Elizabeth was a Protestant if she was anything; but her own beliefs were remarkably flexible. For her, it was simple; a man’s conscience was his own and he must be able to face God at the final trial of the soul. But if she was a ruler before she was a woman, then she was certainly a queen before she was a Protestant. And to the Catholics of the world, she was both bastard and heretic, unfit to be queen. Therefore she must needs be a Protestant.
James had crossed the border into England to escape his sister’s army, which was vastly superior to his own in numbers. He had done so without the Queen of England’s authorization; he could only trust to Cecil’s support for him and to Elizabeth’s known political acumen to realize that he had had no other choice besides certain defeat at the hands of the Queen of Scots. And in the mood Mary was in, that could have meant his death at the end of a rope. The Scots had not the delicacy of the English when it came to treason; there would have been no dignified block on a private castle green for him.
“My Lord,” said Elizabeth, inclining her head. As she moved, the diamonds glittered in her flaming hair, and blazed at her wrists and throat in the soft glow of the candlelight. More diamonds flashed from her velvet gown, which was black as the night and that set off her hair and her jewels to perfection. She was purposely bereft of her usual plethora of rings; she wanted him to see her remarkable hands with their long, elegant fingers without the enhancement of such gewgaws.
If her intent was to dazzle him, she had succeeded. James had heard of the magnificence of Elizabeth’s court, but the French in Scotland had always haughtily dismissed the English in comparison with the French. He had been to the court of France many times; it was very fine, but Elizabeth’s court was every bit as splendid. And it had one advantage over the French, to his mind; the men may be dressed magnificently, but they were men. No mincing courtiers here, only men bent on preferment and willing to do anything to gain it. But it was evident that Scotland was a poor country compared with England.
Elizabeth held out one of those remarkable hands; James took it into his own and bestowed a very proper kiss onto the back of it. His eyes lingered on the white skin, the finely tapered fingers, just long enough to satisfy Elizabeth that he had seen and appreciated their uniqueness.
The formalities over, Elizabeth rose, walked to the sideboard and poured three goblets of wine from a flagon. James was an adept politician; that one gesture told him much about this meeting. First, the absence of servants meant that what they would be discussing was secret and that they trusted him; second, the fact that he was being waited upon by the queen herself meant that she accepted him and was willing to be his ally in the struggle against Mary and both the Scottish and English Catholics. And illegitimate or not, he was also the half-brother of her cousin. He was to be treated not as a rebel or a visiting diplomat, but as a member of her family. There was certain to be a quid pro quo involved, but such was the nature of politics.
As she handed him his goblet, she said, “Let us not waste time or mince words. I understand perfectly well why you fled across the border into my realm. However, the very fact that you are here and that I have not yet thrown you into the Tower speaks volumes to the French. I have a plan in that regard. Are you willing to play your part in it?”
James trusted Elizabeth and Cecil completely, and even if he had not, he had no choice, no other option. He nodded his head. “I would hear this plan, Your Grace.”
“Very well, then,” said Elizabeth. “Cecil?” She handed Cecil his goblet and sat down with her own wine cup esconced between those entrancing hands.
“Here it is,” said Cecil. “We must make it appear as if Her Grace is mightily displeased with you. The entire court is assembled in the queen’s Presence Chamber; we will go hither and there you will be castigated on your knees before all, including the French ambassador. We must at all costs convince the French that Her Grace is incensed at your perfidy as it regards your behavior to the Queen of Scots, that you are fortunate to have retained your freedom in that regard after entering England without a passport or a safe conduct, and that the English government has no intention of providing assistance to a rebel who has taken up arms against his rightful sovereign. However, you are the queen’s kinsman and will be allowed to remain in England as an exile, on your pledge to Her Grace of your good behavior. In reality, we will provide you with a thousand pounds, horses and provisions. The source of this largesse must remain secret even from your own men. And what you do with this support shall be your own choice; the queen will know nothing further of it.”
Elizabeth nodded.
Moray was a man of few words; the public rebuke bothered him not at all, and he appreciated the political necessity of it well enough. The assistance was badly needed and would be put to good use. That the Queen of England would not be made privy to any of his plans gave her a plausible deniability for whatever happened next.
“Done,” he said. “There is one other thing, Your Grace.”
Elizabeth fixed her golden gaze upon him expectantly.
James drew a deep breath. “The Queen of Scots is with child.”
