She heard his footsteps on the stone, growing ever fainter, and then saw a figure galloping away from the south gate, toward the moors. Darkness swallowed him up.
God keep you, she prayed. But already there were noises in the courtyard; she heard voices rising as the castle guards argued and then gave way. She climbed the stairs to the top of the tower and looked down at the sea of men in dark cloaks surrounding the tower, like oily water.
“There she is!” one of them screamed, and a shout rose. “Come down! Surrender that butcher you call your husband; surrender him to justice!”
“The justice of the people!” yelled someone.
“Who leads you?” called Mary. “Who is it who dares to besiege and molest his Queen?” Surely no one would dare admit to it. This was just a mob.
“I am the one,” said Lord Home. “I speak for all the Lords of the Congregation. We are not ashamed. It is you who should be ashamed! You have been made a plaything of that vile and perverted Lord Bothwell, who aims to take the throne entirely. Surrender him! Surrender him to justice!”
Lord Home! She had ridden with him, eaten with him!
“And I, the Earl of Morton,” said a familiar voice. “I am constrained to take up arms in defence of my country. All who love Scotland must do so! We cannot sit by and watch that foul fiend, that murderer, that warlock, rape everything around him!”
“King-killer!” someone screamed.
“Filthy abominator of persons!”
“Sodomite!”
“Nay, it is not so!” called Mary. “The Earl of Bothwell, alone of all the nobles in the land, has never been disloyal to the crown, nor taken bribes, nor entered into a murder bond. He is innocent! It is you who have done all the things you accuse him of!”
“None of us has kidnapped, nor raped, nor murdered the King!”
“He was declared innocent of all those crimes! You yourselves declared him innocent of the murder of the King, and in marrying him, I forgave him for any crime against my person. But if Bothwell did not murder the King, who did? It is you who have the King’s blood on your hands!” she cried.
“Prove it!” yelled Morton. “You cannot! And if you do not abandon Bothwell, you will be admitting that you are guilty along with him. As Knox says!”
“Knox!” she shouted. “That ruthless inciter to disorder and murder! That wicked slanderer, who knows so well how to destroy by false accusation, but has no idea of how to build anything. Yes, he has broken the Ninth Commandment: thou shalt not bear false witness. And broken it again and again, for he revels in rabble-rousing; what matter if his words are lies? By the time anyone knows that, by the time anyone can investigate, he has destroyed another innocent victim.”
She could hear the sound of horses’ hooves; these men were well equipped.
“Jezebel!” some yelled.
“Whore!”
“Burn the whore!”
She fled from the rooftop and retreated to her room. All through the night she heard their yells and curses, and the useless thud of their guns against the thick stone walls of the castle. But never the fateful sound of cannon. Bothwell was right; they had no cannon. They could not take the castle.
* * *
They remained there all day, and by the light she could make out many familiar faces, and for the first time, the force of what was happening struck her. These were people she had known since childhood, people whose loyalty she had always taken for granted, men like the kindly stablemaster at Stirling, the merchant in the High Street who supplied the palace with sugar, even the barrelmaker who had a commission to make the beer barrels for Holyrood. Ordinary people had turned against her. This was different from the fickle Lords, grasping, greedy and calculating from birth.
“Let the coward appear!” they were yelling. Then, at last, someone figured out the obvious.
“He must not be here! He is never shy to show himself! He must have got away!”
Infuriated, they began throwing stones at the castle and firing. But they showed no signs of leaving. They wanted to capture a prey; they would not be cheated.
She would have to escape, herself. Their numbers had thinned, and they were concentrated now entirely in the front; the back of the tower stood unguarded, although the main entrance, opening into the courtyard, was closely watched.
