“God be thanked!” cried the midwife. She thrust him into the arms of one attendant. “Clean him!” She herself set about to attend Mary.
As Mary lay there, her body still laced with pain, she heard the baby whimpering softly, heard the women exclaiming over him. He was perfectly formed, then. Thank the Blessed Mother!
They slid clean linen under her, wiped her sweat away with warm scented towels, and gave her a fresh gown. A dry pillow was substituted for her soaked one, and then the wrapped baby was put in her arms.
He looked so … so old! was her first thought. His eyes, with pouches under them, looked sombre. And his skin was wrinkled.
“All newborns are ugly, Your Grace,” said the midwife. “Even Helen of Troy, I warrant.”
So the child was unusually ugly—otherwise why would the midwife try to assure her? But Mary did not care if his features were ugly, she was so relieved to have him safely in her arms.
And—his complexion was fair, his hair downy golden. His puckered little eyelids opened, showing bright blue eyes.
Now no one can say he is Riccio’s son! thought Mary, with infinite relief. Until that instant she had not been aware how much she had worried that the dark side of the Stewart blood would come out. James III, they said, had been so dark he looked foreign. But this child was fair, like Darnley.
This child, James Charles … she could call him that now; he could be named. James for her father, and Charles for her distant ancestor Charlemagne. May this child inherit a great kingdom, she prayed.
“Shall we call in the King? And the court?” asked the midwife.
“Aye.”
One of the attendants flung open the chamber doors and announced the event to the guard, who shouted with joy and then called another guard to run and proclaim the news to the castle.
In a few moments the entire room shook as all the castle’s cannon fired a salute to the new prince.
“Preserve the caul,” said Mary, suddenly remembering what she had seen.
“Aye, of course,” said the midwife indignantly. “Do you think we do not know our business? A caul must be preserved—else the good luck that comes with it will be lost. Here in Scotland it means this wee one will have the gift of second sight, and be free from the powers of sorcerers and fairies. A good thing for a King to have up here.”
It would be more useful to be protected against traitors than fairies, thought Mary, especially here in Scotland. There are more of the former than of the latter.
Little James Charles stirred in his sumptuous state cradle covered with ten yards of velvet. “Is the King coming?” asked Mary. There was still that to be got through.
Just then Darnley and his groom of the chamber, Anthony Standen, appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, my heart rejoices!” cried Darnley, hurrying to her side. “My darling!”
Lord Erskine, commander of Edinburgh Castle, and other members of the court followed him into the chamber, and began filling the room.
“Please, my lady, the Prince,” said Mary, nodding toward the cradle. The midwife reached toward the cradle and lifted the infant out, and placed him gently in Mary’s waiting arms. Mary pushed back the coverings and showed the child’s face to Darnley.
“My Lord,” Mary said, “God has given you and me a son whose paternity is of none but you.” She placed the baby in Darnley’s arms. Then, raising her voice so everyone in the chamber could hear, she said, “My Lord, here I protest before God, and as I shall answer Him at the great day of judgement, this is your son, and no other man’s son; and I am desirous that all here, both ladies and men, bear witness. For he is so much your own son I fear it may be the worse for him hereafter.”
A moment of stillness. Would Darnley accept the child and thereby confirm her claim?
Darnley looked at the child’s face a long time and then, kissing his cheek, placed him back in Mary’s arms, and then kissed Mary.
“This is the Prince who I hope shall first unite the two kingdoms of England and Scotland,” she said in a clear, triumphant voice. The baby squirmed and wrinkled his already wrinkled face.
“Why, Madam!” exclaimed Standen. “Shall he succeed before Your Majesty and his father?”
“Alas,” said Mary, unable to stop herself, “his father is broken to me.”
“Sweet Madam!” Darnley’s voice rose like a cat whose tail has been nipped in a door. “Is this your promise to forgive and forget all?”