She had heard it said that at the moment of death one’s entire life flashes before one’s eyes. She wondered if that were true. When she had been sick unto death of the small pox, and thought herself about to die, her own life had played itself before her mind’s eye. But it had not been in any sense sequential, nor had it been presented swiftly. Rather, the scenes of her life had come to her slowly, in bits and pieces, and completely at random. And disappointingly, the moments she recalled with such startling clarity were mostly her unhappiest memories.
But at the moment just then when James had said “with child”, it was not the past that had sprung unaided into her mind, but the future. A future in which she would play no part, for she would be in her grave. She would be dead and the world would go on without her. Horrible thought! It evoked in her breast a desperate feeling of being left behind, of being left out of something important. But that was nonsense; she must die someday, and when she did, England would need another ruler. Who would it be? For she knew in heart of hearts that she would never marry and that she would never bear a child of her own.
Whose child, then, would sit on her throne, wear her crown, when she was no longer there to rule?
She had tried in vain to have the Lady Mary Grey’s ridiculous marriage to Thomas Keyes annulled. The Bishop of London had flatly refused to do so; the marriage had been properly performed and witnessed. She had had the hapless couple separated immediately; her cousin now languished under house arrest in Buckinghamshire with a trusted courtier. Keyes was still in the Fleet Prison and there he would remain at the queen’s pleasure. She had placed one of her own women with Lady Mary while she was in the Tower; her cousin’s clouts had been checked daily and when it was certain that she was not with child, she had been packed off unceremoniously to Buckinghamshire. She had not been allowed to see her husband. Take no chances! So there was no danger there.
She did not know why such news should shock her; the Queen of Scotland was married and it was only to be expected that she would become pregnant. But for some odd reason it was completely disconcerting that the child now growing in her royal cousin’s womb might very well be the next king…or queen…of England. She shook off the momentary bewilderment that the news had caused her.
She smiled. “Let us hope that my cousin delivers a fair son to secure the throne of Scotland,” she said. “Cecil, arrange an audience with Lord Melville, that we may convey our congratulations to the queen and the Scottish court.”
Cecil nodded. But the momentary pallor on the queen’s face that had greeted the earl’s news had not been lost on him. Securing the English succession had become a mania with him; it was behind all his nagging at Elizabeth to marry. All of the Grey sisters were now either dead or disgraced; Mary of Scotland was their only hope if Elizabeth remained adamant and would not marry. But would the English ever accept a Scottish kin
g? God grant that such a decision was in the far future; things might change.
With that they all drained their wine cups and arose. Cecil led Moray out of the Privy Chamber by a side door that would take him to the passageway outside the Presence Chamber; he would enter the queen’s presence as a supplicant. Elizabeth nodded her head as the men departed and stood by the privy door that would deposit her onto the dais that held her throne. She waited a full three minutes and then opened the door.
The Firth of Forth, December 1565
The wind blew cold and frigid on Mary’s face as the ship made its slow way across the Firth of Forth. The tide was going out; the ship lacked its accustomed buoyancy on the brackish water, and this slowed their progress. But the biting wind blew from east to west, which somewhat assisted their journey to the northwest of Edinburgh, the final destination of which was Dunfermline Palace.
Mary had learned in the years since her return from France that she could not, even though she wore a crown, always have her own way. And so she was on her way to the royal palace at Dunfermline with a much reduced court, so that she might celebrate the twelve days of Christmas as a Catholic. To try to do so in Edinburgh would only serve to incite the Protestants. The law was on their side, for now; but perhaps by next Christmas, she and Davey would have reinstated the Catholic faith in her heretic country.
There were some Protestants in her train; but these were people who were loyal to their monarch no matter what, and godless sycophants who had no religion. She knew who they were and despised them; they would be the first to taste her revenge when Scotland was once again a Catholic country.
She gripped the furred hood of her cloak and held it fast under her chin. She was warm enough, but her feet were cold.
“If Your Majesty will step up onto the foot-rail, you will find that it will take the worst of the chill off of your feet,” said a deep voice with a thick Scottish brogue.
Mary turned to face the penetrating gaze of the Earl of Bothwell; she knew by his voice who had addressed her. She smiled. “Is that true?”
“Oh, aye,” he replied. Mary held out her gloved hand; the earl gripped not her hand but her wrist and hauled her up onto the wooden railing that ringed the interior of the ship about a foot above the deck. She hoped that he did not detect the tremor in her hand at his touch.
She had known Bothwell for five years; he had visited the French court several times during François’ reign. And when François died, Bothwell was sent, as Lord High Admiral, to escort her back to Scotland in his fleet of ships. She had always admired his down-to-earth, no-nonsense personality. But lately she had begun to admire other things about him.
