pass, if I may but lie down. Please!” She gestured toward her bedroom.
The four men rose. Darnley and the Queen were making their way toward the bedchamber. They entered, and the door shut behind them. In a few moments, Darnley reemerged.
“She is resting,” he said. “The strain—pray the child does not come betimes.”
“The paper—” said Lord James.
“It is on her desk. She will sign it in a few hours, when she is recovered. Never fear. It will be ready by morning, even if I have to sign it by forging her signature.” He winked at them. “And now, my lords, you may retire.”
“And leave her unguarded?” growled Ruthven. “Nay, never. This may all be a trick. Never forget that she was trained in the court of France, where lies and dissembling are a way of life.”
“Just as violence and murder are here?” Darnley said. Seeing Ruthven glaring at him, he smiled. “No court has special training in duplicity. The Queen my wife is ill. But she has given her word to sign the pardon, and as she is a true prince, she will stand surety to it. I pray you, dismiss the guards and go to your homes. You must needs be tired, and it is now the second night since the … incident.” He gestured toward Mary’s closed bedroom door. “She needs no guards now. She lies on a sickbed, a weak woman. All her attendants are gone, her few supporters like Bothwell and Huntly far away … and besides, I will guard her. I will stand surety for her!”
“Then on your head, and on that of your posterity, may the vengeance fall if aught goes amiss!” Mary heard the rough voice of Ruthven even through the door of her room.
Then she heard more talking, and finally footsteps and quiet. The bedroom door creaked open and Darnley stuck his head in. He looked whiter than Mary, even without the aid of makeup.
“He cursed me!” he said, shaken.
“Did you expect blessings?” said Mary, sitting up quickly. “He is an evil man, and he has nothing but evil to give. Are they gone?”
Darnley sighed. “Yes. I promised them they would have the pardon by morning. But what if they return? We’d best flee now!”
Mary got up out of bed. She felt both very strong and very weak. The baby stirred and turned as if to reassure her he was safe.
“No,” she said. “Doubtless they have left guards to test us for that very thing. It is still early; it is not even fully dark. We must undress and pretend to go to bed. Then, at about two o’clock, we will escape. I will come to your chamber and then we will make our way through the postern gate and through the graveyard to where our rescuers will be waiting with horses.”
“You have arranged—?” His face was incredulous.
“Everything,” she said.
Now would this fool leave so she could remove the white clay from her face? It stung and burned.
* * *
She lay in bed, in her sleeping attire, so fully did she play her part. She knew exactly where her riding garments were and how to get to them in an instant. In the meantime there were all those hours to get through, when she would have to lie still but fully alert.
There was no fear in her; only anger filled her veins, and the deep, aching desire for revenge. She wanted to raise an axe and split Ruthven’s skull open, see him fall twitching to the ground.
There would be occasion for that, once she escaped … escaped.…
* * *
Mary crept down the little spiral staircase connecting her bedroom with Darnley’s, feeling her way carefully. There were twenty-five steps, winding to the left, and she leaned that way. Once in Darnley’s bedchamber, she sought his bed by memory, as there was no light burning. It had been a long time since she had sought that bed, but it was easy to find in the small room.
Darnley was sleeping. Like a child he was breathing lightly, and like a child he was hard to awaken.
“Come,” she whispered. “Now.”
Obediently he put his hand in hers and let himself be led out through his presence chamber and thence through a gallery to a staircase, where they descended into the cellars, cold, moist, and empty. The palace was silent, and no guards were posted before Darnley’s door as they had been at hers.
They did trust him, she thought. Or they are simply careless.
“Not much farther,” she whispered. The long passageway, lined with sacks of last year’s apples, old cabbages, barrels of salt fish, and casks of wine, smelled like the memory of a winter meal.
“There is a door … at the end of the wine casks … yes.” She reached out and touched the rough wood. Pray God it was not locked!
It had a wooden latch, easily lifted. The door creaked open, and fresh cold air with the smell of spring earth flooded in.
“Come!” There were three steps up to ground level, and then they stood outside, free.
After the utter darkness of the food cellar it seemed as light as day to them, and they could see the headstones and mounds of graves all around them. The wind rustled the bare branches of an ash tree overhead.
“They wait for us on the other side of the Abbey burial grounds, where Holyrood properly ends,” said Mary. “Now come—but bend over, weave between the headstones so no one can see us moving. There must be guards outside the palace.”
She let go his hand and lowered her head, moving in a crouching position from tombstone to tombstone. The Blessed Mother be thanked, there was no bright moon tonight. They would be darkness moving within darkness.
Suddenly Mary’s foot sank in soft dirt and she pitched forward, her hands buried in soil.
A fresh grave.
She almost shrieked, as she felt something hard not very far beneath the surface. She crawled away and sat panting, her heart racing.
“Riccio,” she whispered.
“Oh, Davie,” mumbled Darnley, running his hands over the makeshift mound. “Every day of my life I shall regret this … I have been miserably cheated!”
The poltroon was about to cry!