“I have forgiven all, but I can never forget. What if Kerr’s pistol had shot?” Her voice began to shake. “What would have become of him and me both? Or what estate would you have been in? God only knows, but we may suspect.”
“Madam!” answered Darnley. “All these things are past.”
“Then let them go,” she murmured, speaking to herself. “Let them go.”
* * *
Outside, the news spread through Edinburgh. Throngs convened at St. Giles for a solemn act of thanksgiving for the safety of the Queen and the birth of an heir, and the first of celebratory bonfires were lit on Arthur’s Seat and Calton Hill. From there five hundred beacons throughout Scotland blazed forth the news: Scotland has a Prince!
* * *
The Prince had been born at ten in the morning of June nineteenth, 1566. By noon James Melville had left Edinburgh en route to London to announce the infant’s arrival to his godmother, Queen Elizabeth.
XXXI
In the early dawn, Mary stood shivering slightly as she waited on the dock at Leith. It was chilly here at this hour, even though it was July. But her shaking was due not only to the cool breezes blowing in from the Forth, but from nervousness. Was he following? She kept looking back toward the road to Edinburgh, expecting any moment to see a group of horsemen descending. She would recognize Darnley from any distance.
She had planned this escape to Alloa, not secretly perhaps, but she had not told Darnley. Seven weeks had passed since the birth of the little James Charles, and at last her physicians and court etiquette had released her from her literal confinement in Edinburgh Castle. But what they had released her to was the duty to return to Darnley’s bed—or let him return to hers. And Darnley had been eagerly waiting, he had made it all too plain.
She shuddered. The thought of it was now worse than ever, since she had been spared it for so long. It was like an abominable habit that, once broken, cannot be resumed without utter debasement and revulsion. Perhaps this retreat would give her the strength, or the courage, to submit, or else the final resolution to flee from his embraces forever.
John Erskine, the Earl of Mar, had offered her his castle on the north shore of the Forth, near Stirling. She would sleep, read, stroll in the fields, gather midsummer flowers to make chains and potpourris, daydream. And pray—pray for direction. She felt so lost, just when she should feel most triumphant.
She glanced over at Lady Reres, a relative of Beaton’s, who was rocking little James gently. She was acting as the baby’s wet nurse, and her great bulk seemed to provide him with comfort in itself. Mary was going to be entrusting him to Erskine soon, for that family was traditional keeper of the royal children, as his father had been hers. But until the day when she must be parted from him, she kept the baby in her own room, listening to his every whimper and sigh, studying his features for family likenesses.
No sign of Darnley. But also, no sign of the ship Bothwell had promised to have waiting for her if she came to the docks before sunrise. Mary turned to Madame Rallay and began to murmur under her breath.
“He will come, Madam. That is not your worry,” Madame Rallay said.
“Can I trust no one?” Mary burst out. If Bothwell was not to be relied on, who was? He alone had not accepted bribes or turned coat on her, Protestant though he was. He had seen her through the Riccio horror.
Two rough-looking men came toward them; one had a beard so bushy and streaked with red it looked false. The other man was thin and dressed so lightly Mary wondered if he had any blood, or whethe
r he had hardened himself by sleeping out in the snow; she had heard of such people.
“Yer Maj’sty?” said the false-bearded one. He swept off his hat. “Yer ship awaits, on th’ other dock. I’m the captain. Captain William Blackadder, at yer service.”
Black Adder. Never was a man better named, Mary thought. He looked like a blackguard, poisonous as a snake.
“Lord Bothwell sent me,” he said stubbornly, as if it should not be necessary to add this.
“Indeed I did.” Bothwell’s head poked up from a piling, where he had climbed up the iron rungs. He clambered up on the dock and gave Blackadder a shove. “Is the leak plugged?” he asked, then, seeing the look on Mary’s face, he laughed. “I jest,” he said. “Truth is, Blackadder’s ship is quite seaworthy. A pirate’s must be, if he is to ply his trade.”
