“I am married,” she finally said.
“What of it?” he answered. “You were married when you took Bothwell to your bed.”
She drew back her hand and slapped him across his smooth cheek. “You are steeped in filth!”
“We have the proof about you and Bothwell. How you took up with him while you were married, how you got him to rid you of your husband!”
“Lies! I never—”
Ruthven smiled, the smile of a victor. “I can promise you pleasure,” he said. “And afterwards, freedom.”
“The promise of a confederate Lord means nothing. For I surrendered to you all on a promise of being obeyed and served, and instead you have imprisoned me.”
“Never trust a group of people. But this is different—an agreement between you and me. A private pact.” His voice was smooth near her ear.
She stood, steeped in shame. This is my nadir, she thought. It is more degrading than even signing an abdication would be. It is more humiliating than the ride through Edinburgh, with the people spitting at me. Those moments are a public tragedy, but they are grand as well. This is little, squalid, nasty, and—what did he say?—private.
He took her silence for consideration of his offer. “I said I want you. You fire my blood. I want to taste such heights of pleasure that I will not die ordinary.”
“If it were in my power,” she finally said, “you would certainly not die ordinary.”
“Then you grant me my wish?” he gasped. “I cannot express my joy at your answer!” He tried to grab her hand and kiss it.
“Alas, although I would see to it that your death was not that of an ordinary criminal, but of a felon and traitor, I have no power to carry it out. I can only imagine it, and see you in my mind being gutted and quartered.”
He leapt away in fury at his misunderstanding. “Then, if you’re fool enough to reject my offer, to turn my love to hate, you can rot here! And you will!” He took her head and turned it in his hands, hands that were strong and unhesitant. “Look out there across the lake. The waters are deep and cold. Before long there will be an unfortunate accident when you try to escape, as you are known to have a habit of doing. Or else you will be taken away to a fortress deep in the Highlands and held there the rest of your life. A living death, I believe it’s called by the poetically minded.”
“Did they choose you because they wished to subject me to lewd propositions? It would be beneath the integrity of any of the others, who are hardly notable for their integrity.”
He took her arm and twisted it, turning her around. “It is time for you to return to your tower. You have between here and there to change your mind. After that it will be too late.” He marched her toward the outer castle wall. “Do not imagine that Bothwell can ever come for you again, or that your child will ever be in the succession. If that is why you have said no to my offer, I suggest you think again.”
“That is not why,” she said. “Were there no Bothwell, and no child, my answer would be the same. You flatter yourself to think otherwise.”
“If you think there will be other offers, or better ones, you flatter yourself, my lady.”
“Thank God there will be no others!” she said. “For the insult is so great I could not endure it twice.”
* * *
Once back in her little room, she did not dare tell Seton or anyone else of what had just passed between her and Ruthven. It would make the shame even greater if anyone knew. The mute crucifix stared down at her as she silently ate her meal, a meal that was tasteless to her. All food was tasteless to her now.
After dinner she tried to sew. They had brought some of her needlework from Holyrood, along with the threads and frames. But her eyes were tired, and she had trouble focusing. Everything in the pattern reminded her of the humiliating incident. The lion’s mane in the panel she was embroidering was the colour of Ruthven’s hair, and the green of the background was like the green of the ducks’ feathers.
It took all her effort to pull the needle up through the thick canvas that had the pattern drawn on it. This lethargy, this weakness, made her feel very old.
It was while she was drawing out a particularly long brown thread that she felt a sharp twinge in her lower abdomen. It came and went swiftly. But a few minutes later another came, and this one rippled across her belly, taking its time before it, too, disappeared. Before Mary Seton had finished the last verse of the song she had begun at the first stab of pain, a third one had come. This time she recognized it as a horrible, familiar visitor. It was a labour pain.
“No!” she cried, standing up and dropping her sewing. She touched her belly as if expecting to discover something.
Mary Seton stopped playing and looked up.
“I fear—” Mary sat back down. “No, perhaps it is not. Has the fish we had for supper disturbed your stomach?”
Seton shook her head.
Just then Mary felt the pain again. “It is the child!” she cried. “Send for the doctor!” Seeing the look on Seton’s face, she said, “There must be one here, for the Douglases! I care not who he is, as long as he is knowledgeable about childbirth! Oh!” She got up and staggered up the stairs to her bedroom.
Throwing herself down on the narrow bed, she waited, holding her breath, willing the pains to stop. Suddenly all her debilitating languor had disappeared and she knew there was still one thing she wanted, and cared about, passionately: Bothwell’s child. She must not lose it!
The castle physician, veteran of many births at Lochleven, came quickly. He made her undress and felt her stomach for tenderness.
“Oh, please, save my child!” she begged, crying. They were the first tears she had shed on the island.
He rummaged in a box he had brought, muttering to himself. “A mixture of strong wine and thornapple and English nightshade may work. But it is dangerous, because it is hard to give the proper dose. Too low, and it will not help; too high, and you will be poisoned.”
“I will take the chance,” she said.
He took out two small bottles and sent for some strong wine. Then, working on the little table in the center of the room, he carefully measured the plants and stirred them into a goblet of rough red French wine. Mary watched him swirl the contents around and hold it up against the candle. While she watched, two more pains came and went.
