Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  Bothwell shook his head, lowering it and placing his hands on either side of it.

  “You. He wanted you tried.”

  Bothwell looked up at her from between his hands. “And?”

  “I agreed. What else could I do? I tried to tie it to a Parliament, but he would have justice right away, the soonest legally possible. On April twelfth you are to be accused of the crime and tried before a jury.”

  He burst out laughing. “And who are to be my jurors?”

  “Your peers. The earls of Argyll, Huntly, Arran, and Cassillis. Lords Lindsay and Sempill. Bellenden, Balnaves, Makgill, and Pitcairn of Dunfermline.”

  “Both of our brothers-in-law to sit in judgement?” He was incredulous. “And how does this help to clear our names? I can tell you this, if they dare to pronounce me guilty, I will do the same for them!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I only meant … there is much yet we do not know. Who strangled the King? It was not I. But you know and I know it took more than one man, acting under orders of a sick one, to bring enough powder into the crypt of the old Provost’s house to demolish it. And we also know that someone has gone to great lengths to leave false evidence connecting me to the deed. They carefully left a barrel outside the door, to look as if it was carried there and then abandoned when it would not fit through the doorway. But the truth is the barrel was so large—as indeed it had to be not to fit through a normal doorway—that had it been full of powder it never could have been transported, even by the strongest mule. No, it was conveyed empty, by whoever it was that paraded about proclaiming my name all that evening. Someone carefully planned to incriminate me. And it was not Darnley. It was someone else, someone—or even several someones—whose aim is to destroy all three of us. Darnley was to die in the explosion; you and I were to be blamed for it. I would be removed from power and you would be—what?—driven from your throne? It would be unthinkable, until they had the baby Prince to crown in your stead.”

  Suddenly it was not just Bothwell’s idle speculation. Suddenly she was very afraid.

  “And these men—whoever they may be—how will we know? How can we protect ourselves against them?”

  “We will know, eventually. And the only way to protect ourselves is to yield them nothing, to say nothing, to keep our own secrets.”

  She rubbed her hands. They were icy cold. “What is the date?” she finally said, in a faint voice.

  “March eighth,” he replied.

  “Tomorrow it will be a year since Riccio was slain. The nightmare has been going on for a year.”

  “Do not even allow yourself to wonder how much longer it must go on. However long, we must go on longer. We must outlast it.”

  He took both his hands and smoothed her hair along the sides of her face, lightly, gently. “We have many enemies, but that we have always known. Some of them are special to you, some are special to me. And when we become one, perhaps yet a third party of enemies will come into being. But it matters not.”

  “You cannot bury a proposal of marriage in the midst of so many other words,” she said. “Surely it deserves a solemn space of its own.”

  Bothwell stepped back from her again, and took both her hands in his. They were cool and slender. “Like fleurs-de-lys,” he said, kissing them one at a time. “My most gracious sovereign lady, will you leave behind the fleurs-de-lys on your old mantles, your memories of the Loire, your French confessor? Will you take my life for your own, and be my wife? I can offer you the songs of the Borders, I can take you sailing on the seas as far north as the Orkneys and the Shetlands and Norway, I can let you chase bandits with me, sleep in the field.”

  “I would leave everything for you but my religion,” she said. “Do not ask that. But, oh! I would go to the ends of the world with you in a white petticoat, I care not what else I would lose.”

  “Sssh. Speak not of losing. If we act quickly, there will be no losing.” At last he kissed her, and her mouth opened under his like a flower. “I was wrong to think there should be delay. Delay will only make it worse. We must be brave and bold.”

  “My demon lover,” she said, touching the side of his face as if it were a delicate and rare ivory. “How beautiful you are.”

  He laughed harshly. No one, not even his mother, had ever called him beautiful. “My dear Mary,” he breathed, “well I know I am not beautiful, nor even handsome. But I do love you, past madness I think. For I must be mad to be doing this.” He bent his head and kissed each of her breasts, swelling up and over her gown. He kissed them slowly and let his lips and tongue linger on them. “Leave the particulars to me,” he murmured. “Trust me, and I will see to it that no one can condemn you for marrying me. Let the blame fall entirely on me.”

