Mary of Scotland was executed on February 8th, the day that Patrick Gray and his colleagues rode across the Border into their own country. She died as she had lived for these last eighteen years, courageous, dignified, with spirit, even a trace of humour, professing the Catholic faith and her hope in God's mercies for her undoubted sins. The headsman made something of a botch of the first stroke – it was said, owing to tears in his eyes -but managed to sever her lovely neck at the second.
The church-bells pealed out joy and triumph all over England, thereafter; in London crowds sang and danced in the streets; bonfires were fit, largesse was distributed, loyal addresses were delivered, and Parliament sent a deputation to congratulate the Queen oh her blessed and God-sent deliverance.
Elizabeth took to her bed and would see no one.
In Scotland, the Master of Gray and Sir Robert Melville reached Stirling and conveyed their fears to their royal master and his Council, informing that Elizabeth was sore set on carrying out her terrible intent, each ambassador vouchsafing for the other that all that could have been done to save the royal prisoner had been done – Sir Robert even pointing out that he believed them fortunate to have escaped with their own lives, such was the violence of Elizabeth's wrath. In private, Patrick assured the King that while utterly determined, Elizabeth was not quite so wrathful as she must seem publicly, and had listened with patience to his royal demands for amends; he thought that he could promise an increase to the pension, and possibly even an additional lump sum, but that, unfortunately, there was still no great probability of an Act naming James as Second Person and official successor to the English throne.
Scotland waited, therefore, and though James did so in nail-biting agitation, and members of his Council may have fretted in some alarm, by and large the country lay quiet, seemingly almost apathetic -readily explainable in the sheer disbelief of ordinary people that one queen could cold-bloodedly order the death of another.
Exactly one week after the ambassadors' return, another traveller, weary and unescorted, galloped over the Border -one Roger Ashton, an extra Gentleman of the King's Bedchamber, who had been in London on routine state business. He sought the King in private audience at Stirling. Mary, His Grace's royal mother, was dead, he reported.
Suspense over, James put a brave face on it, After ordering that, since this was a purely private and unofficial intimation, no word of it was to be publicly announced, he conferred with Patrick and Maitland about suitable steps to take, consonant with proper dignity and filial duty. Patrick had his advice ready, and Maitland agreed sardonically that it could hardly be bettered in the circumstances. Lord Maxwell Kerr of Ancrum, and young Ferniehirst, son of the late unfortunate Warden of the Middle March, were sent for, as two suitably fiery yet accessible and therefore disciplinable Border leaders – with orders to muster their clan.
Six days later Sir Robert Carey, son of old Lord Hunsdon, Elizabeth's own cousin-german, arrived at the Border at Berwick-on-Tweed, as official courier and envoy of his Queen. On the King's orders he was halted there, and required to answer whether or no it was true that the King's mother had been cruelly done to death. On his admission that Mary was dead indeed, but that he had a letter from the Queen explaining all, he was told that the King of Scots would on no account receive him, and was kept kicking his heels at Berwick until Sir Robert Melville and Home of Cowdenknowes were sent south to interview him and relieve him of his letter. Seldom had an official English ambassador been so scurvily treated.
Elizabeth's letter amazed even Patrick Gray. In terms of heartfelt sorrow and sympathy, it mourned Mary's death as a miserable accident that had befallen, far contrary to her own royal meaning. It was all the fault of her Secretary Davison, she declared, who had wickedly outstepped his responsibilities and given orders in her name, for which grave fault he was now confined to the Tower of London, dismissed his office, and his property confiscated. For herself, she was prostrated by this unfortunate incident, was overwhelmed with excessive grief, indeed had been made very ill and had eaten nothing for days. James would understand full well the problems of amonarch with untrustworthy underlings, of which she judged he had had rich experience. Suitable and tangible expressions of regret and recompense naturally would be forthcoming, but meanwhile would James accept the deep and sincere condolences of his devoted sister in God, Elizabeth R.
