“Break open this one!” cried Douglas, jerking the velvet cover off the curved silver box. Eagerly Morton took his hammer and chisel to it. The top sprang open.
Little silk-wrapped packets were inside. Morton had trouble handling things that small. Finally he managed to unwind the silk on one and out tumbled a miniature. It fell on the floor and shattered before he could catch it. Annoyed, he picked up the pieces and tried to fit them together. “It appears to be a miniature of François,” he said.
The rest of them proved to be miniatures of her French family, of Darnley, and of Elizabeth. The ones of Darnley and Elizabeth were greeted with embarrassed silence.
“Why would she keep these?” asked Glencairn.
“She is crafty,” said Morton. “You notice there isn’t one of Bothwell.” He pocketed the miniatures and returned to the jewel table.
While Morton was gloating over the jewels, the rest of them systematically emptied the drawers and trunks. Then Glencairn rolled his eyes.
“The Papist chapel!” he suddenly cried. “It must be destroyed!”
“Yes!” cried Douglas. “The heart and soul of her affront, the Papist chapel! The one that we tried to destroy that first Sunday!” Together they rushed out of the apartments and ran down the gallery, hunting for the chapel.
They rounded a corner and there it was, its doors open, not even pretending to be anything else, not even having the modesty to hide itself, but instead, flaunting itself like the Whore of Babylon! With a yell, the two men tore into it, ripping down the hangings, overturning the altar, opening the tabernacle where the sacred hosts were kept, and scattering them all over the floor. Then Glencairn had an idea. Scooping up handfuls of them, he tossed them out the window to the waiting crowd. They surged forward, cheering, catching the sacred bread, pelting each other with it.
“Get rid of this abomination!” cried Douglas, kicking at the carved wood of the altar base. Glencairn was yanking down the ivory carvings, smashing the saint statues, and breaking the stained glass. In a few minutes the entire chapel was nothing but debris.
“Knox would be proud!” Douglas said. “He always said, ‘Cut down the tree, else the birds will return to nest in the branches again.’ This tree is down!”
The other four men were awaiting them back at the door of the apartments, their arms laden with embroideries, jewels, plate, paintings, hangings. “Take what you wish, and let us go,” they told the chapel-smashers.
In the midst of Maitland’s bundle of spoils lay the ivory crucifix from the wall. He meant to send it to Mary at Lochleven. It was an old one, from France, and doubtless had some personal meaning for her.
“Morton, you mean to send the Queen her miniatures, do you not?” he said. “They are worth nothing, and I cannot imagine that you will derive any pleasure from contemplating the likeness of the Lord Darnley.”
Morton glared at him. Next he would want him to give up the ruby tortoise—if he had seen him pocket it. “Of course,” he said indignantly.
LIX
It seemed there was no awakening for Mary. The sea-dreams of Bothwell blended into other dreams, dreams of Stirling Castle and a man who was half Lord James and half Darnley, dreams of the fierce wind there and pony races from long ago. Lord Lindsay’s wife kept watch over her until her attendants arrived two days later, rowed across the choppy waters of the lake and carrying bundles of clothes and prayer books and medicines.
“She has been like this since her arrival,” said Lady Lindsay softly, showing them the Queen, still lying in bed. “She has not eaten or roused herself.” She sounded genuinely concerned.
Mary Seton made her way over to the bedside and stood silently looking down at her mistress, whom she had seen in so many circumstances and over so many years. She saw how white and almost bloodless the Queen’s face was, how still she was lying. She seemed to be in a state deeper than sleep.
Seton knelt down beside the bed and took Mary’s hand in hers. It was cold. She squeezed it and tried to bring some warmth into it. She brushed back the tangled hair and massaged her temples.
“Your Majesty,” she whispered close to her ear. “We are come to help you.”
Mary gave no indication that she heard her, and her eyes stayed tightly closed.