Laughing, Bothwell gestured toward Mary and her ladies. “Come. The ship is ready, the sailors await, and the tide swells.” He looked around pointedly. “I see I did not need to procure such a large vessel.”
“Others may come afterwards. Perhaps by land,” said Mary.
“Do we await the King?” Bothwell asked bluntly.
“No.”
“Then let us depart.”
He led the way across two wharves to where a well-trimmed ship was tied up. It was called the Defiance, and it had brown sails. Suddenly Mary remembered hearing that name … it had been a pirate vessel!
Bothwell strode up the gangplank, the captain following. The sailors, dressed in dark homespun, greeted him with affection and respect. They merely glowered at Blackadder.
With Bothwell commanding, his voice carrying clear and far over the water and the creaking of the ropes as the sails were maneuvered, the ship cast off, seemingly effortlessly. The shore receded as they made for the mid-channel of the Forth. Was that a movement on the road? Was Darnley arriving, but too late?
Then he’ll follow me on land, she thought, miserably. Is there no escape from him, no respite, even for a few days? His behaviour never improves, it only worsens.…
Bothwell, having turned over the sailing to Blackadder, came and stood beside her at the railing. “I will be at my other duties soon,” he said. “I mean the ones on land.”
“It is hard for you to be responsible for two such different realms,” she said. “It is as if we asked a sea serpent to hunt in the jungle as well as at sea.”
He laughed. “I could be compared to worse things than a serpent, so I’ll hold my peace. The Borders need discipline and a heavy hand just now. Ever since Lord James got tangled up in the first rebellion, there’s been little order down there. I am afraid, in plain language, that they have got quite out of hand. I can administer my own justice, but the truth is, they need the royal presence. You should come on a progress there, and hold courts of justice to try the worst criminals, and then hang them on the spot. They understand nothing else. There have been no hangings there in years. Just blood-feuds and murders.”
“Do you truly think I should go there?”
Now the sun had risen and was making a glittering path on the waters. She pushed back her hood and let the wind touch her hair. The chill was leaving the air.
“Aye. They need to know they have a queen. At present they feel they have to answer to no one but the head of their clan. They answer to me, somewhat—or rather, to my sword arm. But they should feel your presence, and now they do not. I’ll round them up, if you will judge them.”
“And hang them? You’d have me do that?”
“It’s the only way to get their attention.” He laughed again.
“It would earn their hatred, not their respect,” she objected.
“In the Borders, they are the same thing. Besides, once they had seen you, they might become your liege men. They’re a sentimental lot. Courtly, in a strange way. You might win them over.”
“With smiles and fair words? Or hangings and beatings?”
“You could try both and see which is more effective.”
She could not tell whether he was serious or not. “I will come, after you have rounded up the bandits, murderers, and thieves.”
“A fine assignment. I’d best be about it, then, whilst you take the cool summer breezes and forest paths at Alloa.” He turned from the railing and waved a signal to one of the seamen.
“Perhaps you should stay at Alloa a few days yourself. We could confer—I wish you would tell me about the Borders!” she burst out. “You know more than anyone else, and I need to learn!”
“You could never understand about the Borders,” he said. “It is impossible for an outsider ever to understand.”
“I cannot stomach that any longer!” she cried. “Calling me an outsider has been everyone’s excuse to exclude me from everything! ‘You cannot understand Scotland, you’re a Frenchwoman!’” she mimicked perfectly. “‘You cannot understand the Scriptures, you’re a Catholic!’ ‘You cannot understand warfare, you’re a woman!’ ‘You cannot be trusted to rule, you’re a daughter!’ Well, I can tell you that an outsider can learn more than anyone born to the thing—whatever that thing is!”
He looked as though her words had blown him back an inch or two. “Well spoken. So you do understand. I too am an outsider in some ways. You speak the truth. We will have to talk more. Another time. When you visit the Borders to try my malefactors!”
* * *
It was a week before Darnley came to Alloa. Until then, Mary was able to luxuriate in the freedom that came from being away from him—a freedom she had taken for granted before she knew him, but this was different.
