by John Guy
This last gift was naive in the extreme. When Bothwell had the clothes altered to fit him, the tailor remarked, “It was but right and according to the custom of the country for the clothes of the deceased to be given to the executioner.” If only Mary had realized the degree to which public opinion was turning against her.
Soon Bothwell presumed too much. He started thinking in the crudest terms: that to guarantee his position in the giddy game of noble factionalism, he must physically possess the queen. Slowly but surely he began to pay court to Mary. Although married, he was well aware that marriages could—with the right influence—be broken almost as easily as they were made. The Catholic Church in Scotland was comparatively tolerant of infidelity. Annulments were difficult but far from impossible to obtain. The Protestant Kirk was able to grant divorces, and Bothwell was a Protestant.
His father, Patrick, a Catholic, when vying to marry Mary’s mother a quarter of a century before, had readily obtained an annulment. We know this fact had been on Bothwell’s mind, because when the lords had discussed a possible divorce for Mary in their plotting at Craigmillar Castle shortly before Prince James’s baptism, he had reminded them of his father’s experience.
On Palm Sunday, Mary collapsed at a Requiem Mass for Darnley. She found the occasion too distressing and stayed in bed for several days. On Good Friday, she went with two of her Maries to her private chapel, where she prayed and meditated for four hours. Those who saw her said that she was stricken with “melancholy.” But when Easter arrived and the dancing and banqueting resumed, she recovered her spirits and her looks. She moved out of Edinburgh Castle back into her old apartments at Holyrood, and soon seemed more her usual self.
The Privy Council met on Good Friday. Bothwell took his seat as usual, even though the day’s business was to approve the final arrangements for his trial. The rumor mill was churning. The stallholders in the busy street markets of Edinburgh gossiped that their queen would marry Bothwell. One day when Mary rode out of the castle past the Lawnmarket toward the High Street, a small group of women minding their stalls cried out, “God save Your Grace if you be innocent of the king’s death.”
Public opinion was the part of her gamble that Mary had not taken sufficiently into account. A few days before, she had sent for the parish minister of Dunfermline to question him about the most scurrilous and sensational placard to appear so far. It was a pornographic picture of a mermaid and a hare. The mermaid, naked apart from her golden crown and identified by the monogram MR, sported a large sea anemone in her right hand and a rolled-up net in her left. These were surrogates for the orb and scepter, but also had deeper, more suggestive meanings. The sea anemone, a giant polyp with petal-like tentacles around the mouth, stood for the female genitalia. And the rolled-up net was to enable her to catch unwary sailors as they passed by, distracted by the sight of the anemone.
Whoever devised this placard must have had an impressive classical education. The symbol of the anemone was used in this way by the Roman poet Ovid, an author familiar to Mary. The other idea of the drawing was the Roman retiarius, or net man: the net fighter in the Roman arena who took on the sword-wielding gladiator and aimed to ensnare him in his net before killing him with the trident he bore in his right hand.
Below the mermaid was a hare within a circle of seventeen swords. The hare was the heraldic symbol of Bothwell’s family, and the letters JH inside the circle identified Bothwell by his name, James Hepburn. The swords signified Bothwell’s military standing and love of dueling, but were also positioned in the drawing as phallic symbols.
Mary was mortified by these references. Acting on a tip, she summoned the minister and demanded whether he knew the artist. He said no. She asked, “Who then was likeliest to do it?” He said, “There was none could write so well unless a canon who is a papist and lives in adultery and hath sired in the same manner three children.” At this, Bothwell, who was listening nearby, roared with laughter, disrupting Mary’s questioning. He loved nothing more than a ribald spat, which he now proceeded to enjoy with the minister, reveling in the smutty innuendo.
The Privy Council fixed the date of Bothwell’s trial for April 12, just short of two weeks away. It was to take place at the Tolbooth, with Argyll presiding and Huntly assisting. No wonder Bothwell was so relaxed about it. Edinburgh was already filling up with his supporters, and he was brashly confident. Morton had supplied 300 cavalry to reinforce the palace bodyguard, for which Mary restored him to his stronghold of Tantallon Castle. More ominously, Bothwell met a German mercenary captain whom Mary’s ambassador in Paris had recommended. He offered to send 3600 crack troops to Mary and Bothwell in exchange for regular payments.
