Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  “Evidently not,” he said. “Now we must take up position on the opposite hill.” He pointed to the rising ground on the other side of the little stream that ran between the two hills. “Do you know what this ground is? The Lords have chosen it well, since they are so fond of allegories and omens.”

  “It is … it is Musselburgh. Pinkie Clough,” she said slowly.

  “The site of the battle that made it necessary to send you to France as a child,” he said. “I remember it well. I was twelve at the time, and itching to see a real battle. I looked on, but I did no fighting. Oh, had things gone differently, who can say where we would be at this very instant? Cecil was there, on the English side, and he narrowly missed being hit by a cannonball. If he had been killed, rather than the man next to him, history would be different. Old man Huntly was captured and transported back to England—’twas most likely there that he learned to be a traitor after he took the English gold. The English mowed us down—ten thousand fell on this very hillside.”

  The early sunshine was slanting across the dewy green meadows, creating an iridescent sheen. The rebels were sitting calmly, eating their breakfast.

  “Black Saturday,” she said.

  “Aye. And because we could not withstand the English, we had to sell ourselves to France. And you were part of the bargain.” He waved his arm across the field. “And had you not gone to France—”

  “This is pointless. Had anyone not done anything he has done, his life would be different,” she said. “Had you not come to Exchequer House, we would not be standing here today, called to fight. So let us fight, because we did come to the Exchequer House, though not by design.” She lifted her chin. “Whether by purpose or design, I accept all that I have done, and all I will ever do.”

  A slow grin spread over his face, and for the first time that morning his features relaxed. “Then let us fight, and fate decide the rest.” He saluted her, and fell back to his men.

  * * *

  Mary and Mary Seton took up their position at the foot of the far hill, behind the front lines. Bothwell positioned his troops all the way up to the summit of the hill, with his brass field guns studded halfway up to fire on anyone rushing the hill. The two hundred harquebusiers were stationed near the foot of the hill, the six hundred horsemen scattered throughout the ranks, the thousand Borderers guarding the flanks and front lines, and the other two thousand poorly armed, untrained villagers covering the rest of the ground.

  A royal standard was planted near where Mary watched, and its red and yellow lion flapped in the parching wind blowing toward the water only a short distance away. The rest of the troops fought under the cross of St. Andrew.

  Bothwell rode back to her, a changed man. He was crisp and almost quivering with energy. He pointed over to the rebels, staring at them across the two hundred yards’ distance. “Now here’s the sum of it,” he said, sounding almost gloating. “Our numbers are evenly matched—although they have more trained cavalry and better weapons. But there are too many leaders. They will never get their orders straight.”

  She looked across at the groups of soldiers, each wearing livery of a different colour. But her heart grew heavy as she saw that the Highlanders had arrived, and were drawn up under the earls of Atholl and Glencairn. And there seemed to be thousands of horsemen.

  “The earls of Morton and Home command the cavalry,” he said. “The same ones that besieged us at Borthwick.”

  “Erskine,” she said sadly, pointing to him. She recognized him even at this distance. “My son’s keeper. So even he has turned against me.”

  “Not turned against you. He was always against you.”

  The hurt was very great. He had been a friend, someone she had known since childhood.

  “‘Even my close friend, whom I trusted, he who shared my bread, has lifted up his heel against me,’” she said.

  “In Scotland, that is just about everyone,” he replied. “Look, over there are the young Lord Ruthven, son of the warlock, and Lord Lindsay. Riccio’s murderers have reassembled. But aside from Kirkcaldy of Grange, there is not a notable or seasoned commander amongst them. Lord James would be the one to fear.”

  “Perhaps he is here.”

  “No. I have it on good authority that he is in Normandy, waiting for a signal. He will not cross until he deems it safe—which I intend to be never. I hope he likes eating French tripe à la Caen, for he may be eating it the rest of his life!”

  “That banner!” she cried, seeing the ugly white satin banner with the figures of Darnley and the baby James and his prayer of “Judge and avenge my cause, O Lord.”

