“Oh, you are so blind!” he cried.
“I love you,” she said. “I cannot live without you. But we must part for now, till the danger is past. Then, when I have won them again to my side, I will send for you. Keep yourself safe until then, I beg you. I must know that you are waiting for me.”
He put out his arms and embraced her. “If they seek to declare me an outlaw or condemn me for the Darnley murder, use this.” He slipped a piece of paper into her sweating hand. “It is the bond they signed at Craigmillar. They are all guilty. This paper will convict them, if it comes to it. Guard it well. It proves their villainy.”
She clung to him, clutching his wide shoulders and burying her face in his neck. “My life, my love, my lord, I cannot, I cannot—” She began kissing him frantically.
Slowly he disengaged her arms. “The armies stand ready to kill, unless we end this.” He kissed her once, firmly and sadly. “Farewell, wife. Remember that you are my loyal wife, as you promised before God.”
“What, do you doubt me?” She was hurt, and wanted to call him back, hold him again, kiss him until he was warm with her. “Bothwell—”
He was already a few yards away, nodding toward Kirkcaldy in a mocking manner. “Allow me to mount my horse,” he was saying.
Mary rushed over to him and embraced him, surprising him and almost causing him to lose his balance. “My dear heart, I will never forsake you nor stop loving you, and will wait for you forever!”
He looked at her, as if he would imprint the image forever in his mind. “Nothing can part us,” he finally said. “I love you, wife of my heart.” Then he stepped away again, and quickly mounted his horse. With a quick farewell gesture, he gathered the reins and put spurs to his mount, and galloped away with three of his servants. Mary watched, refusing to move, until he disappeared from sight on the road to Dunbar.
LVII
Mary stood watching the empty road for a moment, as if to seal him in safety. Then she turned back to Kirkcaldy, who was standing in mock deference with his helmet tucked under one arm.
“My Lord of Grange,” she said, “I render myself to you upon the conditions you set forth to me in the name of the Lords.” She extended her hand to him; he knelt and kissed it. Then he rose and helped her to mount her horse, which had been led over to them. He remounted his black charger and preceded her down the hill, around the shiny, useless field cannon. As she descended, she passed the puzzled, tired faces of her forces, and tried to reassure them by smiling and giving them encouraging words as she dismissed them and thanked them.
Her horse splashed across the little stream, and suddenly she was facing the hostile faces of the other army. The men glared at her and even began to mutter in tones that showed disparagement.
Kirkcaldy escorted her to Morton, who was standing, arms crossed, waiting. As she dismounted and walked through the men, she was aware of them staring and tittering at her short, borrowed dress, all stained and dusty now. She kept her head high and her eyes on the glowering Morton. Next to him was the Earl of Atholl, and Ruthven and Lindsay. Fleetingly she noticed that the young Ruthven looked like a warlock, too, although a handsomer, tawny version.
“My lords,” she said, “I am come to you, not out of any fear I had of my life, nor yet doubting of the victory, if matters had come to the worst, but to save the spilling of Christian blood; and therefore have I come to you, trusting in your promises that you will respect me, and give me the obedience due to your native Queen and lawful sovereign.”
Morton stepped forward, moving in his clumsy, shuffling gait. He bent his knee. “Here, Madam, is the place where Your Grace should be, and here we are ready to defend and obey you as loyally as ever the nobles of this realm did your ancestors.”
“Burn her! Burn the murderess!” yelled some of the men standing nearby. “Kill her, she is not worthy to live!”
Mary’s blood ran cold. These were not faceless crowds, but men who were so close they could see her face, could step forward and kill her themselves. And what were they calling her? Murderess? Did they truly think that? She pressed the paper Bothwell had given her closer to her bosom. What names were on it? In privacy she would see. But the hatred of the men, the viciousness of their tone …
“What is your purpose?” she asked Morton, letting the words ring out. “If it be my blood you desire, take it. I am here to offer it. You need wait no longer, and it is not necessary to seek the Earl of Bothwell to exact revenge.” She stood there, daring them to take her and bind her. She was also daring the soldiers to come forward and stab her.