Slowly she went over to Bothwell’s trunk and opened it. She pulled out his dark brown leather breeches and his hose; farther down were his shirts and coats. She took off her gown and stockings and, leaving on only her underclothing, she pulled on a pair of his hose. They were rough and scratchy. Then, with trembling fingers, she drew on a wide linen shirt, buttoning it down the front. The leather breeches went on easily and were the most comfortable item of clothing. Boots. She would need boots. Her own would do, which was good, because their feet were not the same size. She twisted her hair and put it up in a knot on top of her head, then took one of Bothwell’s hats from the wall peg where it hung, and pulled it down low. Did she look like a man? There was no mirror in the room for her to check. In any case, she looked less like a woman than she had ten minutes earlier.
She would have to escape from the window. There was no way out by the stairs. She looked out and was dismayed to see that the chamber was at least fifty feet off the ground. Perhaps there was another room, nearer the ground, that could serve. Silently she tiptoed down the stairs, and at the first landing she came to the banquet hall. Its empty spaces seemed to breathe, and she darted her eyes round, searching all the dark corners. But there was no movement.
She stole over to the window. This one was only about thirty feet, still too much of a drop. She returned to her room and dragged the bedsheets off the old bed. Again in the banqueting hall, she tied one end to a massive chair by the window, praying it would not topple over when it was jerked. Then she flung the other end out the window, noticing with satisfaction that it dangled about twenty feet from the ground. Gritting her teeth, she clasped the rope of sheet and began to lower herself bit by bit, steadying herself by her arm muscles so that she would not lose control. A foot at a time she went downward, her legs wrapped around the sheet and her arms aching. At last she reached the end and then she slid as far down as possible and hung, dangling, for a moment before she let go and fell the remaining twelve feet. She hit the ground hard and rolled over, tucking her legs under her. Trembling, she stood up. She was uninjured.
She could hear the noises just around the tower. She scrambled across the back lawn and then climbed the low wall at the rear. Beyond that was the grassy mound, and beyond that, the moor. But it was pitch dark.
She stood still and listened, hearing a horse breathing somewhere nearby. She took a step in what she perceived was the correct direction, stopped and listened again. Little by little she found her way to a small, sturdy horse, bridled and wearing a man’s saddle.
Dear God, she thought, how did he come to be here? Did You put him here? For I know that even if Bothwell thought of it, he could not have placed him here. Unless thoughts have power to create.
She leapt into the saddle; it was not far to leap, as the horse was so small. She had no idea of where to ride, but headed for where she perceived the moor to be. The horse was sure-footed and seemed to know his way.
Soon the sounds of the clamouring men faded away, blocked by the rising hills. There were other sounds: small creatures that lived on the moor, the calls of night birds, the soft padding of the horse’s hooves as it stepped on the moss, the scratch of thorny bushes they skirted. Soon her eyes became accustomed to the dark that was not entirely dark, because the ground was pulsating with the soft glow from thousands of glowworms. They provided an eerie fairy light, and made her feel she was dreaming all this.
She climbed hills and went down into small glens, passed swamps where strange, foul odours hung in the air, but there was no sign of any castle. As the dawn came up, she saw that she was utterly lost in a wild district of moor and moss and thorny brakes. Her head was swimm
ing, and she at last stopped the horse—a thin nag, she could now see—and sat down by the edge of a bog. The frogs were calling, and crows sat on the branches of the twisted trees and cocked their heads at her as if they found her a curious sight. She sank her head down on her lifted knees and wondered what to do next.
She sat for half an hour, half napping, when suddenly she heard sounds. She leapt to her feet and climbed into the saddle. The horse perked up his ears. She wished she had a pistol with her, or even a dagger. If it was the Lords, she would have no defence. Why had she not remembered to take a weapon?
Over the rise rode Bothwell, accompanied by some twenty men. He galloped over to her, careless of the uneven terrain.
“Thank God!” he cried. “When you did not come—”
“You neglected to tell me where Black Castle was,” she said. “I had no idea in what direction it lay. When you said it was at Cakermuir, I assumed it must be on the moor somewhere, but—”
“You make a fine soldier boy,” he said admiringly. “And I see you have ridden using a man’s saddle.”