On April 4, Mary went on a third visit to Seton to enjoy the fresh spring air. While she was there, an old man, one of Darnley’s former domestic staff, approached her while she was walking in the garden with Bothwell on her arm. He humbly presented himself, then asked her “to give him some release” in his poverty. Mary was typically generous to old or sick servants, and would doubtless have asked her ladies to give the man a few coins from her purse and a proper meal in the kitchen before sending him on his way.
But Bothwell rudely interrupted her. Railing against the man’s effrontery, he turned to him and said, “Thou custrel [i.e., knave], go thy ways! I shall so release you that you shall be sorry with yourself, churl!” He then attacked him viciously until blood poured from his mouth. The man limped home and died two hours later. Before expiring, he said, “I have served in France, England and Scotland, but the like was never said unto me.”
It was a shocking incident. Out of the blue, Mary had seen for herself the rough side of Bothwell in all its cruelty and brutality. Up to now, only his smooth side had been visible to her. The other part of his character was either carefully suppressed or cloaked by a veil of gentility. The truth is that his dashing looks and French education were deceptive. He was a swordsman with a taste for violence, by birth and training a border lord, an adventurer, a pirate and a buccaneer. His civility was superficial, his fiery temper encouraged by his sudden rise to greatness. He strove for personal preeminence over his rivals among the lords, which he sought to win in any way he could. His loyalty to Mary and her mother had all along been directed to this end.
Mary’s judgment had become clouded. She had not even begun to think about marrying Bothwell, and why should she rush into a third marriage when her marriage to Darnley had been such a disaster? And yet her trust in Bothwell was becoming something more than a purely pragmatic decision. He had started to court her between Good Friday and the end of Easter week, which fits with the fact that a fortnight earlier, he had first sounded out his wife, Jean Gordon, about her reaction to an arranged divorce.
Mary would have abandoned Bothwell to his fate if she had wanted to divest herself of him. His trial was less than a week away. Despite seeing his true character unveiled, she chose deliberately not to do so.
Lennox, meanwhile, was lobbying Cecil to intervene in Bothwell’s trial. He was quite certain it would be rigged. After some prevarication, Elizabeth wrote to Mary to request an adjournment. Only four days were left before it was due to begin. The letter was sent posthaste to Berwick-upon-Tweed, where Drury gave it to a courier to take immediately to Holyrood. His man arrived at the gates of the palace at six in the morning on the day of the trial.
At first he was told it was too early to enter, because Mary was asleep. He was advised to wait, so he went into Edinburgh to find some breakfast. When he returned, Mary was still not awake, and so he paced up and down until ten o’clock, when Bothwell’s men began mustering in the courtyard. Seeing his opportunity, he approached the entrance of the palace, but was denied access. He asked for permission to deliver his letter, but everyone pretended to be deaf.
At that moment, who should appear but Thomas Hepburn, another of Bothwell’s relatives. He brought a message from Bothwell, advising the courier to withdraw, “for the queen was so molested and disqu
ieted with the business of that day that he saw no likelihood of any convenient time to serve his turn until after the assize.”
Cockburn, Laird of Skirling, then emerged. He demanded to know if Drury’s man brought a letter from Elizabeth or Cecil. On hearing it was from Elizabeth, Cockburn said, “Then ye shall be soon discharged.” He ordered Hepburn to escort him off the premises.
At that instant, Maitland and Bothwell came out, and everyone mounted their horses. Maitland spotted Drury’s man and demanded Elizabeth’s letter. When it was handed over, he and Bothwell went back inside to see Mary, disappearing for half an hour.