When no one moved, she realized they still hesitated to proceed against her person, and a desperate plan came to her. The Hamiltons … there seemed to be movement on the road. Were they on their way?
“Good my lords, let me go and meet the Hamilton party, thanking them for their efforts on my behalf, and dismissing them.”
A sneer spread over Lord Lindsay’s face. “Such royal courtesy is not necessary,” he said.
“I wish it,” she answered. To her dismay, no one overrode Lindsay or said he had no authority to pronounce what she could or could not do. She tried to turn and remount her horse, but the young Ruthven grabbed her arms.
“No,” he said firmly. “You will go nowhere but where we say.”
He had laid hands on her! She besought the others by looking at them, but they did not interfere. Ruthven forcibly turned her back in the direction she had been standing.
Then Atholl and Morton advanced with the banner of Darnley and stood on either side of her. “How is this, my lord Morton?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady and scornful, free of distress. “I am told that all this”—she pointed toward the army—“was done in order to get justice against the King’s murderers. I am also told that you are chief among them.” She was sure his name was first on the list hidden on her person.
He merely tossed his head and said, “Come, Madam. The day grows late.” Ruthven then turned her around again and made her mount her horse. Then, slowly, they began the ride back to Edinburgh.
Ahead of her rode Atholl and Morton with the banner held between them like an arch, which she was forced to ride beneath. On either side of her were two thugs, a Master Drumlanrig and the notorious Kerr of Fawdonside, who had threatened to shoot her during Riccio’s murder. The fact that he had been banished from Scotland for it did not trouble the Lords, who evidently welcomed him in their midst.
As they rode along, Kerr leaned over and began whispering, “Murderess!” She did not even attempt to answer, knowing he was a murderer himself. When she ignored him, he spoke louder. “Adulteress!” She kept her eyes straight ahead. “Whore!” He raised his voice to a shout. “Whore! Slut! Rolling in Bothwell’s bed, with your husband and his wife looking on! Slut! Taking on stableboys and grooms and guards to satisfy your lust!”
“Bothwell took them, too! The world knows he’s a sodomite!” Drumlanrig joined in.
She willed herself not to listen to these obscene, and silly, accusations. They were like schoolboys trying to think of new dirty words. Catamite. Necromancer. Onanite.
Her lack of response infuriated them, and they began shouting, “Whore! Murderess!” The soldiers marching along took up the cry, adding, “Burn her! Kill her! She is not worthy to live!”
The sound of their voices—hungry, yearning, strident—struck fear into her. They were like eager dogs straining at the leash, wanting to leap at a throat. They were a killing mob.
Ahead of her, Morton and Atholl plodded along, making no attempt to quiet the soldiers, tacitly encouraging it. Only Kirkcaldy held up his sword menacingly to keep them at bay. Now they were approaching Edinburgh, and townspeople were coming out to meet them, lining the road in curiosity. It was dark, but torches were lighted and the people could see them well enough as they passed.
Their faces, upturned, were hostile. “Adulteress!” they screamed, and this time the voices were those of women.
Women! Not co
arse soldiers, paid to echo their commanders’ ideas, but ordinary women in the town. They hated her!
“Adulteress!” they screamed. “Burn the whore!”
The cavalcade made its way through the city gate and turned up the High Street. Now the crowds were thick, and every window was full of spectators. A yell of derision rang out from the roof of one house, followed by a sickening splat as a chamber pot was emptied. It barely missed Mary, landing on the cobblestones right in front of her. Some of the excrement flew up and spattered her horse and her bare legs.
“Whore!” The crowd, excited now, rushed forward and leering mouths screamed curses. Spit flew through the air, and she could feel its spray on her legs, hands, cheeks. Her horse was startled and jumped and almost threw her off. She did not want to land among them; they would tear her limb from limb.
They would kill their own Queen with their bare hands.