  “Pay it no mind. It is there merely to take your heart out of the battle. After it’s over, I’ll cut it up and use it for horse trappings.”

  “Where is Huntly?” she cried. “And Hamilton, with his men? Why do they not come?”

  “Our best tactic would be to delay the fighting in hopes that they will come and reinforce us,” he said. “But it is difficult to delay too long. The men may, in hunger and boredom, desert.”

  “Desert?”

  “It is a possibility,” Bothwell said. “After all, the bulk of our army are not trained soldiers but merely villagers who happened to fall in with us on the march. They may drift away, and we could hardly even call it desertion.”

  The difficulty of the position now became clear. Their armies were evenly matched in numbers, but the royal army lacked weapons, food, and dedication. It would melt in the hot sun, and might even collapse in the fighting. Inaction was deadly, but action was a gamble as well.

  “I will work the men south, searching for ground advantage,” Bothwell said, squinting over at the rebel troops.

  Mary could see movement there. Evidently they were doing the same thing.

  As Bothwell rode off, Mary found herself trembling. Her horse snorted and pawed the ground.

  “Waiting is torture,” she said to Mary Seton, who was sitting her horse so gravely she looked desolate. “Of all the things I am ever asked to do, I find waiting to be the most difficult.”

  “It goes against your nature,” Seton said. “Oh, Your Majesty, why have you—”

  “Stop. Do not say another word,” Mary commanded. “It is a question you have no right to ask.”

  She turned back to watch the men on the other side. Some of them were splashing cold water on their faces, filling their helmets and drinking. The heat of the day was rising, but her men could not get close enough to approach the little stream that offered relief. Suddenly she was very shaken. The heat, itself unseasonable, seemed to be an enemy who had joined the rebels’ ranks.

  The sun rose higher, and no one moved. Both armies looked at each other, but as each commanded a hill, neither side wanted to be at a disadvantage in attempting to charge the other. From the direction of Edinburgh no column of dust rose to show Huntly or Hamilton on his way.

  Bothwell rode up to her. He was sweating in his leather clothing and metal helmet. “No one stirs,” he said disdainfully. “A battle in which no one moves!” The only motion was the rising columns of heat, now ascending in wavy lines toward the sky.

  “They want us to charge,” she said. “Do not give them what they want.”

  He looked at her in amusement. “I believe you might make a good general. Do you, then, command me to stay still?”

  “No. I trust your judgement. As for myself, I would ride out into them now, shooting my pistols.”

  “Look!” said Bothwell. “Someone has broken ranks.”

  Coming down off the hill were some fifty horsemen surrounding a rider. The body of them splashed across the little stream and made their way determinedly toward the royal standard.

  “Fire on them!” cried Mary. “Do not let them come within range of us!”

  “Nay, they have a white flag. They wish to talk.” Bothwell spurred his horse and gave orders for some of his mounted soldiers to meet them. About thirty rode out and formed an escort for the rider and his men.

/>   “Philibert du Croc!” gasped Mary. It was the French ambassador, the little man who had refused to attend her marriage.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, saluting her. With her leave, he dismounted and came to her. He bowed and kissed her hand, bending his round, fluffy-haired head. Then he straightened and smiled.

  “Alas! My good lady, what anguish it would cause your mother-in-law and the King of France to see you in such trouble!” he said. “And the Lords of the Congregation, who have sent me, assure you that they are your very humble and obedient servants.”

  Mary felt a jarring laugh escape her. “Is this how they show it, then?”

  “Madam,” he whispered, “they say that if you will withdraw yourself from the wretch who holds you captive, they will recognize you as their sovereign, and serve you on their knees as the humblest and most obedient of subjects.”

  “The wretch, they call him!” Now her laughter rang out. “It was they who signed a petition urging me to marry him, it was they who pronounced him innocent of any crime, and now they turn on him! But if they are willing to acknowledge their duty, and request my pardon, I will forgive them, and receive them with open arms.”

