Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  Bothwell did not partake, although he raised his glass and appeared to sip. Neither had he drunk the wine. He waited.

  When all the company had drunk for another half hour and were smiling at him warmly, he stood up.

  Softly he said, “Gentlemen, friends, and companions, I wish to enlist your help. I know there may be those abroad—ignorant fools who do not understand Scotland, who have never tasted our whisky nor eaten our bread—who will mock us and imply that we are not capable of justice or self-governance. They will question the proceedings today, casting aspersions on all our honours. It is to avoid this, to protect us all, that I ask you to sign this document.”

  He unfolded it. He had composed it painstakingly in the early dawn, gambling with it for the highest stakes he had ever attempted.

  “Let me read it to you.

  “We under-subscribed, understanding that, although the noble and mighty Lord James, Earl of Bothwell, being not only bruited and calumniated by placards and otherwise slandered by his evil wishers and private enemies, as act and party of the heinous murder of the King the Queen’s Majesty’s late husband, but also by special letters sent to her Highness craved and desired by the Earl of Lennox to be tried of the said murder: he being examined and tried by certain noblemen his peers and other barons of good reputation is found innocent and guiltless of the said odious crime, and acquitted.

  “Therefore oblige us, and each one of us upon our honour, faith, and troth in our bodies, that in case any manner of persons shall insist further to the slander and calumniation of the said Earl of Bothwell as participant of the said heinous murder, whereof ordinary justice hath acquitted him, we ourselves, our kin, friends, servants, and all, shall take part with him to the defence and maintenance of his quarrel, against anyone presuming anything in word or deed to his dishonour, reproach, or infamy.”

  The men nodded. Should he just circulate the paper now and have them sign it? The light was poor enough, and they were drunk enough, that they might not even see the second, startling, part. But no. Unless they knew what they had signed, it was worthless to him. Besides, he had built his reputation on being open and blunt.

  “I thank you,” he said. “And there is yet another part of the paper, touching that which is of course in everyone’s minds in these sad days. The Queen has been bereft of a husband in the flower of her youth, with only one child to offer for the succession. Foreigners will try, once again, to gain control of our land through this our misfortune.”

  There was nothing for it now but to plunge in. “Therefore, if you will:

  “In moreover weighing and considering the time and present and how the Queen’s Majesty our Sovereign is now destitute of husband, in which solitary state the common weal of this our native country may not permit her Highness to remain and endure, but at some time her Highness may be inclined to yield to marriage; therefore, in case the affectionate and faithful service of the said Earl Bothwell done to her Majesty from time to time and his other good qualities and behaviour may move her Majesty to humble herself (as preferring one of her own born subjects unto all foreign princes) to take to husband the said Earl Bothwell, every one of us undersubscribed permit the said marriage to be solemnized at such time as it shall please her Majesty to think it convenient and as soon as the laws will allow it to be done.”

  The men were muttering and moving. Bothwell could hear murmurs of anger and alarm up and down the table. At the same time, the unmistakable sound of the two hundred soldiers he had posted around the tavern penetrated into the room. He held his words so that the soldiers could be plainly heard above all else. The men quieted; they looked desperate and trapped. Bothwell cleared his throat and continued in a quiet, calm tone.

  “But in case any would presume, directly or indirectly, openly or under whatsoever colour or pretence, to hold back or disturb the said marriage, we shall hold the hinderers and disturbers and adversaries thereof as common enemies and evil wishers and will take part and fortify the said Earl to the marriage. We shall bestow our lives and goods against all that oppose. As we shall answer to God and upon our honour and fidelity, should we not maintain this, we are never to have an honest reputation or credit in our time, but be accounted faithless traitors, in witness of which we have subscribed our hands as follows.”

  There was a swift shadowing movement as someone slipped away.

  “Come back!” Bothwell ordered, in such an imperious tone that the rest of the company grew even more restive. He had not meant to speak so; it had just happened.

