Archibald Douglas and his men were to surround the house to prevent Darnley from escaping. French Paris would light the train of powder, although he, Bothwell, would like to have the honour. But it might not prove possible.
* * *
The wedding, held in the Catholic Chapel Royal at Holyrood, had gone well. In spite of the desperate unhappiness of her own marriage, Mary had an innate optimism when she saw others taking their vows.
Bothwell was there, despite his Protestant scruples, and during the ceremony she stared at his back, unable to look away, wondering why even his back seemed distinctive and different from all other backs.
Everyone went on to a banquet celebrating the nuptials, and then a smaller group attended a formal dinner party celebrating the departure of Moretta, who had only just arrived, so it seemed, to represent the Duke of Savoy. He had missed the baptism by more than a month. Bothwell was seated far down at the opposite end of the table. Mary watched him without seeming to do so; watched him even as she made sprightly conversation with the earls of Argyll and Huntly.
“So late, perhaps he can stand as godfather to your next child,” said Argyll with a wink.
“Indeed, yes—”
“His christening gift is magnificent. The jewels in the handle of the fan—”
Bothwell was gripping his wineglass with his powerful fingers. She could not see them shake at that distance.
* * *
The meal being over, she realized that there were several hours left before the carnival masque at Holyrood and the formal “putting the bride and groom to bed” ceremony. Laughing, she stood up and said, “Come, let us go to Kirk O’Field and cheer the King. He would appreciate your company, I know.”
And I would appreciate being spared being alone with him, she thought.
In the descending gloom of the February afternoon, they made their way down the frosted cobblestones of the Blackfriars Wynd, led by torches to the precincts of Kirk O’Field. Their laughter rang out, their cloaks of scarlet, tawny, and violet showing bright against the grey stone houses and the light frosting of snow underfoot.
Inside the house, Darnley was waiting. Mary expected him to be sulking and hostile, but he was attired in sumptuous, jewel-encrusted robes and was animatedly hopping about. He had even provided musicians and hundreds of candles. Proudly he clapped a feathered mask on, and pointed his skinny legs, attired in silver hose.
“Welcome! Welcome!” he was saying.
Was he drunk? Had he spent the entire afternoon drinking? But no—his gait lacked the unsteadiness, and his words were not slurred.
“My lord!” said Mary, in surprise. She allowed him to take her hand and lead her in a dance.
The lords and guests stood watching, then cheered. Darnley bowed.
“Come, again!” he said, pulling her.
“Oh, my lord, you tire me,” she said.
His cheeks were strangely flushed. Had he a fever?
“Drink! Dance! Enjoy yourselves!” he commanded, gesturing to the entire chamber.
“Ah, my Mary, you are so beautiful,” he whispered. “So beautiful I wish you were not made of flesh but of marble, so you could endure forever.” He took her hand and kissed it tenderly.
“Dice! We must play!” Darnley suddenly turned to the company. “Here, on this table! I have set everything up!”
* * *
It had grown late, but once the darkness had settled, all the subsequent hours had run together. There was no way of knowing whether it was seven o’clock or nine o’clock, and their full stomachs gave no hungry signals.
Mary had been engrossed in a game of Primero when suddenly Bothwell leaned toward her and whispered, “Have you forgotten your promise to return to Holyrood for the masque?”
“It is early yet,” she replied, studying her cards. She had been winning.
“No,” he said. “It is late, past ten. French Paris has just brought me word that they are waiting; they are holding up the performance.”
“Oh!” And she would have to change her clothes, too. How tiresome. She was not in the mood any longer for the carnival; the long walk back to Holyrood in the cold, and then the costume, and then …
If there were any choice in the matter, she would not go, and continue playing cards in the comfort of this house, and then sleep in the little stone chamber again. But she could not fail to complete her duty toward her servants. Wearily she rose.
She caught Darnley’s attention and put her hand gently on his brocaded shoulder.