King James's first reactions, that this was a very suitable and proper-letter, were rudely upset by the much less understanding and charitable reactions of his councillors and nobles. Bothwell, Angus, Mar and the rest of the Ruthven lords seemed to have lost all their previous fondness for Elizabeth. The Catholic leaders, of course, made a great outcry. On Patrick's advice, a strictly limited foray of Kerrs was dispatched over the Border, in a flag-showing gesture which was straitly enjoined to avoid large centres of population and not to burn any important castles. A suitable letter of protest was also concocted, for transmission to Elizabeth – sufficient to show the deep hurt sustained, without of course disturbing international relations – and prayers ordered for the soul of the-departed in Scottish churches, however contrary to Calvinist principles. More than this seemed scarcely feasible in the circumstances.
As the news leaked out, however, and spread abroad through the land, the Scottish people, lacking any understanding of statecraft or the predicaments of rulers and princes, blazed out into elemental and extraorclinary fury. Without more than a rumble or two of warning, almost the entire country seemed to erupt in wrath. Highlands and Lowlands both gave tongue. Mobs formed in the cities and towns, demanding vengeance. The lesser lords, barons and lairds, insisted on the calling together of the Estates in Parliament. The Kirk was almost split in twain. Scotland, as distinct from the Scots nobility, seethed up as it had not done for centuries.
If the King and his immediate advisers were surprised, so, to some extent, were the great lords and the Council. It did not take these latter long, however, to grasp their cue. Soon they were heading up the popular clamour, arming men, demanding action. Every pass and road into England was closed by armed and angry companies. Six quite spontaneous and independent raids were made over the Border, causing the Kerrs' careful foray to seem like a puppet-show. Young Bothwell did indeed descend upon Carlisle, with nearly three thousand men, and while he did not manage to burn it, he created considerable havoc and alarm. Other raids by Home, Angus, Hamilton and others, penetrated much deeper into Cumberland and Northumberland, spreading terror and death, one particularly audacious joint effort by Scott of Buccleuch and Kerr of Cessford going the length of assaulting the English Warden, Sir Cuthbert Collingwood, in his own fortress of Eslington, burning him out, putting his men to the sword, and taking himself and his sons prisoner. Well might the English commander in the north write a piteous letter to Walsingham, describing the country as having been reduced to a desert, wasted with fire and sword and filled with lamentation and dismay.
All this, though stirring, did not satisfy Scotland – more especially as England, with highly unusual patience, refused to be drawn, and refrained from making any counter-moves worthy of the name. The King and his advisers were abused as feint-hearts, cravens and worse, and demands for outright war resounded The name of the Master of Gray, in especial, came to be spat upon, as the King's closest adviser.
That man of peace, however, continued to smile confidently, imperturbably, even when he was hooted at in the streets of Edinburgh. He had never had any high opinion of the populace anyway, of course. The fact that his brother David sided rather with the popular clamour, seemed only to amuse him. His advice to the King remained the one stable and predictable element in a maelstrom of emotion, tumult and confusion.
Unfortunately or otherwise, all this was the ideal forcing-ground for that most fatal of all Scots weaknesses – the preference for fighting each other instead of a common foe, that has been the comfort and stay of the English from time immemorial. Gradually, as Patrick had foreseen that it would, the clamour for
invasion, reprisals, war, faded – or was at least metamorphosed into internal dissention. The strong urge to violence, since James refused to go to war – recognising the end of all his hopes of the English succession if he did – found outlet in turning upon the King himself, on his ministers and Council, on the symbols and servants of authority. Near-anarchy gripped the land – not for the first time in such circumstances, nor the last. Terrified, James cowered in Holyroodhouse, afraid to show himself to an angry people, who named him matricide, coward, Elizabeth's toy and hireling. Patrick, who had been trying, since he attained authority, to build up a national army, so that the Crown should not have to rely upon the unpredictable levies of arrogant lords, had only sufficient men as yet to protect the royal person and palaces. The country at large he could not attempt to control
The Catholic lords saw their opportunity, and sent out a call to arms, Huntly, Erroll and Herries sending an urgent demand to Philip of Spain for soldiers and support
Three short months after the execution of Mary Queen of Scots, her mourning realm was on the verge of civil war.