“A bigger one than he shall sleep nearby ere a twelvemonth has passed,” Mary said in the softest voice she possessed.
“What?” asked Darnley. His voice quivered.
“I said we must go on. We are halfway there.” Mary got to her knees and pulled Darnley’s hand. He stepped on Riccio’s grave as he made for the next headstone.
Headstone, mound, headstone, little mound, monument … it was like a huge chessboard, and they the moving pieces.
A horse snorted some thirty yards away. A guard? A rescuer? Mary waited for the sound to come again. There was a slight movement at the end of the graveyard, where the rescuers were supposed to be waiting.
It must be they! It has to be! Mary thought. And the only way to know is to get so close to them I am lost if it is not.
Slowly she picked her way closer, creeping forward foot by foot. Now she could hear voices, whispering, that mingled with the call of the owls and the scurrying small rodents in the dark.
“—past three—” She caught just those two words.
“gallop—” And in the saying of that word she recognized Bothwell’s voice.
She stood up and ran the last twenty y
ards. The horses started and the men drew their swords.
“Bothwell!” she whispered, but a loud whisper. “All is well!”
And then she was being lifted over the fence by arms that felt like elm, and Bothwell’s voice was saying, “Thank God and all the demons!”
There were Arthur Erskine and Lord Stewart of Traquair, Mary’s equerry and the captain of the guard, and Bastian Pages, Mary’s servant. Not enough horses.
“You will ride pillion with me,” said Erskine, and Mary was lifted—again by Bothwell—up and settled there behind Erskine’s saddle.
“To Seton House,” said Bothwell. “Two hundred men await us there. When the guards change at daybreak at Holyrood, we’ll be miles away!” He sounded both disgusted and amused at the same time. “Can you ride so far, Your Majesty?” he suddenly said to Mary.
“Why, I must,” she replied. “And that’s an end to it.”
He nodded curtly, but she saw a flash of his teeth in a quick grin.
“Come, away!”
Erskine’s horse leapt forward, and Mary had to cling to stay on. Her large belly made it difficult for her to reach her arms around Erskine, and she felt herself in danger of slipping. Sensing her unbalance, Erskine slowed his horse.
“Come, faster!” cried Darnley, pulling alongside them. The wind touched them with long cold fingers as it streamed past. “We are being followed, I am sure of it!” He leaned over and whipped her horse.
“I can go no faster without endangering the child,” said Mary. The sound of their horses’ hooves punctuated every word.
“It is no matter; if it dies we can make another!” he yelled.
“Then leave me and save yourself,” said Mary, and he did.
He is beyond even hating, thought Mary. Beyond pity, beyond any human consideration.
Bothwell shot her a look, but she refused to be pitied or disdained, and she hated him for having overheard. She turned her head and looked straight ahead, as if she could see all the way to Seton. The bouncing and thudding of the horses’ hooves reverberated through her belly.
Poor baby, she thought. Blessed Mother, protect him.
She looked behind her into the dark. No one seemed to be following.
The night was still completely black, and as they galloped toward the Forth and Seton House, they had to trust the horses’ instincts to avoid dips and loose ground on the uneven terrain. Low-hanging branches were a constant hazard, and the riders had to keep ducking to avoid them; nonetheless they were often sideswiped or whipped across the face in the darkness.
It was twelve miles to Seton House, and by the time they reached the gatehouse, Mary’s fingers were stiff from clutching Erskine’s clothing, and she was chilled through and through. But as they clattered into the courtyard, she saw the flare of torches, heard and smelled a great company of horses, and knew that a contingent of loyal riders awaited her. She was safe.
Erskine’s horse stopped. Bothwell lifted her down, and Lord George Seton—Mary Seton’s brother—and the new Earl of Huntly came forward.
“Welcome, Your Majesty!” cried Seton. “Thank God you are safe! We all await your command.”
She looked around. On her feet after the long ride, she felt a little dizzy, but exuberant. “It is not safe here,” she said. “It is too near yet to Edinburgh. We must make for some truly fast fortress.”
“Dunbar,” said Bothwell decisively. “It’s guarded on three sides by the sea, and as near impregnable as any stronghold can be. It’s another thirteen miles to the coast. Can you—”
“Of course I can ride! And on my own, too! Bring me a horse.” Did he think she would need to be carried in a litter?
He looked doubtful, but nodded to Lord Seton. “Bring the Queen a fleet palfrey,” he said. Lord Seton looked surprised to be given orders in his own home.
“Away!” cried Mary, after she was mounted. Two hundred men lifted their torches, shouted, and followed her.
In the three hours it took to reach Dunbar, the sky began to lighten, and as they approached the grey, boxy fortress it was lit from the ocean side by the rising sun, surrounded by an aureole of fire. A chorus of seagulls sang their entrance.
“Who goes there?” called the watch from the crenellated battlements.
“The Queen!” called Mary. “Open in my name!”
Once inside, Mary, Bothwell, and Seton ascertained that the keeper, Simon Preston, the Provost of Edinburgh, was absent. Whose side was he on? In spite of his timely appearance leading the citizens to the gates of Holyrood, had he known about the Riccio plot in advance? Why had he allowed himself to be dismissed so easily by Darnley’s lies? Where was he now?