“I must return to Holyrood,” she said. “So I must bid you goodnight.”
“But you must return!” He threw his dice down. “You must promise to come back and sleep here!” His voice was shrill and querulous.
“Alas, I am already weary. To travel back here in the deepest part of the night—”
“Then don’t go!” He clutched at her.
She patted his hand. “I must. It is one of the obligations I feel I must fulfill. Margaret and Bastian are two of my dearest—”
“I am your husband!”
Bothwell’s head jerked around.
“Yes, I know. But tomorrow you will be leaving this dwelling. It is only a few more hours.”
“Please! Grant me this wish!”
“Henry,” she said in her sweetest tone, “do not be unreasonable. It is not advisable. It is safer and healthier if we both sleep normal hours tonight. You are just recuperating. Look”—she removed a ring from her finger and put it on his—“here is a token—”
“Mary!” He was on the verge of tears.
She had to get away now, or he would prevent her. And the bride and groom would be hurt. Why was he so selfish?
She almost laughed. I ask that question as if he were normal and this is the first peculiar thing he has ever done, she thought.
“If I can, I will return,” she said. “But please do not remain awake waiting.”
Quickly the lords and ladies put on their mantles and hoods and passed out into the night.
Looking back, Mary saw Darnley standing, pressing his hands against the glass in the window of the chamber.
* * *
She was indeed very tired, and the masque, with its requisite participation, had sapped her strength. The child was starting to affect her and drain her. Or perhaps it had been the odd, tearful demands of Darnley, and having to extricate herself from him. Ordinarily she enjoyed such festivities, but this time she just wanted them to end so she could go to bed. Even the sight of Bothwell in his black and silver carnival costume did not stir her.
After the “putting to bed” had been duly enacted, and the rest of the party had returned to the hall for further dancing, Bothwell and Sir John Stewart of Traquair approached her.
“Let us draw apart,” said Sir John. His face was white and he looked shaken. Quickly she looked at Bothwell, but his expression was completely different: grim and determined.
“Why, what is it?”
The two men took her by the elbows and steered her to an empty corner.
“Do not even consider returning to Kirk O’Field,” said Bothwell. “I heard your words to the … King.”
“In truth, I am too tired.”
Bothwell nodded to Traquair. “Tell her.”
“No. You told me. You know more.”
“The King intends to murder you tonight if you return to the house,” he said.
“How?” Her voice was small.
“Gunpowder.”
“What?”
“He has prepared the cellars, packed them tight. It has taken many days. Now his mysterious choice of Kirk O’Field is made clear.”
She was so stunned she could not speak. His entreaties that she return …
“We want your permission to arrest him,” Traquair said gently. “He is a traitor.”
She began to weep wildly. The perfidy, the gloating cold-bloodedness of it, was beyond her comprehension. It was demonic.
I shall be leal and true to m
y Sovereign Lady, the Queen of Scotland. I shall never bear treason about in my heart against our Sovereign Lady the Queen, but shall discover the same to her. So help me God.
“He has broken his vows,” she whispered.
Bothwell shot a look at Traquair. What an irrelevant thing to say.
“When he became a Knight of the Thistle, he swore—”
“Have we your permission to take him?” insisted Bothwell. “We must act under your orders. He is a traitor.”
Already Bothwell was turning away to do it, but she reached out for him. “Do not harm him,” she said.
“If he resists arrest, I cannot speak for his safety,” he shot back. “He is dangerous, and must be treated as such.” He shot a look at Traquair. “Escort the Queen to bed. I will await you outside.”
* * *
But once he reached the stairs, he took them two at a time in order to get to Kirk O’Field way ahead of Traquair. The fuse was waiting. There would be no “arrest.” But let Mary think there was.
The way Darnley had touched her and hung on her … it nauseated him. The traitor—the vile, unnatural traitor!