“What was I supposed to do? Return to the stables and request another saddle? It was a miracle there was any horse there, let alone with a saddle.”
“Where was he?”
“Near the postern gate.”
“Lord Borthwick may have left him there for you.” He jerked the reins of his horse. “How bad is it?”
“They are still surrounding the castle. I sent two messengers with a summons to Huntly, but I do not know if they got through.”
“Probably not. There were over a thousand of them. Come, let us proceed on to Dunbar. We will go the long southern way over the Fala Moor. From there we will summon Huntly and the Hamiltons.” Only then did he smile. “My knight,” he said. “I think you have well earned your spurs. How did you get out?”
“I knotted a bedsheet and let myself down out of the banquet hall window.”
He laughed. “There is no prison that can hold us, so it seems. No prison yet constructed. Heart of my heart, bone of my bone, spirit of my spirit, we cannot be held.”
* * *
The way to Dunbar, over the moors, seemed to take an eternity. As Mary rode along behind him, she felt as if this were all familiar, had been rehearsed; the sight of Bothwell bobbing along ahead, the sucking noise of the wind as it travelled across the flattened heather and low, thorny bushes, the smell of the wet bogs and mires all around.
Of course, she thought. I have done this before. It was on just such a ride that I first began to love him. Or began to know that I loved him. Only eight months ago.
She could not help smiling a tired, crooked smile. It had been a very full eight months; no man could ever have lived a fuller eight months. But now she was tired. She wished to live quietly and even have a chance to become bored.
But not yet. First there were the rebels to be put down. But she would prevail, as she had all the other times.
This is the fourth rebellion against me, after Huntly’s initial one, she thought. There was Lord James’s Chaseabout Raid, and the Riccio murder, and the Darnley murder. If I made a chart, which Lords would show up as being a party to all four? The Earl of Morton, that red-haired bear of covetousness and piety; the Earl of Argyll, who is little credit to any side, as he does so little; Kirkcaldy of Grange, who kissed my hand when I landed but is a spy for the English. Those three for certain. Maitland and Lord James are too clever, they’ve never been caught outright in any except the Chaseabout Rebellion. Lord James especially leaves others to do his secret and foul business.
Why did they all hate me so much and wish to plague my rule? Have I ever done anything to earn their hatred? I gave the Protestants control and never attempted in any way to thwart them. I gave these lords estates and honours. I kept Scotland out of war, and refused to aid the Pope in his attempt to win Scotland back by putting heretics to death. I do not know what else I could have done, or what else could be required of me. I used my own dower money to pay for many of the crown’s expenses, rather than ask the people for taxes.
Is it all due to John Knox? Did he set his goal to drive me from the throne? But even he cannot do that. He must obey his Scripture, which is that an anointed ruler cannot be harmed.
She sighed and urged her horse along. She was so tired that she felt she might topple over against the horse’s neck at any moment. The sun was still high overhead. They had a long way to go, and once there, there were plans to be made and, most likely, battles to be fought. Their men would be gathering at Melrose, and supposedly the Hamiltons and the Gordons would be bringing reinforcements. They would be able to fashion together a formidable royal army of at least five thousand or perhaps even ten thousand.
The day would be theirs. But it would be a long day.
* * *
When at length they reached Dunbar, and saw the mighty walls of the castle rearing up, it felt like home to her. Dunbar, where Bothwell always took her at moments of peril, and where they always emerged victorious.
LVI
They stumbled into the courtyard, and then Bothwell seemed to revive. He dismounted and posted his guards around the entrances and approaches, and seemed in no particular hurry to eat or make his way to his quarters. Mary stayed in the saddle, waiting for him to finish his instructions, aching to get down, eat, collapse. His clothes were uncomfortable on her now, tight in all the wrong places and baggy where she wished they were tight. At length Bothwell indicated that they should go into the castle. This time they went into the newer wing, which had been built within living memory and boasted large windows, window seats, wooden panelling, and ceiling decorations.