When they reappeared, Drury’s man asked if Mary had read the letter and what reply he should take back. Maitland said that she was still sleeping. This was untrue, because just then she appeared at an open window, flanked by Mary Fleming and one of du Croc’s servants. For once caught in a blatant lie, the “Scottish Cecil” said, “No, I have not delivered the letter, and there will be no convenient opportunity to do so until after the assize.”
Bothwell clattered out of the courtyard on Darnley’s favorite courser, followed by four thousand retainers. Before leaving, he looked up at Mary’s window. She saw him, laughed and gave him a friendly toss of the head as a farewell. A “merry and lusty cheer” was raised at his departure. His company rode in a stately procession to the Tolbooth, preceded by a force of two hundred musketeers to clear the streets. When everyone had gone inside, the musketeers kept guard at the door, so that no one might enter but Bothwell’s supporters.
The court sat for over eight hours. The indictment was read, charging Bothwell with the explosion and Darnley’s murder, but no further evidence was submitted. The court’s debates were on procedural issues. Lennox was too afraid to appear. He had traveled as far as Linlithgow accompanied by three thousand retainers, but did not dare to continue when told he could bring only six of them into Edinburgh. His case was conducted in his absence by two professional advocates, who requested an adjournment for forty days. This motion was discussed at great length. Finally, it was denied and the court moved to a verdict. Bothwell was acquitted by the jurors, who then quickly sought to insure themselves against claims by Lennox for willful error. When this was agreed, Argyll and Huntly brought the proceedings to a close.
Bothwell was overjoyed. Immediately he posted a notice on the door of the Tolbooth, declaring himself cleared of the murder and challenging anyone who claimed otherwise to a duel. He then rode in triumph back to Holyrood. He supposed he was untouchable. He was to find out that he was not: his very acquittal would become a major source of grievance. The danger no longer came from Lennox, who took the hint and fled to England. It came from the other conspirators, who were not in Bothwell’s fortunate position. Morton, the most fiendish of the lords, had refused to attend the assize. He should have been one of the jurors, but said that although Darnley “had forgotten his part in respect of nature toward him, yet for that he was his kinsman he would rather pay the forfeit which was £100.”
Another villain swiftly recalculating the odds was Sir James Balfour. After Bothwell’s acquittal, he felt especially vulnerable. He was, after all, the man who had obtained the gunpowder and whose brother had offered Darnley the use of the Old Provost’s Lodging. He was now “minded with full determination to have had an assize for him[self] in like manner.” When Mary rejected his request, he decided to change sides and support those lords who were already beginning to mutter against Bothwell.
Balfour for the moment kept his own counsel. He had no wish for an outright confrontation with Bothwell. But he posted guards outside his house night and day. He also murdered one of his servants. The man had been at Kirk o’Field; he was about to break ranks and claim the reward and free pardon that Mary had offered to anyone who would inform on his accomplices. For this he was killed and his body buried secretly at night.
On April 16, Bothwell rode up the Canongate with Mary and the lords on his way to Parliament. He carried the scepter, leaving Argyll to bear the crown and the Earl of Crawford the sword of state. Everyone noticed that he refused to allow the bailiffs of Edinburgh their traditional stations as Mary’s guard. His influence was pervasive. On her short journey to the Tolbooth, she was escorted by a force of his own musketeers.
And Bothwell oversaw every aspect of the Parliament. He was determined to entrench his position. As a Protestant himself, he appealed first and foremost to his coreligionists, sponsoring an Act Concerning Religion that brought the Protestant Kirk formally under Mary’s protection after seven years of uncertainty. The act did more than maintain the religious status quo: it declared Protestantism to be the queen’s official religion, even if privately she worshiped as a Catholic. At this aspect of Bothwell’s ascendancy, not even Knox and his adherents in the General Assembly of the Kirk could complain.
Next Bothwell helped his co-conspirators to their bounty. Morton, Argyll and Huntly had all of their ancestral lands confirmed to them, and Argyll even received some of Darnley’s former property. Bothwell also helped himself. His grant of Dunbar Castle, received as his reward for assisting Mary to escape after the Rizzio plot, was ratified with all the privileges belonging to it. He then secured a confirmation and enlargement of his hereditary rights as Lord Admiral.