She was sitting out in the castle forecourt, just watching the birds flying overhead, the hawks circling in the dappled blue sky, when Lord Erskine came out.
“A messenger has told me—the King has been seen leaving Edinburgh this morning. I imagine we can expect him here tonight.” As befitted the game everyone was playing about “the King,” he made no faces, had no meaningful expression in his words. His long face—mournful-looking under normal circumstances—did not look less mournful now.
“Oh. I see. Thank you for telling me.”
Mary tried to read something else in Erskine’s face. She had known him so long—his father had been one of her childhood guardians, and he himself had attended her at court since the beginning. But he was also Lord James’s uncle, and an early member of the Lords of the Congregation. In some ways all the contradictions and mysteries of Scotland were contained in this one inscrutable man. If I could understand him, thought Mary, I could understand everything here.
“Shall I make his quarters ready adjoining yours, Your Majesty?”
“No. I prefer that he have separate quarters.”
“As you wish.” Erskine gave a little bow of obedience. “I am so happy you have come here!” he burst out.
“I am happy, too,” she said.
And she was. The fresh air, the quiet, the rest and sleep, had been completely restorative. And Erskine, who would become the guardian and keeper of her most precious possession, the baby Prince, had had an opportunity to hold the baby, to play with him and watch him, as if he were any ordinary child.
“I greatly appreciate your bringing the Prince to me now, privately, so that I can come to know him. Rest assured I will guard him and cherish him,” Erskine said.
“Promise me that you will protect him!” Mary suddenly said. “Promise me that no matter what happens, no matter what turmoil or fighting or disruption, you will not surrender him into anyone else’s hands—not the English, nor the French, nor—nor anyone who might claim possession of the throne.”
“It is my hereditary duty and privilege to be able to promise this,” he assured her. “But are you so troubled—”
“Yes!” She grasped his hand. She should not be talking to Erskine, she should not confide her thoughts to anyone, she knew that, but the words seemed to come of themselves. “Everything is murky, since Riccio was murdered. Even the Chaseabout Raid was different—Lord James and th
e others openly declared themselves enemies, and an honest confrontation occurred. It was a manly manner of treason, so to speak.”
I must not say anything against Lord James, this man is his uncle and undoubtedly loyal to him, she thought. But he seems so kindly, so sympathetic.… That has been the problem all along here in Scotland for me. I cannot read what is.
“But this killing, and secret bonds, and bribe money—” She shuddered. “I fear it is not over yet, that some monstrous thing is yet unfinished.” There, she had given voice to her deepest fears. “It hangs over me like a cloud, and I feel choked and enveloped in it!”
Erskine’s face was full of concern. “My dearest Queen—you must rest assured that all that is over and we can look forward to a glorious clear future here in Scotland, now that the Prince is here.” He looked over at the baby, sleeping in his little cradle out in the sun.
And when you get possession of him, then what? The plan is not complete yet, but soon.… Mary, stop these thoughts, they are evil and come straight from hell to torment you.
Erskine’s gentle eyes were probing hers.
But kind eyes can hide evil intent. Look at Darnley! Who has more glistening, innocent eyes?
All this has murdered my trust and confidence in anything beyond myself. Even God! Why was He so powerless to stop it?
“Your face is troubled,” said Erskine. “I beg you to rest your cares and worries.”
* * *
Darnley came on the morrow, riding up on his white horse and looking as splendid as Lancelot. Mary pretended to be pleased to see him, but as soon as he got her alone, he grabbed her arm.
“Why did you run away?” he cried. “And with Bothwell!”
“I did not ‘run away,’” she said stoutly. “I only came here to rest and restore myself. All Bothwell did was to provide the ship—as was his duty! He went straight to the Borders after that.”
“Aye, where he has been busy rounding up reivers, so I heard,” said Darnley sarcastically.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” Darnley crossed his arms and stood like a soldier on duty.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 51