He diluted the mixture a little and then brought it to her. She drank it; it was bitter and sharp.
“Now close your eyes,” he said. “Try to remain as still and calm as possible.”
She could hear him walking around the room, rearranging things and making ready. There would be no cradle; if the child was born, it could not survive. She recognized the soft slap of material being folded; these must be the linens they used to staunch blood and tend the wounds incurred in childbirth. There was the clink of copper pans being dried and set aside; one would hold warm water and the other would catch the spurts of blood that would come.
Dear God, she prayed, let none of these things be necessary. Let there be no blood and no birth and no need for bandages and water. I know I have failed you. I ask forgiveness. But do not fail me, do not abandon me.…
The potion took effect and made her feel drowsy and dizzy. But the pains continued unabated and ever more frequently. She heard the doctor saying, “Now we must make ready!” in an agitated, disappointed tone, and felt the cold rim of the copper basin being slid under her.
“Push!” he was saying, but she disobeyed him and, crying wildly, tried to hold back the form she felt trying to dislodge itself from within her. It was moving down, in spite of her strongest attempt to prevent it. She clenched her muscles as tightly as she could and shrieked with despair and supplication. But the birth process continued relentlessly, and the physician received a minute, bloody, slippery lump into his hands. It was quickly followed by a second one, as Mary twisted and wept.
“Twins!” he said, in surprise. The tiny things were so early they were never meant to live. He washed t
hem off gently and saw that they were male. Then he wrapped them in soft flannel, just as Mary was calling out for them. Mary Seton was standing by her, holding her hand and attempting to quiet her.
“You know they were born betimes,” he said, trying to make the harsh words as kind as possible.
“Let me see them!” she was crying.
“It is not advisable—” the doctor began, but Seton nodded.
“Let her see them. Nothing can hurt her more than what has already happened.”
Reluctantly he brought over the little cloth where they lay and let her see them. She stared at them dumbly, then reached out a shaky hand and touched each one once. She closed her eyes and fell back on the pillow. The doctor took them away.
“You will bury them, will you not?” asked Seton. “Do not just destroy them, but give them an honourable burial.”
The doctor nodded. “If you wish it.” He glanced over at the Queen. “I fear it may take a long time for her to recover fully. Let her rest. And call me if there seems to be anything amiss.”
The doctor had barely finished his bedside glass of wine before Seton came for him. “There is a lot of blood,” she said. “It started suddenly, and now it won’t stop.” He hurried across the castle yard and back into the round tower. By the time he got there, the bed was soaked in blood, and more was gushing out. He worked as swiftly as he could, elevating her feet, packing the place from which the blood was issuing with clean cloths, and giving her a draught of dried yarrow and agrimony, again mixed with wine. But it was the middle of the night before the blood finally seemed to dry up at its source and the bubbling stream abated. By that time Mary was white and so debilitated she could barely move. He feared the drugs would overcome her in this weakened state and she would lapse into unconsciousness and possibly die.
By dawn she was slipping in and out of awareness, and her eyelids fluttered shut in spite of all her efforts to keep them open. The struggle seemed overwhelming and pointless. The babies were gone, Bothwell was gone … yet, strangely enough, she fought slipping over the edge of darkness, the soft, friendly darkness that beckoned. She wanted, at last and after all, to live.
LX
Mary lay all the daylight hours, watching the sunlight move from one window to the next as the sun passed across the sky. Seton brought her soup and fine white bread and red wine to replace the blood she had lost. She lay as limp as a silk scarf draped over a chair, and felt as transparent.
My child—no, children—will never be, she thought. How odd to think of children rather than child. Boys. They would have been princes, and if they had had half of Bothwell’s strength and courage, they would have shone in the annals of Scotland. Gone. And now … there may never be a child of ours, never ever, she thought, and grief, as sharp as the labour pains, pierced her.
Bothwell, Bothwell … where are you? I used to believe I could send my thoughts far away, and that you could hear them. But now I do not even know where you are.
I am completely and utterly alone. I have never been alone before. There has always been someone, a man, near me to rely on. My uncles in France. Lord James. Riccio. Then Bothwell. I always consulted them, let them guide me. I have never been at my own mercy, with only myself as a source of knowledge.
Had she not been so debilitated, that thought would have been more frightening, more revolutionary. But it only felt like a small part of the enormity of her losses.
The next day the physician pronounced himself pleased with her recovery. The hemorrhaging had ceased, and she had been able to take nourishment, although she showed no real appetite as yet.
“Keep giving her the wine, and see if you can add a little chopped meat to the soup,” he told Seton, who had become the chief nurse. “And allow her complete rest—no disturbances.”
Nau, who had been looking out the window, suddenly said, “That may be difficult. A boat is approaching, and it is not the laundry maids or the guards, or any of the household from the mainland.” The Laird maintained a separate large manor house directly across from the island.
Jane Kennedy joined him at the window. She took pride in her ability to see long distances, saying she had been born with the eyes of a bird of prey. “It is Melville,” she said. “And he has a glum look on. He’s carrying a large leather pouch.”