  Bothwell came up and shouldered his way over to them. He held out his hand to du Croc, who refused to take it.

  “So!” said Bothwell, in a loud voice that carried up the hill. “What are the Lords about? What do they want?”

  Du Croc cleared his throat and spoke loudly himself. “I have just come from speaking with them, and they assure me that they are very humble subjects and servants of the Queen.” He edged up to Bothwell and added in a very low voice, “But they are your mortal foes.”

  Bothwell looked at him scornfully. “They gave me many assurances,” he said, his voice ringing out. “What harm have I ever done them? I never wished to displease any, but have sought to gratify them all. They only speak as they do because they envy my favour.” He turned around once, twice, revolving slowly, lifting up his head and speaking to the multitude, but also to Mary personally. “But Fortune is free to any who can win her—and there is not a man of them”—he pointed toward the hillside—“who but wishes himself in my place!” He took Mary’s hand.

  Du Croc was staring.

  “For the love of God,” said Bothwell suddenly, “and to put the Queen out of pain, and to spare the blood that will flow otherwise, let the Lords select a man and I will fight him in single combat. Let that decide the day. For my cause is so just I am sure God will decide in my favour!”

  “His quarrel is mine!” said Mary fiercely.

  A body of men began to advance from the Lords, making their way across the brook, spears at the ready.

  “Look!” said Bothwell. “They approach! Now, if you wish to model yourself on the man who attempted to mediate between Scipio and Hannibal when the armies were about to engage, remember that he took up a post of observation, where he could see the bravest pastime he had ever beheld. If you wish to do the same, I can promise you a fight well fought!”

  Du Croc shook his head. “I have no wish to gaze on carnage. But you are a great captain, speaking with such confidence when you cannot be sure of your men. I will convey your request for combat to the Lords.” The old ambassador turned away and, mounting his horse, rode slowly back over to the other side.

  When he did not return, Bothwell mounted his war-horse and rode down to the stream.

  “I challenge someone of worthy rank to meet me in single combat!” he cried. He rode up and down, his horse prancing nervously. At length Mary could see someone come forward. It was James Murray of Purdovis.

  Bothwell returned to camp and called for his armour. The metal was hot to the touch, and he was panting before he had even finished being strapped into it. Rivulets of sweat ran down his face.

  “Murray of Purdovis is not worthy!” she said. “You must not fight him. It must be someone of your rank!”

  “There is no one of my rank,” he said. “The only other duke of Scotland is the feeble old Châtelherault, who was exiled to France after the Chase-about Raid. And, titles aside, there is no title of equal honour as that of the Queen’s husband.”

  A second challenge was issued, and this time the Lords put forward the Earl of Morton as their champion.

  “Yes! Run him through, like the traitor he is, and see if he even has any blood!” she said.

  Bothwell took out a water bottle and drained it. He had now been wearing his armour for over an hour, and it was past four o’clock. Almost twelve hours of tension and readiness had passed, but nothing had happened. He had had nothing to eat all day. He did not feel weak, but in some ways this seemed like a dream.

  In the other camp, they could see that it was not Morton putting on armour, but Lindsay. Morton had delegated his duty to a younger man. Now he was bending and belting on a sword. It must be the sacred “Bell-the-Cat” sword of yore, which Morton had endowed with almost magical qualities.

  “Oh, let him come!” cried Bothwell, raising his arms to heaven in a plea for action. But from the other camp, no movement. Bothwell took Mary’s hand and kissed it.

  “I go,” he said.

  She wanted to hang on to it, to prevent him, but he was so grimly determined it would have been impossible. She watched him descend the hill and go to the appointed place, with thousands of men looking on. But Lindsay did not come out to meet him.

  Suddenly she saw the Lords starting to advance, marching forward sternly and resolutely under their gleaming banner. The sun was low in the sky; the day was drawing to a close. Kirkcaldy of Grange, his armour glinting, now led a charge of cavalry in a flanking movement, coming up around the royal troops like an embrace.

