Darnley was a practiced courtier, with impeccable manners; he possessed all the required social graces and could demonstrate them to perfection when the situation called for such. He brushed the back of Mary’s proffered hand with his lips, then raised his eyes to hers. What he saw there was unmistakable; he had seen it many times in the eyes of women. He knew that he was handsome, well-built, well-proportioned, well-dressed and when he chose to be, well-mannered. He smiled his most charming smile. He was pleased to note that this was likely to be an easy conquest; and the prize would be nothing less than the crown of Scotland…and England.
Mary shuddered as Darnley’s lips met her hand in a butterfly kiss, and a thrill went up her spine at the warmth of his breath on her skin. Here at last was the man she had been longing for, yearning for, all this while. Suddenly the vision of a foreign match dissolved before her very eyes. She had no need of a foreign prince; here was her own blood cousin, with the blood royal of both Scotland and England in his veins, and a Catholic to boot. Why search any further? A queen’s first duty was to marry and provide for the succession; her royal cousin was harangued regularly by her Council, her Parliament and her people to marry and produce an heir. Why Elizabeth refused to do so she simply could not fathom; she, Mary, had no intention of ruling alone, and had longed and pined for the day when she could marry and give Scotland, and in time, England, a son. There were rumors that Elizabeth was barren, and if that were so, there was nothing to prevent Mary’s own child from inheriting both crowns, should she be unable to seize the English throne by force.
Mary eyed the golden youth before her, whose hand she still held; she marveled that all these thoughts had raced through her mind in the time that it had taken for that brief kiss to grace her hand. She was reluctant to let go of his.
“But you are cold,” she said graciously. “Come, you must sit by my side, by the fire.” She extended her other hand, and nodded to a servant for another chair.
Darnley glanced at his father, who inclined his head. The chair was brought; Mary sat down and waved a hand to indicate that Darnley was to sit beside her.
Mary smiled at the crowd in the hall and said, “Good people, here is my most beloved kinsman and cousin, Henry, Lord Darnley, the son of the Earl of Lennox. I will hear all he has to tell me of my cousin, the Queen of England, My Lord having just arrived here from Her Grace’s court. I beg of you, dance, eat, and be merry, whilst I revel in the company of one whom I have not seen for many years, and whose company is most welcome! Musicians, play!”
With that, Mary turned her full attention to Darnley; so much so that she failed to see the worried looks on the faces of the Protestant Lords of the Congregation, and the hostile glances of others about the court, such as the Hamiltons, who were the sworn enemies of the Lennoxes.
Chapter 7
“Mary Stuart was discussing with some courtiers a portrait of the queen of England and debating whether it resembled the great original. ‘No,’
said Mary, ‘it is not like her. For I am queen of England.’”
– Peter Ackroyd, “Tudors”
Palace of Holyrood House, March 1565
Y ou canna’ marry the lad,” said the Earl of Moray. His words were soft but his gaze was penetrating. He looked at her with eyes that were her own; their father’s eyes.
Mary slammed her fist down onto the table. “Cannot? Cannot? Who are you to say “cannot” to me, Brother? Do you rule here, or do I?”
James Stuart, Earl of Moray, heaved a heavy sigh. “I am the bastard son of a king, and shall never wear a crown. But I am every bit as much a Stuart as you are, Sister, and I will not allow you to betray our blood.”
Mary’s eyes grew wide with anger. “Cannot! Will not! Allow! To whom do you presume to think you are speaking?”
Moray was the queen’s brother, but a half-brother; half of his blood was that of his mother, an Erskine. Different blood, patient blood. Blood that planned secretly, in silence, and that did not lose its temper in the face of opposition. Blood that knew it was far better to reason, to try to persuade, than to intimidate; better to keep one’s own counsel and not wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve for all to see. These were lessons that his fiery sister had yet to learn, if she ever did.
“Mary, the lad is ill-suited,” he said quietly. “He is petulant, sulky, and lacks maturity. But worse, he lacks respect for anyone, least of all for yourself.”