Running through the back streets of Edinburgh and making his way to Kirk O’Field through the old monastery garden, he felt the cold air biting into his lungs. He slowed a bit; it was dark, with no moon to guide his footsteps. He was gasping for breath and making too much noise.
Now he was at the house. No candles were burning. Darnley and his servants had retired.
Waiting in the south garden were Archibald Douglas and his men, hooded and swathed. Their breaths rose in little streams, like smoking chimneys. They were cold but dared not stamp their feet and move about.
French Paris, William Powrie, John Hay, and John Hepburn were waiting for him on the east side of the house. The powder train lay like a snake on the ground, barely visible.
No one had a torch, so Bothwell demanded a flint and struck it several times before he succeeded in lighting a small wick. Then, ceremoniously, he bent down and touched the wick to the powder. Slowly it glowed and caught. Bothwell watched as the smoke and the red glow began creeping toward the house.
“Remember, you are the one who actually lit it,” said Paris. His voice was shaking.
“Gentlemen, it was my pleasure,” Bothwell replied. “Indeed, it was my privilege to preside at this unparalleled occasion.”
“Run!” said Paris.
But Bothwell stood rooted, staring at the glow as it ate its way toward its goal.
* * *
Darnley was dreaming: dreaming of himself whole and strong and well, a knight storming the walls of Jerusalem, slaying the infidel. He looked over to his right, seeing through the slit in his helmet his commander, Richard the Lionheart. Only suddenly, he became Richard, took on all his courage and might.…
Abruptly he awoke. Disappointment flooded him as the shreds of the dream melted away. He could not hold them.…
And there was something else besides … something sad, something bad.…
Mary had got away. He had failed.
He had waited up until one, hoping. He had made his entreaties so pleadingly; she might relent and come back. She was impulsive and kind-hearted. If Bothwell had not prevented her, that is.…
Never had he felt more powerful and yet more balked and thwarted. The plan had been perfect; Balfour and Standen had executed it according to his exact wishes.
Executed it. He chuckled at the words. Then he began to cry.
I could still kill myself, he thought. But without her here, it isn’t right. And could I bear to hover unseen, a ghost, and watch Bothwell enjoying her afterwards?
Perhaps that way I could take my revenge.
But no. I am more powerful in the flesh than I would ever be in death.
Anger fluctuated with misery as he lay rigid in bed. The house was so silent it seemed already like a tomb. A stone sepulchre, dark, cold, still … The sleeping forms of his attendants looked like effigies in a church, stretched out in stone, sleeping for eternity.
He began to drift off in sleep again, when suddenly a faint noise came to him. A scurrying, a scuffling.
Rats! He felt himself shiver, and pulled up the covers tighter. He hated rats; he had never been able to accustom himself to their constant presence no matter how well furnished the dwelling.
Scrape.
It was a big one. O dear God, don’t let him come out in the middle of the room!
A murmur. Human voices. Outside. Then that scuffling movement. But it, too, was outside.
He held his breath to hear more clearly. But there was nothing. His head began to spin from lack of air. He breathed out, then in.
A smell of burning. But not ordinary burning. It was not a wood fire, or a candle, or straw. It was—
Gunpowder! Someone had lit the powder!
With pure terror, he bolted out of bed and ran to the east window.
There was movement there. Men. How many he couldn’t see. It was almost completely dark.
But there was a small spot of light, moving.
The powder train!
For an agonizing long instant he stood, shaking. His bare feet and legs were like ice. He was wearing only a thin nightgown.
But there was no time to dress. Even as he watched, the spark was coming closer. And he knew how many thousands of pounds of gunpowder were waiting to explode, and what would happen if it did.
He rushed for the enclosed balcony that opened off the sleeping chamber. He could climb out and drop down onto the town wall directly beneath it, then escape across the old orchard to open fields. The standing town wall would act as a shield to protect him from the greatest force of the explosion.
He stumbled over William Taylor’s bed and woke him.
“Uhhh—” groaned the attendant.