She was so shaken she did not notice that they were stopping halfway up the street.
“Off!” said Morton. “You will be safer here!” He yanked her arm and quickly she was pulled into a fortified house that was next to the Tolbooth. She recognized it as the Black Turnpike, where criminals awaiting trial were often put when the Tolbooth was full.
The Lords poured into the house and then slammed the door, shutting out the jeering, violent mob. Even Morton looked relieved to be away from them, although he did not usually show emotion. He took off his wide-brimmed hat, the one he was never without, and fanned himself. His face was flushed and, along with his red hair, made him look like something combustible.
“Well,” he said. “We will dine here, courtesy of the Provost, whose house this is.” He did not ask her to join them, nor would she have.
“I will return to Holyrood when the mob disperses,” she said. Holyrood—it was only ten days since she and Bothwell had left it. “In the meantime, fetch me Mary Seton to attend me.”
Ruthven laughed. “You will not return to Holyrood. You will remain in our company. And as for your Mary Seton, she has been left behind at Carberry Hill to fend for herself.”
“What, am I a prisoner? I shall return to Holyrood, and who shall gainsay me?” She looked from one face to another.
“It is not safe,” Morton finally said. “Listen to them outside!”
“Yes, I hear them. I hear what you have whipped them up to!”
“Nay, Madam, that I have not. They speak of their own accord; were it not for us, they would break in here and take you.”
“Ohh!” She turned and mounted the stairs to get away from them, so smugly gathered in the entrance room.
Upstairs there was a bedroom already made ready for her. So they had planned this all along. She sank down on the bed and lay full length, staring up at the ceiling. Her heart was beating like a drum; she could feel it. Her legs dangled out from under the short dress.
Burn her, kill her, drown her. The words floated up from the street below, filled with a milling mob.
She could not think. She could hardly even feel. For so long her body had had to move, jump, fight, ride, almost with no direction from her brain or heart. There had been no time to bring the two together as she and Bothwell had dodged and run to keep ahead of events.
Bothwell. He was gone, safe at Dunbar by now. Her heart went out to him, hoping he was asleep in a secure bed. He would find a way to rally the royal supporters and oust these rebels. All was not lost. There were still the Hamiltons, Huntly and his Gordons, the Borderers.
But the people. Those looks. Their hatred …
Her head was swirling. She was ravenously hungry, but nauseated at the same time. The bed seemed to revolve around the room.
Shaking, she rose and went to the window. On the street down below stretched the offensive Darnley banner. As soon as they glimpsed her, the people, excited, began yelling. Just then she saw Maitland hurrying toward the house.
“Good Maitland!” she called, and stretched her arms out the window.
The mob, inflamed, began to chant. Maitland pulled his hat down over his eyes and pretended he had not heard or seen her. He disappeared from sight.
She reeled back toward the bed and flung herself on it. Again the room spun. Just then the door flew open—with no polite knock—and she looked up to see two enormous guards station themselves in the room and stand there with crossed arms. They did not greet her or ask permission.
I am a prisoner, she thought. Bothwell was right.
She ached to be with him. With the soldiers there, she would not even be permitted the comfort of tears. She rolled over on her stomach and felt the hidden paper crinkle slightly under her weight. It was all she had of Bothwell, for now. That and the child she suspected she was carrying, which she had not told him about, else he would have insisted on staying with her.
There was only nightmarish rest that night, with the red glow from the hundreds of torches outside lighting up the walls of the room, with soldiers breathing heavily and shuffling nearby, with her own aching stomach. Earlier she had heard the Lords all feasting in the downstairs room, then they had dispersed. But escape was impossible. Every time she turned over, the soldiers jumped to attention.
The hours passed slowly, and she felt dizzier and dizzier. Ghosts floated into the room: Riccio’s form passed by her, and Darnley’s, trailing faint laughter. A man who looked like the portraits of her father, and the laughing Duc de Guise. François came, too, dragging a dead pony—or maybe it was only the skin of one.