“It is so damp in here,” said Seton, “and it feels so cold, even though outside in the sun it is warm. Can we have a fire, please?”
Lady Lindsay nodded. “And you may have any food you wish; we have offered broth and bread and soup, but she has refused to eat. My mother says it is because she has made a vow not to touch food until she be reunited with her husband, but that is fanciful. She has called his name in her sleep, but she has not eaten because she is ill. When they brought her here, she had not lived normally for days, and it had taken its toll.”
Lady Lindsay left the chamber to ask about the wood, and Seton turned to Jane Kennedy and Claud Nau. “Perhaps it is merciful that she cannot hear or think for now. She has heard too much already.”
The faithful attendants kept the fire burning to keep the chill at bay, and dutifully offered their mistress food every few hours when she seemed to be awakening. In the meantime they paced the quarters, unpacking the few things they had brought, trying to make the chamber as comforting as possible. Seton hung up the crucifix which Maitland had quietly given her to take along.
* * *
Days passed, days in which news from the outside flew over the waters of the loch like the wheeling water fowl. The Lords had taken one of Bothwell’s servants in the act of recovering some of Bothwell’s treasure and papers; the bold warrior had sent him straight into the nest of his enemies, like a gull diving for fish. The papers were incriminating, especially to the Queen. Meanwhile, Bothwell was still at liberty—at least the Lords had kept their promise to the Queen not to harm him—and trying to raise another army to rescue the Queen. He had gone to the Borders, and to the west, talking to the Hamiltons and others.
Then, suddenly, the Lords put a thousand-crown price on his head, at the instigation of Knox and the Kirk, who declared it shameful that the scoundrel was allowed to roam unpunished. A few days later they issued a call for him to appear at the Tolbooth on July twenty-second to answer to the threefold charge of murdering the King, kidnapping the Queen, and forcing her into unlawful marriage with him, or be branded an outlaw and forfeit of all titles and property. By that time he had quitted Dunbar and journeyed north, still attempting to raise troops.
The French evidenced interest in obtaining custody of the baby Prince, as did the English, both claiming to be acting on their duties as the child’s godparents.
All these things were whispered in the little tower room, out of earshot of the Queen. No communication from Bothwell succeeded in penetrating the stout defences around his captive wife.
* * *
When Mary finally swam up into consciousness, she saw the familiar crucifix on the wall, floating there against the grey stone. It seemed to reach out and tell her she was safe and at home. She closed her eyes again and drifted, waiting to sink back into that place where she had come to belong. But now she did not sink down, but only floated near the surface; it was as if the depths did not want to take her back. She could hear voices, not the wavering voices in dreams, but real voices: hushed, tender, insistent.
“I think the boat is returning.…”
“We must get this cloth mended.…” A soft woman’s voice.
“The letter said there may be an envoy from London.” An accented man’s voice.
The voices were familiar, but none of them was his voice; he was not nearby. There was no one else she wanted to talk to. She kept her eyes shut and lay still, praying to be taken back down into those cushiony velvet depths where there were no demands, no passage of time, no recognition.
“Her breathing has changed,” said a voice. The person was standing right over her. The next thing Mary knew, her head was being propped up with an extra pillow, and other excited voices sur
rounded her.
“The colour! Her colour has come back!”
They were bending her neck forward to put another pillow under it, and it hurt. Her whole neck was tender and aching. She groaned.
Immediately there were hands dabbing her face with wet cloths, and someone started rubbing her wrists. It was so unpleasant she could not help opening her eyes. The light stung them.
“She is awake!” cried Mary Seton. “Oh, Your Majesty! No, don’t shut your eyes, I beg you! No, no!”
It took all Mary’s strength just to keep them open. She attempted to smile at Seton, but her mouth would not obey.
Next Claud Nau was bending down to her. “Oh, thank God and all the saints!” he cried. He was motioning frantically and saying, “Soup! Soup!”
