The weather warmed, the snow melted, and in April my court moved to Stirling Castle, with its magnificent great hall and the elegant decorations of the palace rooms that showed my mother’s influence. For the first day or two we spent most of our time playing billiards, but I could not bear to stay indoors. The gardens in April were still winter brown and far from their bloom, but I was eager to go hawking.
As my party rode out with our birds on our wrists, Henry was suddenly taken with a high fever. He left us and returned to his room in the castle. Concerned for his health, I soon followed. His catarrh quickly yielded to a heavy rash; the fever raged, and he suffered from pains in his stomach and head. Physicians were summoned, but I was not satisfied to leave Henry in their care. He was in such misery that I had him moved from his quarters to my own royal apartments and determined to nurse him myself.
I had a pallet made up beside his bed, and I rested there when I was not placing wet cloths on his head or spooning broth into his mouth. When he was feeling up to it, we talked, covering a great many subjects. I told him about my life in France, and he described his youth in Yorkshire and his deep feelings for his parents. Sometimes I read to him or played my lute and sang to him in French. I hardly noticed as the days passed. Much of the time he slept, and I sat, a piece of needlework forgotten in my lap, gazing upon his sleeping face, his closed eyes, his perfect nose, his elegant brow, his golden curls damp with feverish sweat, his glowing skin, his well-formed lips.
He sighed in his sleep, murmuring, “Mary ... Mary...” I laid aside my embroidery and leaned close to him to better hear what he was saying. Without thinking, I pressed my lips gently, very gently, upon his. His eyes fluttered open. He looked at me for a long moment, lifted his arms from the coverlet, and embraced me, pulling me close and returning my gentle kiss with passion.
I had only once experienced such a kiss, from Lord Bothwell. Never had I known such a depth of feeling that now welled up in my breast, a feeling of intense physical desire. My head told me that I must break away from him immediately, before a physician or a servant or anyone at all should enter the chamber and find us locked in an embrace. I had already created a scandal by staying the entire night in Henry’s chamber with the intent of caring for his needs as tenderly as only I could. I had cared not at all what the dourly disapproving old men around me had to say, and I had ignored their raised eyebrows.
“Mary, dearest,” Henry whispered, his finger lightly tracing the curve of my ear. “Let us marry, and soon!”
“My love,” I murmured, “to marry you is my fondest wish and my deepest desire!”
Held so snug against his chest that I could feel each breath he took, I believed that I was in love—madly, deeply, passionately. My fate was sealed, my future inescapable. I was the prisoner of my own wildly beating heart.
Chapter 34
Royal Wedding
I WAS IN LOVE, and I wanted everyone to share my joy Henry and I were constantly together. I could hardly bear to be separated from him. We exchanged tokens of our love: bracelets, rings, letters, and nosegays of flowers. Sometimes we disguised ourselves as ordinary townsfolk—a shopkeeper and a ladies’ maid, for example—in order to stroll unrecognized through the streets of Edinburgh, holding hands, stopping on street corners to exchange a kiss or a caress.
“Everyone knows it is you,” Beaton told me, laughing. “The two tallest, best-looking people in the city—perhaps in the whole country—can scarcely avoid being recognized.” She added, more soberly, “My lord Thomas Randolph tells me that some say you must be bewitched, doting as much as you do on Master Henry.”
“Bewitched? Indeed, Beaton, you may tell Sir Thomas that I am bewitched. Bewitched by love! Surely he knows about love—as you do as well, do you not?”
Beaton colored deeply and lowered her eyes. “Aye, I do, though perhaps not so much as does he,” she confessed.
My brother James refused to pledge his support. “Your decision comes with too much haste, dear sister,” he said sternly. Thereafter Lord Moray joined with those opposed to my plans to marry Henry.
I was not just disappointed but angry, too. I thought I knew the reason for Moray’s opposition: My brother wanted to set the crown on his own head. Now there was less of a chance of that happening.