Lastly, a retaliatory Act Against the Makers and Setters Up of Placards and Bills was passed at his insistence, clearly devised to block further attempts by the supporters of the Lennoxes to blacken his name.
By the 19th, Parliament’s work was done. That night, Bothwell invited his fellow lords to a supper at Ainslie’s Tavern in Edinburgh, where he produced the draft of a bond he wanted them to sign. They were asked to confirm his innocence of Darnley’s murder, to declare their willingness to defend him from calumny, and finally to promise that if Mary should just “happen” to choose “James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell” as her future husband, they would support him.
The Ainslie’s Tavern Bond was couched as a petition to Mary:
. . . weighing and considering the time present, and how our sovereign the Queen’s Majesty is now destitute of a husband, in the which solitary state the commonwealth of this realm may not permit Her Highness to continue and endure, but at some time Her Highness in appearance may be inclined to yield unto a marriage . . . [it] may move Her Majesty so far to humble herself, as preferring one of her native-born subjects unto all foreign princes, to take to husband the said Earl . . .
Bothwell wanted everyone to sign, but had missed an important trick. He had helped his co-conspirators to their land grants less to thank them for their role in murdering Darnley than to bribe them to support his future marriage to Mary. Instead of waiting until the grants had been ratified by Parliament, Bothwell should have got the lords to sign his bond first. Not everyone was willing to sign afterward. Cecil, for once, got everything wrong. His “copy” of the bond said that all the lords had signed. Morton and Huntly did sign, but Argyll, Maitland and Atholl refused—in fact, Maitland and Atholl did not turn up at the rendezvous. As to Moray, he had already left the country and was on his way to France.
In any case, it is likely that nothing was signed on the night of the 19th. Next day, Bothwell sent his men to each of the lords individually to demand their signatures.*
When the Ainslie’s Tavern Bond was signed, Kirkcaldy of Grange warned his English allies that Mary was infatuated with Bothwell. She had said “that she cares not to lose France, England and her own country for him, and shall go with him to the world’s end in a white petticoat ere she leave him.”
The day of the Ainslie’s Tavern Bond saw an ugly scene at Holyrood. While Mary was watching, the soldiers in the great hall began to mutiny for lack of pay. Bothwell intervened, confronting their captain and seizing him by the throat. When the other soldiers came to the man’s rescue, Bothwell was forced to let go. He swore profanely, but promised to pay the men shortly. Mary always hated trouble, and had never experienced anything of this sort. She stepped forward, calling
for her embroidered purse, which contained 400 French crowns. She proceeded to walk down the line from man to man, giving them 2 crowns each.
Whereas Mary sought to soothe conflict, Bothwell was overweening and puffed up with pride, behaving as if he were king already. He was never in love with Mary. His efforts to woo her were minimal. He dominated their relationship to the point of brutality, yet she accepted and even seemed to welcome her subordinate role. Mary could be strong and masterful, but it now looked as if she wanted to surrender all her worldly cares to Bothwell, who took the opportunity to usurp her power and authority at every turn.
Why this should have happened remains a mystery. Mary’s correspondence dried up in these crucial weeks. Later she gave her reasons. She said that her country, “being divided in factions as it is, cannot be contained in order unless our authority be assisted and set forth by the fortification of a man.” She needed Bothwell to deal with the sheer “insolence” of lords, who would otherwise constantly be in rebellion against her.
But in April 1567, she said nothing at all. The only letter she wrote was to the papal nuncio to Scotland, the Bishop of Mondovi, still loitering in Paris. “I beg you,” she said, “to speak well of me to His Holiness, and not to let anyone persuade him to the contrary concerning the devotion I have to die in the Catholic faith and for the good of his Church.”
Mary’s tone was faltering and evasive, reflecting her guilt and unease over her relationship with Bothwell. This was not least because the Act Concerning Religion was read in Catholic circles as a signal of her secret conversion to Protestantism. It was as though Mary were playing a game of chess, but not thinking more than one move ahead.