In a few moments they had pulled her to a sitting position in bed and Seton was spooning soup into her mouth. It tasted foul, and almost made her gag. She had to force herself to swallow it.
Exhausted by the effort, she lay back down and closed her eyes again and slept, but this time it was a different sleep, and when she awoke a few hours later, she struggled to sit up by herself.
Again she was given soup, and this time she swallowed it without difficulty, and drank some watered wine. A night’s sleep followed, and by the next morning she knew that the way back into her dream retreat had somehow been barred to her. She awoke normally and called for Seton in a voice that was croaky with disuse. Seton was instantly by her side.
“I feel so weak,” Mary said, holding up one hand. She could see how thin her arm looked, and it ached with the effort of holding itself up. Even speaking seemed to demand some superhuman strength.
“You have lain without food, almost without moving, for two weeks,” said Seton.
“Two weeks? I am still at Lochleven?”
“Yes, my lady, where did you think you were?”
“I knew not.” She began to weep. “But I thought it was a friendly place.”
“You have friends here,” Seton assured her.
“But I am still a prisoner, am I not?” Her voice was a whisper.
“Yes. You are.”
It all came rushing back like a black tide. “The Lords … Bothwell. What of Bothwell?”
The attendants looked at each other. Finally Seton said, “There is no word of Bothwell, my lady.”
“No word … no letter…?”
“None that has reached here. We are closely guarded.”
“Ah.” Mary’s voice was a soft sigh. “It is no use, then.”
* * *
In a few days Mary left her bed, dressed herself, ate normal meals. But she performed all these actions like someone in a trance. Her face was masklike and her eyes were not animated. She sat for hours without speaking, and did not attempt to write letters or win concessions from her gaolers. She prayed in front of the crucifix, silently, and once asked, in a listless voice, how it had come to be there. Seton told her that Maitland had obtained it for her; she did not describe the destruction of the chapel that went with it, and Mary evidenced no curiosity about it.
Once Nau pulled up a chair and, taking her hands in his, told her as gently as possible about the rumours that Lord James had been called home, and that her enemies had some sort of evidence against her that might compel her to abdicate.
“Abdicate?” she murmured. “Give up my throne? So Bothwell was right. That has been their intention all along.”
“Your Majesty, can you recall anything that was in Bothwell’s possession that might serve that purpose to the Lords?” he prompted.
“Yes,” she said with a twisted smile. “I wrote him love letters, which I asked him to destroy. But he kept them. I assume they will use those in some manner, taking out certain phrases and putting their own interpretation on them. But I care not,” she said. “I care not.”
“Will you in no wise consider leaving Bothwell and consenting to a divorce? They still claim they will restore you to the throne if you do. Bothwell’s case is hopeless now; he is discredited and soon will be declared an outlaw. But you can still save yourself, and your throne.”
“Never!” she said, with more vehemence than anything she had uttered since coming out of her slumber days earlier. “Never! I carry his child, and I will never allow that child to be branded bastard, dishonouring all three of us.”
“Bothwell’s star is fallen,” Nau insisted.
“All the more reason that I, as his wife, should remain loyal. And so I shall, until death.”
* * *
She felt dead already, enveloped in this mantle of lassitude and profound sadness. It was a mantle she could not remove, and no amount of sleep or wholesome food seemed to dislodge it. Waking or sleeping it weighed on her, sometimes with pain and other times with the more frightening absence of all feeling.
I have nothing, she thought. I have been Queen for four and twenty years, but if I died in my sleep this very night, there would be nothing to write of me in the chronicles. I was Queen of France for a year and a half, but when François died, all that passed away, and today France remembers me not. I have reigned directly here in Scotland for six years now, and although there has been no foreign war, the nobles never made peace amongst themselves. My whole reign has been a series of plots, followed by my pardons. My marriages have all failed in one way or another. I have not succeeded in being recognized by Elizabeth as her successor. The Catholics abroad have turned against me because I was not severe enough with the heretics in Scotland, the heretics in Scotland hate me because I am a Catholic at all.