Mary’s eyes flashed. “I will not hear Darnley ill spoken of! I shall marry him, and you cannot stop me! Indeed, no one shall! I will hear no more of your ugly words, Brother, and no more shall I heed the counsel of my cousin of England! I must foreswear a grand Continental match and marry an Englishman, she says! Very well, Darnley is an Englishman! I will listen to no more of Elizabeth’s advice, nor her dire warnings. She has made a fool of me with her yeas and nays, and has grievous wasted my time! I shall henceforth make my own choices, and I choose Darnley! I shall brook no more interference in my affairs, from Elizabeth, from you, or from anyone else!”
James folded his hands on the table and met his sister’s eyes. “We do not discuss the personal affairs of a private woman, Sister, but those of a queen with a kingdom to rule and a Council to placate.”
Mary leapt from her chair with the gracefulness of a cat and threw her hands into the air. “Jesu!” she shouted. “Have you listened to nothing I have said? Placate? My days of placating are over, James!”
She had made her decision to marry Darnley weeks ago; she recalled the very moment. Darnley had arrived at Wemyss Castle, suffering from a heavy cold. For many that might have been off-putting, but to Mary, Darnley was a golden-haired angel come to earth; the sweet air of vulnerability that his unfortunate illness gave him only added to his appeal. From the very first, she longed to take care of him. They had sat by the fire while the court danced for their amusement. There Darnley had given her Elizabeth’s messages. She must marry Robert Dudley, now ennobled as Earl of Leicester, if she expected to be named Elizabeth’s heir. But regrettably, the Queen of England was not able, even in that circumstance, to guarantee that Mary would be granted the succession. Her choice of heir must be approved by Parliament; and Her Grace may, even at this point, decide to marry and have children of her own. Mary had been incandescent with rage, and Darnley had shared her indignation at such a slight by their cousin.
Elizabeth’s ambassador, Sir Thomas Randolph, had been working tirelessly to effect the Dudley match; he was confused and alarmed at the budding romance between the Queen of Scotland and Lord Darnley. Letters flew back and forth between Edinburgh and London. The Queen of England’s position was clear; she found it very strange that her cousin of Scotland would jeopardize the English succession simply to marry a man who, as far as she could determine, would bring no benefit to her country and might alienate her fellow queen, ally and kinswoman.
All the while, Cecil quaked with fear lest Elizabeth’s plot should go awry, but Elizabeth simply laughed up her sleeve at Mary and Darnley, who were falling in exactly with her scheme. As time went by, Cecil could only look on in admiration and amazement; truly, the queen had been right. All they had to do was to give Mary sufficient rope, and she would most certainly hang herself. Elizabeth’s plan was based on supposition, required a great deal of courage and audacity, not to mention patience, and involved enormous risk; but the result, if successful, should prove spectacular. All they had to do was wait.
Moray regarded his sister with a combination of pity, hatred and impatience, edged with not a little annoyance and exasperation.
“You canna’ marry the lad,” he said again.
Mary swept her wine cup, mercifully empty at this point, off the table and it landed on the stone floor with a clatter. “Will you stop saying that!” she shouted. She must marry Darnley; she could not bear to be parted from him now for even the short time it had taken her to answer James’s summons to the Council chamber. His interests, passions and pursuits so closely matched her own; t
hey had so much in common! They feasted together; they rode, hunted and hawked; they composed verse, which they set to tunes on the lute, and then sang them together. When their hands touched, even by accident, Darnley’s felt as if they were burning; the looks he gave her filled her with desire.
Oh, yes, she knew all about desire! Poor François had been her childhood companion, her darling love, her sweet little husband, but he had not been able to consummate their marriage. She had known even then what was missing from her life. For a queen, the act itself was incidental to the production of an heir, the guarantee of the Valois succession; but to Mary, it had been a denial of her womanhood. All bravely and gladly borne, because she had truly loved François.