  They made their way to the bed, and climbed into it. He noticed, idly, that she had put scented, smooth sheets on it, and that the pillows were fresh and plumped up. He sank into them. Then he reached out his arms to her and enfolded her. Her delicate, shell-like ear was by his mouth. He put his lips to it. “Trust me,” he repeated, and the words sounded distorted in her ear. “We will be husband and wife. There can be no turning back now.”

  Sighing, he rolled over and, lying on top of her, let himself feel the delicious contours of her yielding body. Each time he made love to her, she was different. What would she be like tonight?

  Almost as if she read his thoughts, she rolled over on him and began to unlace his shirt. She ran her hands over his chest and then laid her head down on it. Her thick and lusciously scented hair tumbled over his chest and felt like velvet. “I am your lover, your slave, to command as you will. Tell me what to do, and I will do it.”

  Languidly he began giving directions, just to test her. “Kiss my neck … the hollow in my collarbone … the scar on my belly…” Her lips traced the raised thread of the wound that the sword of Jock o’ the Park had made; her lips, soft and yielding on that tender, sensitive flesh, excited him beyond any touching he had ever received. It was all he could do to stifle a groan of pleasure. He preferred noiseless lovemaking, but he heard sounds, moans and inarticulate cries, coming from his own throat as she explored his body with her sweet lips. He was drowning in pleasure. He gave himself up to it and let her be the master of him for the time.

  Later he would revive, would brush her sweat-soaked hair until it was smooth and her scalp was tingling, would splash cooling rosewater on her breasts and rub it in, and then, lying side by side, hold her in a tight embrace and show her how to lock their bodies together when neither was on top, neither was master, both were equal. Calmer now, able to look at her face and listen to her breathing, he was determined to give her the highest amount of pleasure she was capable of receiving. She twisted and moaned and cried, and finally wept, and that made him happy.

  They fell asleep like two children in one another’s arms.

  * * *

  Later they signed a private marriage contract, to bind themselves. She gave Bothwell some rich old church vestments, three embroidered priest’s robes, and ordered him to have them made up into new clothes to be worn at his trial. She also presented him with Darnley’s favourite horse, and insisted he ride it to his trial.

  “You are innocent, and we must shout your innocence to the world!” she said. “No shrinking, no apologies.”

  “Spoken like a true Borderer,” said Bothwell, in stunned admiration.

  But too many Borderers had ended up swinging from ropes for their audacity, that he knew well.

  LI

  Bothwell stretched himself in bed. There was no sleep that night, nor did he want there to be. He savoured the hours alone to think, and make his plans. The darkness provided a luxurious blanket for him that shut out the swirl of other people. He was to be surrounded by others all day. It was April twelfth—the day of his trial.

  He welcomed it. Get it over with. Nothing could be proved against him, for the simple reason that no one except Lennox wanted too close an inquiry into it. He held in h
is possession in a locked silver box the bond the lords had signed, agreeing to rid Scotland of Darnley as their King. Conveniently vague language, but then bonds never said the word murder. Riccio’s bond had not contained the word, either.

  Morton had given the paper to him—Morton, who had held back from active involvement, acting only by deputy. But on the bond were the incriminating names: Maitland, Argyll, Huntly, Morton, Douglas, Lord James. The very judges of the trial, the leaders of the Privy Council. No, they hardly wanted to stir up Darnley’s wretched ghost. Let it lie.

  By all rights, Darnley himself should be on trial. He had meant to murder his wife, the Queen.

  The Queen … the Queen must remarry. They would start a campaign to find a new husband for her, with the dreary round of French ambassadors and envoys from Spain and perhaps even Robert Dudley again, on Elizabeth’s part. But it could not be. She loved him, Bothwell. There could be no turning back, for their liaison would come to light eventually in any case. He and the Queen would have to wed. There was no alternative, even had he not loved her.