It was in these circumstances that England decided that the time was ripe for playing a somewhat more positive role – but not blatantly or too obviously. Walsingham wrote a lengthy and interesting letter – not to the Master of Gray, but to Sir John Maitland, the Secretary of State. It was a very important letter indeed, nevertheless, for Patrick Gray.
Conditions made Patrick almost something of a prisoner in Holyroodhouse, along with his royal master, when in the capital, since his beautiful but unpopular features were only too readily recognisable wherever he went. He and Marie had therefore taken residence meantime in the palace itself, now considerably overcrowded.
Nothing of these complications, of course, applied to David, whose aspect and apparel were ordinary enough to escape notice anywhere. He continued to live with Mariota and the children in their lofty eerie in the Lawnmarket, and in consequence heard much of what went on in the city of which his brother remained ignorant.
David came to Patrick's quarters in the palace rather urgently one night in early May – an unusual procedure. Marie, who greeted him, remarked on it
'How good to see you, Davy,' she declared warmly, taking his hand. 'You are as good as a stranger to me, this while back, I do declare. I believe that you avoid me, do you not? Confess it Sorrow that it should be so – whatever the cause.'
He shook his head. 'Not so,' he declared. 'No, no. You I would never avoid, Marie.' But he looked away from her, out towards the dim bulk of Arthur's Seat, rising huge in the gloom.
'It is Patrick again, is it not? You are at odds with Patrick, Davy? Seriously at odds. Oh, I always know it, when you are. Patrick shows it plainly enough…'
'Patrick!' his brother jerked. 'As though Patrick could care for any opinions of mine!'
'He cares more than you think. He considers your opinions more than those of anyone else – mine own included! Always I can tell when you are strongly against what he is doing, however little he cares for the opposition of others.'
'If he considers, then that is all that he does! Never has he let an opinion of mine change his course…'
'I would not be too sure, Davy. But… you are against what he is doing now? You have been against his policies for some time?'
'I believe that he is in the wrong road, Marie. That is nothing new, of course! It has been my croaking plaint for years, as he. seldom fails to declare. But this time it is different. Usually I have been afraid for the hurt that he might do to others. Now, I fear that he himself it is who will be hurt'
'Hurt, Davy? How mean you – hurt? In himself? Not in his person…?'
That is what I fear. I think that he is in danger. I have told him, warned him, that the country has turned against him,..'
'He cares nothing for what the people say, I know. But it could be that he is right, in that. They are so ignorant, he says -unthinking, swayed by gusts of emotion. Like a ship without a helm…'
'Aye – perhaps they own to emotions like love and loyalty and faith and trust!' he asserted bitterly. 'And Patrick, with his statecraft and clear wits, is above all these! But… it is not such poor honest fools that I fear. Not in themselves. It is the lords, their masters. They are frightened. The King is frightened.: The Council is frightened at the way in which the country has risen. And I fear that all are going to turn on Patrick.'
Turn on him? But why?
'As the author of the King's policies. As the chief minister. As the man who can be blamed for their fright. As a scapegoat.'
'As the man who would not have bloodshed! Who refused to lead the country into war!' Marie added loyally.
'Perhaps. Though I think that there are two sides to that But whatever the reasons, I believe Patrick is in danger. Not from the mobs who hoot him in the streets, but from men closer, much closer.'
'And you have told him, Davy?'
'Aye, I have spoken of it in a general way, many times – to his amusement. But tonight I have had more sure, more definite word. The danger is closer than I had feared. I must see him, Marie. Where is he?'
'Where else but as' always – at his papers. Through in the. small room, with Sir William…'
'With Sir William, aye – always with William Stewart, now!'
'You do not like him, Davy? Patrick says that you are jealous of him! Can men be jealous, thus? I do not know…'
'I do not trust him, anyway – and with reason.'
'But, then, you do not trust Patrick either, do you!'
Their grey eyes met, and held, for seconds on end. Then David shrugged.