But now…all the phantom matches she had tried to make, all the grand marriages with France, with Spain, with the Empire, all paled into insignificance in the face of this very real, flesh and blood paragon of manhood. She often found her eyes straying to Darnley’s codpiece. Ha! Call it desire if you pleased; she knew it for what it was. Plain, unbridled lust. Yes, they must marry, and soon! And about time, too! She could wait no longer to be fulfilled. She wanted love, passion, companionship; and she needed to secure the Scottish succession with an heir. She was lonely, and had been for years. Darnley was the answer to all her ills, and here was her bastard half-brother calmly insisting that she could not marry him!
Mary stood up from her chair, leaned her hands on the table and looked directly into James’s face. Her eyes, to him, seemed wild. But her voice was quiet now and her face composed. “I shall marry him, Brother. My decision is final.”
Still James remained serene, almost aloof. He would, of necessity, use force to stop her from indulging in such folly if he must. But persuasion, parley, was always preferable to force. Try again.
“Sister,” he said. “Would you jeopardize your crown for the sake of this madness? Set aside considerations of state and the welfare of your people, to satisfy a whim?” He knew what form the whim took; he was a man of the world and he knew what ailed his still-virgin sister. But marriage to that insipid boy he would never allow. Still, in his heart he knew it was hopeless; she would listen to no one. Not to Elizabeth, to neither her Council nor her lairds, not to him, not even to her Guise relations in France, to whom he had appealed for help.
“Mary, there is growing unease amongst the nobility of the land, the common people, and your allies. Have you forgotten that Scotland is now a Protestant country by law? Have you considered what the result of marriage with an English Catholic might mean? It could mean civil war.”
Mary sat down. “You exaggerate, Brother,” she said. She leaned over, retrieved her upset wine cup from the floor, and poured herself a measure from the flagon on the table. “I have seen no such unrest such as you describe.”
“That is because you have blinded yourself to all reason on the matter,” replied James. “Canna’ you see what the lad is, Mary? He is spoilt, belligerent and none too bright into the bargain. But all that aside, there is simply no benefit to such a marriage for Scotland. Your duty as queen is to marry for the advantage and profit of your realm.”
Mary tilted her chin haughtily. “He will serve to get me with child. I do not ask that he be a scholar!” But in her heart, she knew that he was right; if she married Darnley, there would be no husband with an army at his back to help her seize the throne of England. And she knew why the Lords of the Congregation, and Elizabeth for that matter, were against the match; the marriage of two Catholics who both had claims to the English and Scottish thrones! What need of a foreign army then? The Scottish and English Catholics would look on such a union not just with favor, but with delight. Would they not then rise up and help her and Darnley to restore the Catholic faith to their island? No wonder the Protestants of both countries were against such a marriage! So she must be subtle. She must be patient. Appear to cooperate; appear to be concerned solely with providing Scotland with an heir. Was that not, after all, one of her most important responsibilities as queen? Did not Elizabeth suffer daily for her refusal to do this very thing?
Suddenly a thought struck her. She narrowed her eyes and once again bent over until her face was close to her brother’s. “You are jealous!” she hissed. “Yes, that is it! You envy me my royal legitimacy and covet my crown! Well,” she said quietly. “You shall never have it. I shall marry Darnley and bear an heir for Scotland!”
Still James showed no emotion. He was silent for a long moment and then he said, “Sister, you wrong me. I want nothing that belongs to you. I want only what is best for Scotland.” It was a very great pity; he could have been a much-needed helpmeet to his sister in her effort to rule, as a Catholic, her Protestant country. But she had allowed her mind to be poisoned against him by her paramour. And by David Rizzio, that slithering snake of an Italian! The blackguard had insinuated his way into the queen’s confidence with his musical talent and had recently got much above himself, basking in Mary’s favor. Another Catholic! More than likely a spy for the pope! Very well, if his sister did not trust him and had determined to spurn his help and his friendship, then so be it. She was childish, headstrong, and accustomed to having her own way…very well, let her have it, then! And let the consequences be on her head!
The Earl of Moray arose and without another word bowed himself from his sister’s presence. She would soon learn who he was, and the lesson, he was certain, would prove a hard one.