  “God save the Queen!” he murmured, tossing in bed. Now it will be up to me to find a way to make it possible, he thought. Some way that will make it appear we are doing it for Scotland’s good, rather than for our own desires.

  I am weary. Tired of fighting. But just this last battle, and it is over.

  Red was sending faint streaks up the windowpane like a skeletal hand. Dawn had arrived.

  * * *

  Outside, by the palace gates, a great crowd had already gathered by six o’clock. Making his way through to the very front was the provost marshal of Berwick, carrying Queen Elizabeth’s letter. He could not gain entrance, and could barely attract the attention of a guard.

  “I pray you, I bring an official and urgent letter from Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth to Queen Mary,” he said.

  The guard scowled at him. “I cannot take the letter. Her Majesty is still asleep.”

  * * *

  By nine o’clock, the crowd had swelled so that the entire street, from the gates of the palace to the Tolbooth, where the trial would take place, was jammed with people. The April day was soft and warm, with a clear sky and wispy, racing clouds. Windows were open in the tall stone houses, and as many people as were on the street were above and looking out, leaning elbows on the windowsills and breathing deeply of the rich, sweet air.

  The provost saw Maitland making his way over to him. “The Earl of Bothwell has been told that you have a letter from the Queen of England to deliver. But he thinks it impossible that our Queen can read it until tonight. She is still sleeping.” Maitland did not offer to take the letter or invite him into the palace grounds.

  Amazed, the provost saw a great company of men assembling in the forecourt, mounted on horseback, followed by hundreds of soldiers with harquebuses—Bothwell’s men. Then Bothwell himself rode out, wearing golden clothes and mounted on a huge charger. Darnley’s horse!

  Around him the people were muttering, “There’s his horse, the dead boy’s horse, and Bothwell in the saddle.”

  “Where else does he ride where the boy used to?” Loud shouts of laughter.

  “Anywhere he pleases, and as often as he pleases!”

  “And as long as he pleases the Queen, the ride continues.”

  Now there were howls of laughter.

  “Look! There she is! The whore!”

  The provost looked up to see Mary waving languidly from her tower window to Bothwell. He turned in the saddle and gave her a smart salute. Then he threw his head back and laughed, a great roaring laugh.

  So this is how she sleeps, thought the provost. And refuses to receive the Queen of England’s letter, while she fawns on her lover.

  Bothwell was now riding just past him, glorious and powerful in the saddle. Around him his harquebusiers formed a living hedge, bristling with weaponry.

  None of the warmth of the April day had seeped into the cold stone Tolbooth, where Bothwell now took his place to defend himself. Seated on benches were fifteen of the judges in this trial, with the Earl of Argyll presiding and the Justice-Clerk Bellenden recording and ordering procedure. The entire Scottish court was present, with three notable exceptions: the Queen herself, Lord James Stewart, and the Earl of Lennox.

  The Earl had sent two representatives, Crawford and Cunningham. Cunningham read a paper from Lennox, stating that “His Lordship was unable to attend on account of the shortness of the notice, and because he was in fear of his life, being denied liberty to bring such a following as he considered needful for his defence. Therefore he required the trial to be put off for forty days, or for such time as he might require to bring sufficient proofs of his charge against the murderers, whom he required to have committed to prison till such time as he should be prepared to convict them.”

  Bothwell gave a disdainful laugh. “First he requests the trial, insists it must be before Parliament meets. Now he pleads an excuse for not being present, and asks that the ‘murderers’—unnamed plural—be locked up until he pleases to confront them with ‘evidence.’ Has any more preposterous demand ever been received in a court of law?” His mocking voice made everyone laugh.

  “Perhaps everyone accused of any crime should be locked up on the whim of one man, just in case he might feel moved to bring evidence against them sometime? Fie, gentlemen! ’Tis the Earl of Lennox who should be locked up—for feeblemindedness!”

  He turned round slowly, looking at all the rows of men staring back at him. Their different-coloured cloaks made splotches against the opaque brown of the wooden banks of seats.

  “But nonetheless, although the Earl is not here and there is no one to charge me formally with anything, I shall be pleased to answer any questions you wish to address to me. For above all, I wish to be cleared of this crime.”