Fortunately, not everyone opposed my choice. The Four Maries appeared to be deliriously happy for me, none more so than Mary Fleming, and through her, I discovered an unlikely ally: William Maitland. My grave, conservative secretary of state had ridden endless distances and passed numberless hours in the pursuit of a match for me that would satisfy Elizabeth. This one did not satisfy the queen, but La Flamin bade him to support me, and out of love for her, Maitland did as she asked.
I proposed to marry within three months. That would give ample time for Queen Elizabeth to come around and approve my decision, if she chose to, and for the pope to grant the dispensation for cousins to marry; Henry and I shared a grandmother in common, Margaret Tudor, sister of Henry VIII. In mid-May the nobles gathered and gave their approval. Lord Moray claimed to be too ill to attend, though everyone knew he was unyielding in his opposition.
Plans for the wedding moved along quickly. To ensure that Henry had the proper ranking as the bridegroom of a reigning queen, I raised him to knighthood, made him a baron, and then created him the earl of Ross—all on a single day.
“And I shall make you the duke of Albany in due time,” I promised my beloved, thinking how much this would please him.
“Then why delay?” he asked irritably.
The sharpness in his tone surprised me, but I blamed the display of irritation on his illness, from which he was still feeling the effects. “The title belongs only to Scottish royalty,” I explained. “For that we must wait a little longer, until I have Queen Elizabeth’s approval for our marriage.”
But Henry continued to insist. His temper became short, and it was rumored that he often vented his anger on any who came near him, threatening to knock heads and once even drawing his dagger on a gentleman who had crossed him. I had other, deeper concerns than Henry’s occasional outbursts of rage, which were not directed at me. Queen Elizabeth had ordered Lord Darnley and his father, Lord Lennox, to return to England.
“What are we to do, my love?” I asked, on the edge of tears.
“Defy her,” Henry said with a careless shrug. “My whole loyalty and allegiance is pledged to you, my queen,” he said, smiling in the way that always set my heart racing.
“But that is treasonous,” I reminded him. “You are her subject.”
“Treason must surrender to love” was his reply. His insolence shocked me, but I also found it thrilling.
***
These were the moments I treasured, when I was assured of Henry’s love and devotion. But sometimes I did wonder if he was truly being honest with me. There were times when I felt that he did not love me so much as he loved the idea of marrying a queen and being a king. He insisted that he be given the Crown Matrimonial, which was not an actual crown but the legal right to reign equally with me. And he wanted it immediately—not later, but now.
“You must wait until you are of age, my darling,” I told him. “And Parliament must approve it.”
“Parliament be hanged!” he shouted. “I deserve it now, and I shall have it now!”
I promised to do what I could to persuade Parliament, but I was beginning to resent my soon-to-be husband’s constant demands. I did everything possible to please him, but it was never enough. And he seemed less and less interested in pleasing me.
I was certain that once we were married, all that would change. He was young, three years younger than I, and could be tutored in ways to make him more amenable to our subjects—more of a king and less of a boy inclined to unwise speech and actions. I blamed his tempers on the strain we were under as I devoted myself to preparing for our wedding.
But as the days went on, it seemed I was losing support for the marriage rather than gaining
it. Many of the most powerful lords spoke out against the match. And to my great disappointment, so did the Four Maries. They had undergone a complete change of heart and had switched sides. For a time I refused to speak to any of them. Their desertion wounded me deeply. Only Livingston—outspoken Lusty—had the courage to tell me honestly what others were saying privately.
“Not everyone understands how you can love Master Henry as you do,” she blurted out, “for he is arrogant and willful and is known all around for his drunkenness and his consorting with vile and unwholesome people. They say that he will bring you to disaster. Dear madam, I beg you—we all beg you, out of our great love for you—please reconsider!”
“And I beg you, though I know you speak out of friendship, to remember and to respect that I have the right, every right in the world, to choose my own husband, and I have chosen Henry Stuart.”