Mary groaned and made an effort to sit up. “We must admit him, when he comes. If he comes here. He may just speak to the Douglases and the other gaolers.” Like the unspeakable Ruthven and the vicious, bloodthirsty Lindsay.
The boat landed and they saw Melville get out, then disappear inside the castle grounds. It was near sunset when the expected knock came on Mary’s door down below. He was admitted and brought upstairs, where Mary was lying in bed, unable to rise.
She was unexpectedly glad to see him; in this nest of hatred he seemed like a true friend. “Dear Melville,” she said, stretching out her hand.
He knelt and kissed it. “Your Majesty,” he said, with pain in his voice, “I am distressed to see you in this state.”
“Oh, the worst is over,” she assured him. “I can only get better, as I am doing hourly. I have had an untimely birth, and it was difficult. But my good doctor here assures me I will fully recover—my body, if not my heart.”
“Your Majesty—may I possibly speak with you privately?” He looked around at the attendants.
“Why, yes.” Mary watched as her attendants silently left the room and descended the spiral staircase to the public room below. Then she said, “Dear friend, what is it? You look anguished. Is it—is it truly that dreadful?” She drew her breath. “I am ready to hear it, no matter what it portends.” And, surprisingly, she was.
“Your Majesty, I will be honest. I have been sent to persuade you to agree to allow young James to be crowned King.”
She exhaled. “To abdicate, you mean? Speak it plain.”
“Yes.” The one word hung there. Then he added, “Let me explain—”
“Yes, there are always explanations. But history never remembers the explanations, no matter how mighty they may be. Only the bare fact stands out, undressed of explanations. But pray tell me. I wish to know.” She put her hands under her thighs and pulled herself up to a sitting position. Pain shot through her.
He continued kneeling. “This is painful for me as well. I made the journey, as you requested, to England, and spoke directly with Elizabeth. She was outraged at your behaviour since the death of Darnley, and had written a strong letter about it. But when the Lords imprisoned you, it changed her mind. At once she was on your side; she said that no matter what you had done, your subjects had no right to imprison you or judge you, that they owed you obedience, and that only God could judge you. She was ready to send an army to help you. But then—”
“Ah. There is always a ‘but then.’ Pray rise, and take a seat. I fear this is uncomfortable enough in the telling, without wearing your knees out on the cold stone floor.”
Stiffly he rose and brought a stool over to the bedside. He took a long time arranging his breeches and settling himself before continuing. He took a gulp of air and plunged in. “But then the Lords said they would kill you if any English army set foot in Scotland. They have you as a hostage. So Elizabeth was forced to desist, and sent Throckmorton north as ambassador to negotiate with the Lords and talk with you. The Lords refuse him permission to come to Lochleven. They have kept him waiting, dangling, but finally said he may not see you. But he has given me this letter from Elizabeth to give to you.”
He fumbled with the scabbard of his sword, and pulled out a folded piece of paper from deep within it. “Here,” he said. “I have concealed it here at peril of my own life.”
She took it. Her eyes skimmed over it rapidly. Then she handed it back to Melville for him to read.
It is my most sisterly advice that you should not irritate those who have Your Majesty in their power, by refusing the only concession that could save your life. Nothing that is done under your present circumst
ances can be of any force once you have regained your freedom.
“But how am I to regain my freedom, as there is no one to liberate me? The English army cannot come, and Bothwell—what news of Bothwell? Where is he?” Her voice grew eager.
“Madam, my reports are that he has fled to his uncle the Bishop’s at Spynie, but that Balfour, who has betrayed him—”
“Balfour has betrayed him?” she gasped. “When did this happen?”
“Why, he joined the Lords before the battle of Carberry Hill.”
“Then his message to us—it was false, and meant to lure us back to Edinburgh! It was a trap!” It was not fate, then, that had done them in, but human villainy.
Melville did not know to what she was referring. “Balfour caught Bothwell’s servant in the act of removing certain of Bothwell’s papers and effects from the Castle. The Lords took possession of them … of your letters to Bothwell, which they claim incriminate you in the King’s murder. And they destroyed the rest, the ones that Bothwell was keeping because they incriminate the Lords. Then Balfour’s kin made trouble for Bothwell in Spynie, attempted to kill him. He killed them instead, but it drove him away. He has left the mainland now and is in the Orkneys, trying to raise a navy. He wants to be a pirate king and have a floating kingdom, so it seems, manned with buccaneers, traders, and soldiers of fortune. A novel concept. He claims that his title as Duke of Orkney, his ancestral rights, and his hereditary title of Admiral of Scotland grant him this privilege.”
She smiled. Bothwell was on the sea, where he belonged. And perhaps he would succeed, would actually create a private naval hegemony of his own. He was so daring, imaginative.… The loss of his children hit her once again.
Seeing her smile, Melville said, “Kirkcaldy of Grange has sent ships after him to take him dead or alive. Bothwell has five ships with three hundred sailors, and Kirkcaldy eight ships, guns, and four hundred harquebusiers aboard. Their commission was ‘to pursue the malefactors with fire, sword, and all other kind of hostility.’ It will be a fight to the death, my lady.”
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 83