Who would have suspected I know so many dead people? she wondered. So many dead people … and traitors, and other ugly things … She wept silently, overcome by all the heaviness surrounding her, the weight of it, dragging her down into cold, oily depths where she could not breathe.
Was it morning? Was that what the sunlight meant? Where were the soldiers? She pulled herself out of bed and dragged herself over to the window. The sunlight, glancing off the slate tiles of the roof right under her window, hurt her eyes.
The crowd was still there. At the sight of her, a tumult rose. She flung her arms out the window and called to them.
“Help me! Help me! Oh, good people, deliver me!” The agony of seeing them was unbearable. She tore at her bodice and ripped it open. Her hair, tangled and unbound, hung down out the window.
“Ooooohhh,” the spectators gasped. She looked like an apparition, a madwoman.
“Either slay me yourselves, or deliver me from the cruelty of the false traitors who have me in captivity!” she cried.
The mob murmured, and some began to cry, “Save her! Save her!” Then another part of the mob unfurled the Darnley banner again, flaunting it before her. Another part cried, “Away with that!” and rushed the banner, trying to tear it off its poles.
“Help me! Help me!” she shrieked, in a ghostly voice.
The Edinburgh alarm was sounded, calling all citizens to arms.
Rough hands grabbed her shoulders and forced her back in. It was Morton.
“So the second the soldiers go down to eat, you raise the alarm!” he said, staring at her.
For a moment she did not understand. Then, suddenly, she saw that her entire bodice was open, revealing her breasts completely to his searching eyes. How had this happened? How had the bodice been torn open?
“And you wonder that the people call you whore!” The disgust was dripping from his voice. “When you show yourself naked to their eyes. Expect no deference due a Queen, then!” He was gloating.
Then his eye spotted a piece of paper lying on the floor. “What’s this?” he said eagerly.
The paper! The paper had fallen out of her bodice! When she had torn the bodice in her frenzy, she had forgotten the paper. But then, she had forgotten everything. She leapt to retrieve it, throwing herself on the floor and covering it before Morton could get it.
“Give it to me,” he ordered.
She found herself staring at the tip of his boot. He moved it back as if to kick her full in the face. But she did not bud
ge.
“Give it to me!” he said, bending down and lifting her up. She crumpled the paper and clutched it in the innermost part of her fist. He grabbed the first and tried to pry the fingers open.
“It is my paper, my royal property, and I forbid you to take it or even look at it,” she said.
He laughed. “How royal. How full of presence. But that is all over now. Give it to me.”
That is all over now. What did he mean?
“No.”
He took her fist in both his hands and put enormous pressure on it, as if he were crushing a walnut shell. She could feel the bones in her hand start to give way. He meant to cripple her! It was her right hand, the one she wrote with—
“There!” He pried her fingers open and extracted the paper, torn now and almost illegible.
Mockingly he unfolded it and read it. “This is not worth losing the use of your hand over,” he said lightly. “There’s nothing here of any import.”
“Save that you and others signed a bond to murder my husband!”
“Did we? Who says so? Bothwell? How like him, to forge a bond. He is full of false bonds, like the one he forced everyone to sign at Ainslie’s Tavern—with a little persuasion from wine and two hundred soldiers!” Slowly, deliberately, he tore up the paper and let the little pieces flutter to the floor. “I think it is time you had some nourishment. Lack of food has turned your wits. I will send up a tray. And then the secretary Maitland wishes to speak with you.”
After he was gone, Mary fell to her knees and gathered up the scraps of paper. Perhaps later she could put them together. Most important, she could read it, so she herself would know the truth.
Ashamed, she sought to cover her exposed breasts. Why had she ripped her clothes? She did not even remember doing so. Was she losing her wits?
In a few moments a tray appeared, along with a soldier. She had draped a sheet over herself, and ate slowly of the fruit and bread on the plate. She had no appetite, but if she had truly become so disoriented she had ripped her clothes, then she needed nourishment. Afterwards she lay down and attempted to rest.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 79