No matter, thought Mary. He was scant aid to me in my hour of need, and settled for the easy way out. Therefore he is keeper here no longer. Such a fortress belongs in the hands of someone I can trust. Bothwell. Yes, he has surely earned it.
The cry of the gulls outside the windows sounded like the shrieks of hungry children.
“I pray you,” she said to a servant, “bring me two dozen eggs, some butter, some cheese, some ale, and an iron skillet. And light the fire in this fireplace.” She turned to the leaders and said, “Gentlemen, I shall make you breakfast!”
* * *
As they sat at a small table eating what Lord Seton called “eggs à la Reine d’Ecosse,” “cheese Royale,” and “Her Majesty’s ale,” Mary announced that henceforth Bothwell would serve as Dunbar’s keeper, and in the same breath asked the men to raise an army of loyal soldiers to march on Edinburgh with them.
“However many you believe are needed,” she said, “to chase the rebels out.” She looked to Bothwell as the most experienced soldier.
“We’ll get the Scotts, and that’s all the fighters you’ll need,” he said with a laugh. “Aye, they’ll be loyal, and—”
“We’ll put out a call to all Scotland,” Huntly corrected. His clear blue eyes were steady and cool.
“And what do you suppose my lords of Morton, Ruthven, and Lindsay are having for breakfast?” Mary asked suddenly, passing a second bowl of eggs. She grinned.
“They are eating crow, as the saying goes,” said Lord Seton. “And not served as prettily, I warrant.”
“Is there pen and ink here?” she said. “I must needs write immediately to Charles IX in France and Elizabeth in England! They must be informed!”
XXIX
The sun came up gilded in a bank of clouds.
“Rain today,” muttered Bothwell, taking only one glance of the sky. The wind was chilled, and outside the castle windows the sea looked thick from cold.
Darnley was huddled in front of the fire in the hall, shivering. “What are we to do?” he asked.
“I’ll send out the call for my Borderers,” said Bothwell. “As soon as they come, we’ll march back to Edinburgh in strength.”
“And drive the rebels out!” cried Mary. She looked at both men; Bothwell was clearly exhausted, but Darnley looked worse. “Drive them right into England, or wherever they want to run and hide!”
“Aye!” Bothwell almost shouted.
The evil, cold-blooded murderers … and the foremost among them was sitting right here, in front of the fire. Mary ran her hand over her stomach, gently, as if afraid that only one more touch could kill the baby.
And after you are born, I shall have my revenge, she thought, looking at Darnley out of the corner of her eye. No, I’ll not ever be wife to you again, traitor!
* * *
By that afternoon, word reached Mary that other lords, made bold by her courage and Bothwell’s strategy, were coming to Dunbar to offer themselves and their men in her service.
Bothwell entered the room where she was sitting and reading the dispatch.
“Do you not ever sleep?” he asked, staring. “Do you not need your rest for … for the child?”
“The child will be a true Stewart, and be most at home in action and high deeds,” she said, repressing a sigh of exhaustion. “But look
—the earls of Atholl, Sutherland, and Crawford, and the lords, brothers of my Marys, Fleming, Seton, and Livingston—are coming to Dunbar. We have prevailed!”
“Not yet,” said Bothwell. “There has been no fighting yet.”
* * *
At last Mary allowed herself to rest, stretched out on one of the beds in the old quarters. She had been awake now for how many hours—forty? She was not sure. Everything blended together, from the moment she had alighted on the plan of escaping at night, to the ride through the countryside.… She was abruptly, heavily weary. She slept.
When she awoke, it was to a new feeling: a cold, certain fear. It was only now that she could see all the events together and realize how precarious her situation was. She was utterly surrounded by traitors and murderers. Her innermost guarding circle had turned out to be a dangerous circle of enemies rather than safety. And these were the powerful nobles, the ones with intelligence and many men-at-arms.
I always knew Knox was my enemy, she thought. To his credit, he proclaimed himself so from the beginning. And whatever he preached, he never wielded a dagger himself. I could invite him to my chamber without fear of being stabbed.
But Ruthven … Morton … Douglas … the foremost names in Scotland! And then there is my brother, Lord James, the highest in the land … how quickly he appeared on the scene! He must have directed the whole plan from England. For one thing is certain—this was planned. It was not done on sudden impulse. It took place on the day before Parliament was to punish the rebels from the Chaseabout Raid.
She found herself shaking. She pulled a fur over herself.
It is with the cold, she told herself. It is not from fear.
Outside the wind was moaning, and she could see rain falling in a steady pelting from the skies.
Whom can I trust? Is Bothwell the only loyal lord in the land? He has never abandoned the crown, and supported my mother against her enemies.…
“I wish I had my armour.”
Mary heard a familiar, revolting voice nearby: Darnley’s. Wearily she turned her head and beheld him, standing forlornly in the middle of the sparse stone chamber. This was a chamber for rough warriors, not perfumed courtiers.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 49