I have failed.
Once in this melancholy recitation, she poured out her heart to the crucifix, but it seemed as unresponsive and stony as the Lords. She remembered how it had graced the wall of the Abbey of St.-Pierre, and how she had prayed before it when she had taken retreat with her aunt and had decided that her destiny lay in Scotland.
The abbey. It had been so sweet, so tempting, and she had wanted to stay there forever. But no—she had believed that she was being called to Scotland, that God wanted her to do her duty there.
God. I have failed God, too, she thought miserably. I flattered myself that I had a spiritual life. Instead I have lived in a manner to give the people reason to call me whore and even to suspect me of murder.
The crucifix offered her no mercy as it hung on the wall, its Jesus staring at her with cold eyes.
* * *
She was allowed to walk about the scant grounds on the island, always with a guard. The castle itself occupied most of the land above water, except for a little enclosed garden. She would stand at the very edge of the low garden wall and look out at the water, across to the little town of Kinross. They said William Wallace had swum the distance, clad in leather, with his sword bound upon his neck. But she was not a swimmer, and had no hopes of ever escaping that way. Idly she wondered if the loch froze in winter, but assumed it did not, else the island would never have served so effectively as a prison. Even the idea of walking across seemed beyond her at that point. Everything seemed beyond her, and she took no pleasure in the dancing butterflies in the water reeds, nor in the shiny iridescent green of the tops of the mallards’ heads, nor of the bobbing baby ducks following their mothers.
“The waterlilies will soon open their flowers,” said Lord Ruthven, who was her keeper that day.
“I care not,” she said, and it was true. Let them open, spread themselves open to the sun, emit the perfume of Cleopatra—it mattered not. They might as well be slimy, festering weeds.
“I was told you like flowers,” he said.
“Who told you that?” she answered. “Your sainted father?”
“Mary Seton told me.” He smiled at her.
He was trying to be charming. He must want something. How unfortunate for him that it was useless. Even nature could no longer charm her.
“Mary Seton would never talk to you of my likes and dislikes.” She sighed. Even this much conversation was wearisome.
�
�That is where you are wrong. She is anxious to talk about you. We wish you to recover.”
Mary reached in her little cloth purse and drew out some bread crumbs and tossed them to the ducks. They came swimming over slowly to investigate, making low sounds that were more gurgles than quacks. Then they began snapping at the food, rustling their feathers and flicking their tails.
“I see.” My heart will never recover, she thought. It will remain numb, without desire and without pleasure and without will.
“When you are yourself, you are a Queen indeed,” he said.
She looked at him. What an odd thing for him to say. He kept his eyes downcast, as if he did not want her to look into them. He had long lashes that caught the sunlight, and his eyebrows were the exact same colour. His hair was a darker, richer shade. His looks were actually rather winsome.
“A Queen to be deposed,” she said. “I have been told you—the Lords—wish me to abdicate.”
“Some of them do,” he said. “But if you were free—”
She laughed gently. “Ah! If I were free!”
What would I do if I were free? she thought. I fear I would not have the strength to do anything. I have played my strength out. There is nothing left for me but a convent or to be an invalid. It is all I am fit for now. The world seems to me as unappetizing as a platter of pig’s offal.
“I could make you free,” he was whispering, standing altogether too close.
“What?”
“I have it in my power to set you free. All you have to do is yield yourself to me.” He lifted his eyes and looked directly into hers.
He was not jesting. Mother of God, he meant it! Before she could stop herself, she burst out laughing.
“Hush!” he cried, alarmed. He shot a look toward the castle walls in fear that someone had heard. She was still laughing. “Is it that amusing? You can come to my bed; there are no guards in my quarters. I want you.”
They must truly believe her to be a whore. That this man would expect her to give herself to him, when she was married, pregnant … At that moment she realized she had fallen even lower than she had imagined, even in her most despairing moments.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 82