  From ten o’clock until seven in the evening, the assembled company discussed the “terrible crime,” but it seemed that no one could provide any answers. No one knew who had done it, why it had been done, how many people were involved, or even whom the plot had aimed at. Bothwell was unable to enlighten them. At length, tired and hungry, the Earl of Argyll called a halt to the proceedings.

  “You are acquitted,” he pronounced. “There has been no accusation, and no evidence produced against you. You are free to go.”

  “Thank you, my lords and friends, for your patience,” said Bothwell. “I know you must be hungry. I therefore insist you join me, as my guests, for supper at Ainslie’s Tavern, as soon as you can gather up your things. God be praised!” He gave an expansive gesture of thanks and flung his mantle over his shoulder.

  * * *

  The tavern was a large one, with several connected rooms. In the one farthest back, a long table was set up, using a board over trestles, to seat the company that Lord Bothwell had brought with him. Ainslie, the owner, was anxious to accommodate the great Earl who seemed to rule the city. He strode in as if he were just on his way to a delightful, inconsequential meeting somewhere else.

  “I wish to quench everyone’s thirst,” said Bothwell, “with the finest wines you have, as much as they can drink. For those who prefer ale, I am pleased to allow them their heart’s content of that as well. And after dinner, bring whisky.” He saw the look on Ainslie’s face. “Cost is of no consequence,” he assured him. “And the food—I wish lamb and beef, the most delicate, of course. White bread.” He nodded at the guests filing in. “Take your places, my friends.”

  Warily they sat down, while Ainslie and his helpers lit candles in the middle of the table. The glow grew until most of the faces were quite visible from Bothwell’s end of the table. Morton, with his hard shiny eyes, was seated nearest, and Argyll on the other side. The rest of them—Huntly with his blond good looks, serious Seton, Cassillis, Sutherland, Rothes, Glencairn, Caithness, Boyd, Sinclair, Sempill, Oliphant, Ogilvy, Ross, Herries, Hume—gazed expectantly at him. Others, at the farthest end of the table, waited.

  “My friends, do n
ot look so glum,” said Bothwell, standing up. “This night is my night of freedom from the ugly spectre of suspicion and lies. I thank you for making it possible for my name, the name of James Hepburn, which has never been disloyal or judged traitorous, to clear itself so that I and my descendants may live in pride.” He raised his glass. “Drink, I pray you. Drink to justice. Drink to honour. Drink to courage.”

  He sat back down. He was exhausted. The night of no sleep, of the war of nerves about the coming trial, began to catch up with him. He felt as if he were falling, collapsing, folding inward upon himself. He willed himself to swell up again with strength. There was much left to do.

  He ate ravenously when the beef and bread were put before him. It was all he could do not to tear it with his teeth. He noticed that the others, reluctant at first, were now joining in, and he could hear the clink of the knives on the pewter platters. Individual knives—each man ate with his own dagger. Then he saw Ainslie bringing out more flagons of wine and ale and removing the empties. Good. They must drink deep tonight.

  Flagon after flagon made its way to the table, and the noise at the table grew loud. The men were even laughing. They relaxed; they let their knives rest on the platters, and with full bellies they leaned back and let their heads begin to swim.

  “’Twas good tonight,” ventured Huntly, who rarely pronounced an opinion. “Now let us hope the ghosts can rest.”

  “Aye,” said Morton, spilling some wine on his beard, where it vanished into the brush, “Scotland is full of ghosts, and let them keep one another company. Riccio and the King can play tennis again together now. Haw, haw!”

  “God rest their souls.” Bothwell hoped he sounded pious enough. Then he nodded to Ainslie.

  Eight stoneware bottles of Highland whisky from the Gordon estates were brought out. “Now let us partake of the finest whisky in Scotland,” said Bothwell. He nodded toward his brother-in-law Huntly, who turned pink with pride.

  The caps were ripped off and the bottles passed around. The smoky brown liquid burned in their throats and then made straight for their heads.