  “Good my lord,” Huntly was saying, with a stricken face. He would have to be well paid off for letting his sister be divorced. “How can you shame me so in public?”

  Chairs were being pushed back, and men were standing up.

  “You are not free to go,” said Bothwell. “You must not leave.” Outside the soldiers were noisily marching, as he had ordered them to. “I must insist you sign the paper first.” This was going badly. But what other way could he have presented it?

  He pushed the paper toward Morton and thrust the pen in his hand. The great thick head bent down over the paper and he scratched his name. He silently passed it to Sempill next to him.

  Bothwell stood at the end of the table, watching intently. Suddenly it occurred to him that they might tear the paper up. The men waiting their turn were glaring at him, while the soldiers’ boots scraped loudly on the cobblestones outside.

  It seemed to him that he stood at least five hours before the paper, smudged with signatures, made its way back to him. He glanced at it to make sure they had not altered it or crossed out any phrases, and had signed their true names, not “Johnnie Armstrong” or “William Wallace” or “Judas.”

  “Thank you, my friends and allies,” he said lamely. “You may go now. Please make your way with care.” Some of them were doubtless so filled with whisky they might fall and break their necks. Yet they had seemed quickly sober when they had been confronted with the paper.

  It had been a mistake. He never should have done it. Now he had made enemies out of them all. And embarrassed himself for his bullying, brutish behaviour.

  But it was done. He clutched the paper in his hand and made his way out of the deserted room. By the time he reached the front door of the tavern, he saw that all the men had already dispersed. The news would be all over Edinburgh by morning and Scotland by the third morning and England by the fifth. He would have to act quickly. He dismissed his soldiers, promising them extra pay for the night’s duty.

  Extra pay for the soldiers, the cost of the dinner and wines, paying off Huntly—it was an expensive venture. But if all went well, it would be money well spent.

  You must spend money to make money, his greedy old uncle the Bishop had taught him once upon a time.

  * * *

  The night was still and warm. Its very friendliness caused him to slow his footsteps as he made his way back to Holyrood. Linger a little while, the air seemed to be saying. Do not hurry through me, but breathe me in. Take deep breaths, let me fill you. And he did, turning slowly around, letting his mantle trail on the stones.

  The sky was clear, and the moon so bright he could see even the few wispy little clouds that floated like an afterthought in the blackness. Life was sweet, hanging there for the taking, begging to be noticed as one walked along.

  He sighed, and stopped turning. Down in the hollow at the foot of the long slope was the palace, painted silver-blue by the moonlight.

  And there is even a princess in the tower, he thought. Waiting to be rescued, now that the dragon Darnley is slain. He gave such a roaring laugh that other passersby turned their heads.

  * * *

  He made his way to the royal apartments, down the now-familiar hallways and stairs and turnings. She was waiting for him in the inmost room. As she rose and came toward him, he had an instant of feeling that this was all just a story after all, the princess in distress—even, perhaps, the Circe who changed her lovers into animals and des
troyed them. The shame of the scene in the tavern flooded him. What had he been driven to?

  Then she was beside him, the light and dark of her face and hair close to him, the honey of her breath against his skin. She whispered, “Are you safe?” And in the sound of those three words, husky and aching, he forgot about the men in the tavern and their hate.

  The trial. She meant the trial. “Yes. I am acquitted.” He found himself whispering, too, why he did not know.

  She kissed him, slowly. He allowed himself to savour it, linger over it just a little longer than he usually did. But he had no wish to proceed further; he was content, now, just to hold her.

  Taking his lips away, he said, “The Earl of Lennox never appeared. He wished me to be detained until such time as he might gather his evidence. I insisted on the trial proceeding. But as no one could present any charge against me, nor produce any evidence, in the end I was pronounced not guilty and acquitted.”

  Her soft lips were on his neck, but he stepped away and found that he needed to keep his distance for now.