Royal Palace of Hatfield, April 1565
“How lovely!” exclaimed Elizabeth, as she beheld the knot garden from the window of her old room at Hatfield. It was at Hatfield, under the great, ancient oak tree on the hill behind the palace, where she had first been proclaimed queen. Here she had been a child, here she had been raised. Coming back to the place that she thought of as home always lightened her mood and made her feel carefree and happy. “Kat, look!” She pointed to the colorful display.
“Yes, it is indeed lovely, Your Grace. Shall we go down and walk?” Kat replied. Kat was beginning to feel her years, but she was determined not to let Elizabeth know of the ailments that, of late, had begun to plague her so. Her little princess was a queen now, and had more important things to think about than the infirmities of her old governess.
A knot garden was the latest thing, and like most innovations, had come from the Continent. England’s Continental ambassadors were constantly bringing back ideas and new inventions from the cosmopolitan courts of Europe. The coach was one such; Elizabeth was having several of these new-fangled contraptions built for her upcoming Progress. The idea of being enclosed in one of these new-fangled devices made her feel breathless; she would continue to ride out in the open so that the people could see her. But her ladies should ride in hitherto unheard-of comfort!
Elizabeth ran headlong down the corridor to the stairwell that led down to the gardens; Kat followed at a more sedate pace. When they finally stood together before the little garden, Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Can you smell it, Kat? Come, let us see what has been planted here.”
The knot garden was of very formal Italianate design; it sat in a square frame, the plantings divided into sections by a series of gravel paths. Each shrub was clipped to perfection and held its own aroma; there were also various herbs. Elizabeth’s sharp nose detected; unaccountably, tears sprang into her eyes at the smell. Had she but known it, lavender was her mother’s favorite scent; many was the time, when Anne Boleyn had held her infant daughter, that her clothing had exuded the scent in which they had been laid away, her skin emanating the scent of the essential oils in which she had bathed. These scents evoked in Elizabeth a potent memory of she knew not what, but it had the power to move her to tears. There were also other scents; hyssop, marjoram, thyme, rosemary, lemon balm and lemon verbena, chamomile; and many others that neither Elizabeth nor Kat could name.
They were laughing together, their heads bent over the delicate flowers, when a shadow fell over them. Elizabeth looked up to see Sir Thomas Randolph and Sir Nich
olas Throckmorton, both looking very troubled. Elizabeth nodded to Kat, who bobbed a quick curtsey and turned back to the palace.
“How now, my lords,” said Elizabeth with a wry smile. “Bad news from Scotland?”
Sir Nicholas had been sent north to replace the hapless Sir Thomas as her ambassador to Scotland; Sir Thomas was too straightforward a thinker to be a successful diplomat in the atmosphere of intrigue that Elizabeth herself was fomenting at the Scottish court. And Mary knew and trusted Sir Nicholas, who had represented Elizabeth for many years as her ambassador to the French court.
“Your Grace,” said Sir Nicholas, with a deep bow. “I am, I must admit, much troubled. I am shocked at the change in Her Grace of Scotland. Her Grace’s demeanor, even her appearance, have altered remarkably.” His eyes seemed to focus on some far point in the distance and he rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it.”
Elizabeth shaded her eyes from the sun, and with her free hand caught the veil of her headdress, which was billowing in the wind. “Changed, you say? In what manner, changed? What of her appearance?” How she longed to hear that Mary was no longer the ravishing beauty that all seemed to think her! Had her cousin destroyed her own looks with worry and anxiety?
Sir Thomas stood with his hat in his hand; he had been very worried on the long road back to London from the north. Would the queen be angry with him for failing to effect the match between the Scots queen and Lord Robert? He stifled a nervous laugh; ever since he had been given that task, he had been worried that he would succeed, and that the queen would be angry with him for being the cause of losing the Earl of Leicester to her rival. The queen was known for such chop logic! But he had worried for naught; Her Grace seemed only to care about what Sir Nicholas thought of her cousin’s looks!
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