“As my wife I welcome you to the lord’s quarters,” he said. “As a captive, you were housed accordingly.” He ushered her into a comfortable chamber with a marble fireplace, and winked at her. “Although I do not know if a boy in such soiled clothing should be allowed in here.”
“A soiled boy!” She looked down at her torn, mud-smeared legs.
He reached out and unpinned her hair. “When you look like a boy, then I treat you as one.”
“Your clothes have served me well,” she said. “But now I wish I could discard them.”
“Then do.”
“I have no others!” She laughed. “I left everything behind at Borthwick.” Suddenly she had an ominous thought. She had fled and left everything behind: her papers, her jewels, her personal belongings. They were now all in the hands of the rebels. “Our things! They have our things!”
“Not for long,” he said. “And it will take them a while to find them. But…” His face changed as realization crept over him. “My papers! My personal papers! My deeds and my property titles, and my—my—” His voice was rising in panic. “I still have your letters!” he blurted out.
“What letters?”
“The ones you wrote from Glasgow, and the poems—”
She clapped her hands over her mouth. “I instructed you to burn them! In the selfsame letters I told you! How could you? How could you have kept them?” Her stomach was churning, as she tried to remember exactly what she had said in them. There was the description of Darnley when he was sick, that whole threatening trip to Glasgow, the ominous Balfour, the fear of her intimacy with Bothwell being discovered, the necessity of bringing Darnley back to Edinburgh. She felt nauseated.
“I know not,” he admitted. “I think, because I wished to have something of you to remember if ever we parted, to convince myself that it had really happened. I was sure that you would leave me, that you were just toying with me. I never thought you loved me as I now know you do.”
“The moment we return to Edinburgh, they must be destroyed! Do you hear? O God! If they are found—where do you have them?”
“In that silver box you gave me. The one from France. It is in my quarters in Edinburgh Castle.”
She groaned. Not even locked up! And in a container that advertised the presence of something precious inside! O God, what had she do
ne? Had she hanged herself with her own pen? And him—to have kept them! This man who was so intelligent, who excelled in outthinking his opponents, who was a master of strategy—to have made the blunder of a village oaf! “O God,” she kept repeating. She could only pray they would not be found. God, be merciful! Spare us!
“We must defeat them swiftly,” said Bothwell, in his old confident voice. “They must be run out of Edinburgh. We must strike as soon as possible.”
She jumped up and paced the chamber. Her hunger and fatigue were gone, replaced by nervous shaking.
When a substantial supper was brought in to them and set down on the table, Bothwell had to order her to sit down and eat. “You are exhausted and half-starved,” he said. “You must keep your strength up for the coming battle.” Like a stern father, he lifted the lid over the bowl of jugged hare, uncovered the dish of turnips, and broke pieces of bread for her.
After she had eaten, at least the lightheadedness left her, although her limbs felt heavy. “What do we do?” she asked.
“Sleep,” he said, draining his goblet. “Don’t you think we’ve earned it?”
“I meant tomorrow.”
“I will tell you tomorrow,” he said. “When you are better able to listen and understand. Now we must sleep.” He picked up a candle in the now-dark chamber and gestured to her to follow him into the adjoining one.
A beautifully carved bed awaited them, with fresh linens and covers of the finest virgin wool. On a little inlaid table, a silver vase of roses gave off a deep scent. The windows were open, and they could hear the roar of the sea outside.
“Oh,” she said, leaning against the bed. Bothwell pulled off her boots and then, as if he were undressing a child, he lifted the little coat over her head and unbuttoned his own shirt, removing it from her. He pulled off the breeches and the hose.
“What will I sleep in?” she asked, her voice slurred with tiredness.
“Nothing,” he said. “No one will see you but me. And in the morning I will borrow some woman’s clothes for you.” He picked her up and settled her in the bed, then climbed in himself, drawing the covers over them.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 76