  “It is nearly midnight. Did the trial go on so long?”

  “No. The most important business took place afterward.” He brought out the paper and gave it to her.

  She took it over to a small table where a candle was burning, and held it close.

  “Take care lest it burn!” he said with alarm. He had not purchased it with so high a price to his own honour just to see it lost through carelessness.

  She read it, squinting at it in the poor light, bending forward so that her hair got in the way. Impatiently she brushed it aside. At length she turned to him.

  “Unbelievable,” she said. “How did you dare?” He could not tell whether she was appalled or admiring.

  “In truth, I do not know,” he admitted. “It had to be done. And now ’tis done, and there’s an end to it.”

  “No. Not an end,” she said. “If only it were ended! And your brother-in-law signed it?”

  “Not willingly. And he will tell my wife.” Shame flooded him again, that Jean would have to hear it from her brother. “The men did not wish to sign. I filled them with whisky and threatened them with my soldiers. I did not wish it to be that way. I had hoped they would be more amenable.”

  She laughed. “Sometimes you seem so innocent,” she said. “While you were at the trial, a letter came from Queen Elizabeth, more or less threatening me. She calls my honour into question.” She thrust the letter at him. Wearily he read the important part:

  For the love of God, Madame, use such sincerity and prudence in this matter, which touches you so nearly, that all the world may feel justified in believing you innocent of so enormous a crime, which, if you were not, would be good cause for degrading you from the rank of princess, and bringing upon you the scorn of the vulgar. Sooner than that this should befall you, I would wish you an honourable grave, rather than a dishonoured life.

  She snatched the letter back. “And we are not safe even now,” she continued. “Something much more distressing than the letter from Elizabeth has come.” She handed him a large creamy envelope. “It is from my ambassador to France.”

  But alas, Madame, this day over all Europe there is no subject so frequently discussed as that of your Majesty and of the present state of your realm, which is for the most part interpreted sinisterly. I fear this to be only the beginning and first act of the tragedy, and all to run from evil to worse. I did thank the Ambassador of Spain on your behalf of the warning he had given you, although it came too late. He has yet desired me to remind your Majesty that he is informed by the same source that there is yet some notable enterprise against you, wherewith he wishes you to beware in time. I write this far with great regret, by reason I can come no ways to the knowledge of any particulars of his master.

  Bothwell’s eyes flicked over the letter. “Whoever it is, it must be the same party who so carefully set up the false clues of the barrel and the party of men parading about the streets shouting my name. And directs the placards, and the mysterious crier.”

  “So it is a party, not just one man?”

  “I am the only man who acts alone. Everyone else acts in a party.” He was aware that it sounded like boasting when he said it, but that it was true, and to his own manifest danger. In Scotland, it seemed, the man who walked alone did not walk long.

  “Fie on all this!” He put the letter down, where it rested on top of the one from Elizabeth. “We are surrounded by dangerous enemies. But we must be stronger than they.”

  He looked tired, and, though he would have been shamed if he had known it, warily afraid. She wished to protect him, to do everything in her power to spare him the coming ordeal. But at the same time she wished to lie in his arms, even though it was the most dangerous thing she could do to him.

  “Come to my bed,” she suddenly said. “It is my command.”

  With an indescribable look—of relief? disbelief? reluctance?—he bowed his head in compliance.

  “Take off your clothes,” she said, “and quickly. All of them.”

  Again he complied, and stood before her naked. But she did not stand and gaze at him, but pulled him into her bed, where she had quickly undressed and covered herself.

  “I am not sure I can make love on command,” he demurred.

  “I am quite sure you can,” she said, touching him. “I know that we need this in order to be strong enough to face the next tests.”

  “You make it into a sacrament,” he said.

  “To me it is,” she said.

  * * *

  “Mary,” he said, holding her later, “do you trust me?”

  “With my life,” she murmured, her lips against his neck, her voice drowsy.