“We must escape!” shrieked Darnley, but fear made his voice a whisper. He rushed to the side of the balcony and began climbing over it and out the window.
“My lord, wait. I will get warm clothes, and a rope, and a chair for the descent. I beg you, wait!” Taylor determinedly began gathering up the items he deemed necessary, not understanding the need for frantic haste.
Darnley could not wait. He hung by his fingers to the window ledge. The bitter cold made his legs numb, so he had no feeling in his bare feet as he let go and attempted to land on top of the wall. He stumbled and lost his balance, tumbling over and falling, unhurt, on the frozen ground beneath.
He was safe! The dark house still stood, and the wall stood sentinel in between. He heard Taylor trying to follow with all the apparatus of the chair and rope and garments; he was making a frightful lot of noise.
Darnley began to run barefoot across the orchard ground, gasping for breath. His sweat felt as if it were freezing on his skin, encasing him in cold.
Suddenly he ran smack into something. A tree. No. A man.
“Halt!” said the man in a deep, familiar voice. Others surrounded him. There was a company of them.
A rough, gloved hand grabbed Darnley’s shoulder and someone else pinned both his arms behind him and held him immobile against a broad, battle-padded chest. The man reared back and Darnley was lifted off the ground, his numb feet kicking helplessly.
“You must not hope to escape,” said the familiar voice, as if explaining something very simple. “You must pay your debt.”
“What debt?” squeaked Darnley.
“The unforgivable debt of betraying your kinsmen. He who betrays his clan and kin is not fit to live.”
Archibald Douglas!
Thank God, it was not Bothwell.
“Oh, cousin,” whined Darnley, “do not commit the worse crime of murdering your own blood. Then blood shall call to blood and yours be spilt in revenge.”
There was a soft laughter. Douglas stuck his face up in Darnley’s.
“You are simple, cousin. Why, ’tis not we who will bear the blame. ’Tis Bothwell.” He put his massive hands around Darnley’s slender neck.
>
“No! No! Please, please have mercy on me! Ah, kinsman, in the name of He who had mercy on all the world, spare me!”
Douglas kept on squeezing, smiling all the while. He could feel the neck contracting and heard the wheezing. Darnley twisted and bucked, but the nameless man behind him held him fast, legs dangling.
Darnley struggled so long that Douglas’s hands began to ache.
“He’s a long time dying,” he said matter-of-factly. “Who would have thought he had any strength left in him?”
Just then Taylor came clumping up, hugging the chair. The company of men turned toward him, leaving Douglas and his partner holding the long pale form of Darnley suspended.
“Another one,” said Douglas. “Kill him.”
Taylor dropped the chair and ran in the opposite direction, but three Douglases chased him, caught him, and strangled him.
“A good night’s work,” said Archibald Douglas. “Lay them out.”
They placed the bodies beneath one of the pear trees of the old orchard, then arranged the articles Taylor had been carrying, like offerings to their fierce clan gods.
* * *
Bothwell had been standing at a safe distance a long time, and nothing had happened. Had the fuse gone out?
“I will go check the powder train,” he whispered to Paris.
“No!” The page clung to Bothwell’s waist. “Do not go close to look! It is too dangerous!”
Bothwell shook him off and walked quickly back toward the house. Suddenly a massive crack and force deafened him and threw him to the ground. He felt searing heat on his right side and looked out from under his arm to see an explosion beyond his imagination. The house was actually rising up from its foundations, the very stones separating—he could see the vivid red between the straight black lines of the cut stones—and raining outward. He scrambled to his feet and ran as fast as he could, debris thudding all around him. Just one of the stones would have the effect of a direct hit from a cannonball.
At last, far out of range of the deadly hail, he watched in macabre fascination as the house destroyed itself. The power of gunpowder was stupefying. It could have destroyed a hundred people, five hundred.…
All this to dispatch one man. But it would take this much to make sure he was truly dead. Evil was difficult to kill.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 67