'I must see him,' he said. 'But I do not wish to see Stewart' '
'I will fetch him for you,' Marie told him.
In a few moments she was back, with Patrick, a furred house-robe over his silken shirt
'Here is an honour indeed!' he declared. 'Davy gracing my humble abode unbidden! To what mighty conjunction of the stars do we owe this felicity?' That was heavy, laboured, for
Patrick – presumably indicative of strain or preoccupation.
'Davy fears for your safety, Patrick,' Marie said urgently. 'He believes that you are in danger.'
'That Davy has been fearing all his life, and mine!'
'This is new. Only tonight have I heard of it,' David said evenly. 'And I beg you to spare me your mockery, this once. I have heard that you are to be impeached.'
'Impeached! Lord, man, are you crazy? Who would impeach the Master of Gray? Who could?'
'Many, it seems. Most of the Council, indeed. But specifically, one Sir William Stewart!'
'What! Save us, Davy – have you taken leave of your senses? Stewart is my own man. I trust him entirely. I have been working with him all this evening. He is but newly gone back to his lodging…'
'That may be. But none of it means that Stewart cannot impeach you tomorrow!' 'But… why should he? All that he is, I have made him.' 'He is Arran's brother.'
'What of it? What reason that for doing me injury?'
'Well may you ask! For the same reason, perhaps, that you have advanced him so notably, singling him out for preference -since his brother's fell.'
Patrick frowned. 'What nonsense is this, now? William Stewart is a man of talent. He has been of much service to me -and to Scotland. To what tales you have been listening, Davy, I do not know. But any talk against Stewart is manifestly ridiculous, close as he is to me. The work of enemies…'
'He is close to Maitland also, Patrick.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean that Maitland sees more of Stewart even than you do. He is Secretary of State and Vice-Chancellor – and he has never loved you. As I heard it, he is behind this matter.'
'What matter, man? Out with it Speak plain; for the good Lord's sake!'
'Very well. One of Maitland's own clerks, to whom I once did a favour, told me. This night. At tomorrow's Convention of the Estates, called in answer to this clamour, you are to be impeached on a charge of
treason. The accuser being Sir William Stewart, acting on the instructions of Sir John Maitland of Thirlstane and the Council.'
Patrick stared at his brother. 'I do not believe a word of it!' he declared. 'The thing is absurd. And impossible. James himself is to preside at this Convention. He would never permit it – even if the rest were true.'
The King will permit it He has been informed and persuaded, and has given his agreement''
'Tush, man – this is beyond all belief! Which is the greater fool, I know not – Maitland's precious clerk for concocting it, or you for crediting it!'
'They are frightened, Patrick – frightened. All of them. Even if you are not James most of all. The country is torn with strife, the people are out of control, the Catholic lords are openly preparing to strike – and this Convention called for tomorrow is going to demand that heads fall, in consequence. It will be the most unruly of the reign, you yourself said. And yours is the head that has been chosen to fall! Maitland and your friends the Ruthven lords have selected you as scapegoat, that their own heads may remain. I have feared something of the sort for long…'
'And I have seldom listened to such folly!'
'Patrick, pay heed to him!' Marie cried, in agitation' 'You cannot be sure that it is not as he says.'
'Think you that I should believe the maunderings, or worse, of a knavish clerk, against my own wits and the words of my closest associates, Marie? Have I not been working all this night with Stewart, preparing the arrangements and agenda for tomorrow's Convention? Think you that he would be doing that if he intended to do this thing tomorrow? The man who is but new back from my business in France – for whom I have gained the appointment of Ambassador to King Henri? It is nonsense even to consider it'
'Yet Davy believes it – and despite what you say now, you have never thought Davy a fool! At the least, you must enquire into it Take precautions…'
'Enquire into it? What would you have me do? At this late hour? The King is retired to his bed, long syne. Stewart is away to his lodging in the town. Maitland is not in the palace. What precautions would you have me take, woman?'. 'I would counsel you to leave this place forthwith – tonight,' David said heavily. 'At Castle Huntly you will be safer…'
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