  The royal army broke and melted. The ranks had been thinning all afternoon, as the weary, hungry men had grown tired of waiting. Now they began to scramble away. Kirkcaldy yelled and put spurs to his horse, raising his sword.

  Bothwell turned and galloped back to his men, giving quick orders. Then he rode to Mary.

  “It is too late,” he said. “We have lost the day. We waited too long, for reinforcements that never came.” He smiled a wavering smile. “Thus it ends. For today.”

  “God! No! No!” She clutched at his smooth, metal-encased arm. She tried to look in his eyes and see what he really wanted her to do, but the shadow cast by the helmet covered them. “Is there nothing you can do?”

  “I cannot win with the troops I now have. Let us retreat to Dunbar!”

  “There will be a massacre!” cried Mary, as she saw the attacking army charging up the hill. “Stop!” she shouted, galloping into the midst of what remained of her army. “Stop!” The rebel soldiers halted in obedience. “You may tell your commanders that I will speak with them, and discuss terms,” she said. Her voice was clear and strong.

  Bothwell rode up beside her. “Do not trust them. Let us retreat. It is our only wise course of action. We can regroup there.”

  “No. They say they are loyal to me. They will not harm us.”

  “They will kill me, and they will do something bad to you as well.”

  “They have my son as a hostage,” she said.

  “That is a pity, but it is no reason to let yourself be taken captive as well!”

  They looked over to where they could see a knot of men on the other side talking.

  “Now! Let us escape now!” His voice was rising in frustration. “Can you not understand?”

  “It is better to pretend for a while and win them back,” she said.

  “These men are not Darnley, and they are not in love with you. They hate you. This is not Riccio all over again. Mary, my love, if you are mistaken, you will lose everything. Can you take that chance? Can you trust their words, knowing that they have lied to you ever since you set foot in Scotland, and hated you in their hearts? Run now, while you still have the chance. Never voluntarily surrender your freedom. Never!”

  A band of men was coming up the hill, led by Kirkcaldy of Grange. He had taken off his
helmet, but was still wearing his other armour. Mary stood her ground and awaited him.

  “Most gracious sovereign,” he said, bowing. “I protest our loyalty to you, and you alone. We wish to serve you, but only if you are a free creature, no longer in thrall to the Earl of Bothwell.”

  She did not allow him to kiss her hand, but drew herself up and clasped her two hands together. “What assurances of safety can you give me for my husband the Earl?” she asked.

  “None,” he answered. “They are determined to kill him if they can get him.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Those who ate with him, who toasted him, who approved his advancement … I must insist on his safety.”

  “Then, sir,” he said, turning to Bothwell, “you had best leave now. I can guarantee a safe conduct only until you are off the field. But if you leave now, you can be well on your way to Dunbar before the Queen joins the Lords.”

  Bothwell snorted in disdain. “The Battle of Carberry Hill, where not a shot was fired,” he said. “And this is your victory?”

  “We have the Queen, sir. Now whether you will stay or not is your affair.”

  “Save yourself!” said Mary.

  “Save yourself,” said Bothwell. “If you go with them, you are lost.”

  “Liar!” said Kirkcaldy. “Do not seek to persuade the Queen against her own astute judgement.”

  “A word in private with my wife, if you allow,” said Bothwell.

  He drew Mary aside. “Mary, I cannot live with myself if, as your husband and protector, I abandon you to these traitors.”

  She looked at him. He was exhausted from the last week, from the escape from Borthwick, the hasty preparations at Dunbar, the attempt to raise an army, the long march to Carberry Hill. He had been roasted like an animal inside his armour while he waited in vain for someone to accept his challenge to combat, had waited, nerves on edge, all day to direct the battle that had never come. Her heart seemed to tear itself in looking at him, having gone through this ordeal for her.

  “I cannot live with myself if harm should come to you,” she finally answered. “They will kill you. I cannot let that happen. I must accept their terms and surrender myself into their hands, for they will not harm me. They will not harm their anointed ruler.”