I had spoken boldly, but in truth I was shaken. I did have the right to choose, but had I chosen wisely? In a way, I did not care. The wildness in me that had been safely restrained for so long seemed to have broken loose, and I allowed it to run free.
The day of my wedding drew closer. I received word from several reliable sources that my brother was plotting to kidnap me and Henry and the earl of Lennox as we traveled to a christening. One informant reported that Lord Moray intended to deliver us to Queen Elizabeth, but others had heard that he had more dire plans: he wanted to have us killed. The plot was foiled when we traveled under heavy guard and at a different hour than my brother’s henchmen anticipated, and we escaped unscathed. Had my own brother really planned to do such an evil thing? How could I ever trust him again?
The one person—besides Henry’s father, the earl of Lennox—who remained steadfastly in favor of my marriage was my private secretary, David Rizzio. Of all the men in Scotland, only homely, misshapen, loyal Davy said, “Aye, my queen, he is the best man for you!”
***
On Sunday, the twenty-second of July, 1565, the banns of matrimony were read out in the High Kirk of St. Giles as well as in the royal chapel at Holyrood, though I had not yet received the papal dispensation required. I assumed that it would arrive shortly, and I simply decided to take the risk rather than delay any longer. That afternoon I created Henry the duke of Albany, as he had insisted. Again I acted without waiting for the approval I needed, this time from the lords.
I also promised him, on the evening before the wedding, that as soon as we were wed, Henry would be proclaimed king of Scotland.
“Good,” he said.
It was one more promise made without approval—that of Parliament.
The sun rose at five o’clock on the morning of the twenty-ninth of July, but I was awake long before that. This was my wedding day, and as I prepared I could not help but remember another wedding day, seven years earlier. How different it all was! I was young then, not much more than a child, an innocent and a virgin, naive in the ways of the world and certainly in the ways of men! All my decisions had been made for me. Now I was a mature woman and responsible for making my own choices. And I had chosen to marry this man, Henry Stuart.
One thing had not changed: I was still a virgin. I knew that many people doubted that. There had even been a rumor racing through the court that Henry and I had been handfasted in early May, soon after I had definitely decided to marry him. Handfasting was a simple betrothal ceremony, and in fact Henry had pressed me to agree to it for one reason: the promise to wed allowed us to lie together.
“Come, my darling,” he coaxed, “what can be the harm in it? Why waste a single day in which to express our love for each other while the rest of the world scrabbles about with agreements and debates and approvals and delays?”
I was as eager as Henry, for the flame of desire burned hotly whether he was present or absent. But I was also afraid. “Suppose I were to become with child as a result of our love?” I asked. “It is my greatest wish, but not until we are pronounced man and wife by a priest. I cannot risk the scandal of a pregnancy in advance of that.”
Henry pouted and argued, in vain, to convince me to lie with him. The temptation was strong, and whenever we were alone he would try to undo my laces and touch the tender, secret places of my body. As much as I yearned for that touch, I did keep him from it.
Now, as the first rays of the sun reached the stone tower of Holyrood Palace, I knew that my day had come, and my night would soon follow. My Four Maries, whom I had now forgiven for their opposition to the match, finally gave their approval, out of their affection for me. After spending the night with me, they helped me put on a magnificent mourning gown of black. I was a widow, and this was the tradition. I chose not to break with it as I had when I had shocked everyone by wearing white at my wedding to François. Seton arranged my hair, as she had for my first wedding, and all four helped to arrange the deuil blanc, the white veil of widowhood that would soon be discarded.
Before six o’clock, I was ready The Four Maries walked down the stair with me to the royal chapel. Henry’s father, earl of Lennox, and a second high-ranking nobleman, the earl of Atholl, waited for me. A short time later they escorted in Henry, who was so magnificently attired and looked so handsome that tears sprang to my eyes. He glanced at me briefly as the ceremony began, a mysterious little smile playing on his sensuous lips. I was so transported that I was only dimly aware of the ladies and gentlemen who had crowded into the chapel. The words were spoken, the vows exchanged, and Henry placed three rings, including one with a magnificent diamond, on my finger.