  “Then you must trust me to bring about that which we most want, in my own fashion. Whatever I do, do not question me or, for a moment, lose faith in me.”

  “I told you, I trust you with my life.”

  LII

  Mary walked slowly in procession from the closing of Parliament. Ahead of her, with stately pace, walked the Earl of Argyll bearing the crown, Bothwell bearing the sceptre; behind her was Huntly bearing the sword of state. She was aware of the hostile eyes of the people lining the street. Never before had she experienced this; always there had been nothing but adoration in the eyes of her common subjects. Only John Knox had ever caused such looks to be directed at her, and it was horrible to encounter him multiplied a thousand times, as it were. She smiled, hoping to elicit smiles in return. There were some, and one woman called, “God bless you, if you are indeed innocent of the King’s death.” It sent a chill through her.

  If you are innocent of the King’s death. How could they think otherwise? Do they turn on me so soon, and for no evidence? She shuddered.

  Bothwell’s straight back ahead of her comforted her. Yet he was only one man, and they were so many.

  Already they were calling the Parliament “the cleansing of Bothwell,” although it was no such thing. He had been confirmed in his office as Lord High Admiral and Lieutenant of the Borders, and granted complete authority over Dunbar Castle in recognition of his “great and manifold service,” but others had been recognized as well: Huntly had been formally restored to his titles and estates, as had Morton and Lord James. All the old traitors had been forgiven and restored. It was a new beginning, at least on paper.

  Bothwell had given no indication of his plan. She had not seen him alone since the night of his trial.

  It would be a relief to be able to leave Edinburgh. She planned to go to Stirling and see her child, to see for herself how Erskine and his wife were raising him. Had they left up the painting of the Virgin over his cradle, or had that been taken down and replaced by a Bible text? Oh, Mary, Mary, she told herself. You are tired and think ill of everything around you. Weariness has dulled your sense of discernment and shaded even the bright things. You badly need the open air of Stirling, and to hold your baby.

  * * *

  Baby James seemed to have ab
sorbed her malaise, for he whined and twisted when she picked him up. He had grown heavy; Lady Erskine said he had already tripled his weight, and had outgrown all the clothes that had come with him.

  “But he’s a long babe,” she said, “and will never be fat!”

  James started slapping Mary’s face. She turned her head slightly to deflect him, but he kept on. It hurt, and it also hurt her feelings, although she knew it should not have.

  “What toys does he especially like?” Mary asked, turning her head back the other way.

  “He has a set of boxes that fit one inside the other,” she answered. “He likes to put them together. And Peter here, the carpenter, he made him a box that has different-shaped holes in it, and then little blocks that fit the holes; there are round ones and square ones and star-shaped ones, and he likes to put them in there. He is most solemn when he does it.”

  Just then James yanked on her hair. “Does he like to play outdoors? It is a lovely day today. Would he like to see the swans on the pond down below?” She handed him back to Lady Erskine.

  “He has never seen them,” she said. “Let us take him down there.”

  Lord Erskine suddenly came into the room. His elongated face broke into a smile. “Such a bonny prince,” he said. “It is our great honour to be entrusted with his safety.” James gurgled and reached out a plump hand to Erskine, causing Mary a stab of pain.

  My son, my son, she thought, already I am a stranger to you.

  They went out into the courtyard of the palace, where the keen fresh winds of April were sweeping through and whistling around the corners. The watery, melting-snow smell and the whisking noise slammed into her, and suddenly it was April of two years ago, when Darnley lay ill here at Stirling and she had been overcome with love for him, and defiant of the Lords and Elizabeth.…

  They descended the long, sloping pathway to the castle grounds so far below, where the white peacocks strolled and the swans, back from wherever they went in the winter, floated on the waters of the ornamental ponds. Lord Erskine carried James, and the baby squealed and laughed as he bounced along. At length he put him down on the soft new grass, where he crawled away, his little bonnet bobbing up and down.