Henry kissed me lightly then and left, as we had agreed, to wait for me in my chamber while I heard Mass. His reason was good enough: he did not want to give Knox and his Protestant band any chance to say that Henry did not support their cause. After he had gone, all those remaining helped me to cast off my deuil blanc, each of them removing one pin, marking my passage from widow to wife.
The mood much brightened, my ladies led me off to change out of black and into an elegant gown of ivory satin encrusted with gems. Beaming, I greeted my husband, and as trumpets blew a fanfare, we led our guests into the great hall for the finest dinner my cooks could design: sixteen dishes, consisting of chicken, lamb, and various kinds of fish and fowl. Several times we stepped out into the forecourt of the palace to acknowledge the cheers of the crowds gathered there to wish us well and to toss them handfuls of gold and silver coins.
“Such a fine-looking pair!” we heard over and over when we returned to the great hall to lead the dancing. There were masques performed that had been written for the occasion by the court poet, George Buchanan; singing done by a chorus that included my secretary, David Rizzio; and still more dancing.
Late in the afternoon we all retired to our chambers to rest while the servants and cooks prepared a supper to be served later to a second group of guests. It was my expectation that Henry would join me in my chamber, perhaps just to lie by my side and sleep a little, though I was much too excited for sleep.
But Henry did not appear in my bedchamber. He had, it seemed, gone off to gamble with his friends, Rizzio among them. Not wishing the Four Maries to witness my disappointment, I stayed alone until it was time for my ladies to begin dressing me for the evening.
The supper was just as sumptuous as the dinner. The pastry cooks had outdone themselves. The masques were more elaborately staged, the music even livelier, and my husband accompanied himself on the lute when he sang a song he himself had composed for me. There were sour notes of a different sort: my brother Lord Moray had refused to attend my wedding. Another who refused the invitation was Thomas Randolph; as Elizabeth’s ambassador, he could do nothing to show support for my marriage to Henry Stuart. The one who suffered most from Randolph’s absence was Beaton, who would have been happy to have her admirer for a dancing partner.
When the revelry ended, long after midnight, my husband and I withdrew to my bedchamber. As we left the hall, the Four Maries and I exchanged our special signal—left hand to right eyebrow—and s
miled. I was not nervous. I was no longer a naive girl of sixteen, and though I had not experienced the raptures of the marriage bed during my twenty months as the wife of François, my body had told me during Henry’s passionate kisses and intimate caresses what I might expect. There would be no witnesses to the consummation, no requirements for proof of my virginity And when Henry came to my bed that night and took me in his arms, I knew at last the transports of love.
Chapter 35
Discord
MY HUSBAND AND I retreated to Seton Palace, where George Seton, brother of my devout Mary, kept a beautiful suite in readiness for us. There we abandoned ourselves to the delights of our new marriage. My passion for Henry imprisoned for so long by the demands of my great status as queen, was suddenly released. I was like a starving man before a banqueting table, determined to have my fill; a woman craving water whose thirst would now be slaked.
“You are like a wild thing!” Henry laughed, his long, elegant limbs entangled with mine. “My wild queen.” He pinned my arms to my sides and kissed me. “And it is my duty to tame you.”
Far from being tamed, I was inflamed.
After only two days, we had to leave; we could indulge ourselves no longer. Too many duties awaited me. Reluctantly, we returned to Holyrood.
In our absence John Knox had delivered another of his hateful sermons, calling me “the harlot Jezebel” and denouncing the sumptuous style in which we had celebrated our wedding. “Three days of nothing but balls and banquets,” he had railed, perhaps angry that he had not been among those invited.
We heard of Elizabeth’s fury when she had learned that our marriage had actually taken place. She seized all the properties of the Lennox family and ordered Henry’s mother to be held prisoner in the Tower of London and made as miserable as possible. When the angry queen dispatched a representative to chastise me, I sent him back with a sharp rejoinder:
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