He was manly, adventurous and rough; he was a man of few words, a man of action. He ruled his Borderers with an iron hand, and guarded the lawless border territory between Scotland and England with a ferocity that had given him a reputation for unparalleled ruthlessness.
Bothwell was one of those men who served the crown, not the monarch; he was ostensibly Protestant, but she suspected that he was one of the godless ones she held in such contempt. If that were so, then he must be the exception to her rule of despising the anti-Catholics; he was too useful a warrior to alienate him.
As a warrior! Bothwell was the very antithesis of Darnley in that regard. The earl was fearless, but it went beyond that; he was also brutal, merciless and heartless when the situation called for it. A veritable man’s man. If only he had been Catholic, what could they not have accomplished together! But now she looked at him with new eyes.
His hair was dark auburn and very thick; his face was tanned dark, but when he moved, one could see the white of his skin where the sun could not reach it. The sight of that white skin gave her a sharp thrill; a picture flashed through her mind of what the rest of his body might look like. Her stomach, or perhaps some other organ lower down, contracted with pleasure at the thought. His very roughness appealed to something vital and primitive in her that she had not known existed until that moment.
His eyes were changeable; at one moment they were the deep blue color of the firth on a sunny day, but with a subtle change of light they could be as forest green as the moss on river rocks. Let the light change again and they were both blue and green together.
When had her hungry eye first alighted on him? When had she begun to see him as a man, and not just as a soldier of Scotland? He had been exiled to the Continent for some time; he and her half-brother, the Earl of Moray, were bitter enemies. The moment James had fled over the border into England, Bothwell had sailed for home and offered his sword to her. But was it to her? To her, for herself, or simply to the queen? It was hard to say. Bothwell’s father had wooed her mother, Mary of Guise; his father’s greatest rival in that regard had been Darnley’s father, the Earl of Lennox. That was a strange coincidence! Her mother had prudently rejected both suitors. But she had not! She had married Darnley and now she lusted after Bothwell.
Yes, it was true; that was it. The moment she had laid eyes on Bothwell again, she had conceived a passion for him. For years at the French court, she had been made to endure the sight of others indulging in love’s sweet fulfillment; and then she had come to Scotland, widowed, alone, and she had burned for the sake of burning. Then Darnley had come, and she had burned, oh, how she had burned, for him. That had been a mistake; she knew that now. But once the fire in her had been awakened there was no quenching it. And now her desire had fixed itself upon Bothwell.
Darnley had let her down, and she was well aware of Davey’s smoldering gazes; but this time she needed a real man. Someone brave, someone bold, someone who could win kingdoms for her. Her hands strayed to her belly. Finally, she had conceived. She had missed her third courses in mid-December. Her son would be born in June. There was that whole ordeal to get through. But once she was free of her burden…there would be Bothwell. He was married, but he was Protestant; he could divorce his wife with far less trouble than any Catholic could! And the idea of being tied to Darnley for the rest of her days made her blood run cold. She allowed her gaze to drift casually from the barren northern shore of the firth that was gliding by under a watery winter sun, until her eyes found Bothwell. His eyes met hers boldly and did not flinch.
She had been married first to an impotent boy, and then to a drunken sot. This time she wanted a man.
She must think of a way to rid herself of Darnley, and then…
###
Bothwell was amused at the ease with which he could read the queen’s thoughts. They were written so plainly upon her face that little intuition was called for. He had seen such naked lust a hundred times before on the faces of as many women. He usually enjoyed a bit of a chase, it made the conquest more interesting, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that there would be no need to seduce the queen; rather that boot was most assuredly on the other foot, if he was reading her signals right! She was his for the taking. So here was an interesting opportunity! His wife, the Lady Jean Gordon, was every bit as much of a realist as he was himself; she agreed wholeheartedly. If the crown was on offer, take it; the spoils would be well worth sharing her husband with the queen.
Mary Stuart was an attractive woman to be sure, but he felt no raging lust for her. He would give her what she was so blatantly asking him for with those come-hither looks, and then take his just reward; the crown of Scotland. He had heard of her legendary charm, but he was immune to it. Women held no fascination for him; they were simply a means to an end. They were for an hour’s amusement, the assuagement of lust; or the need for money, which was why he had married his wife; or as in the case of the queen, for the attainment of power. He saw the woman that Mary was, but to him she was like any other woman, except for one thing; atop the body that he would use for the usual purpose was a head with a crown upon it. A crown that would be his if he played his cards right.
Her devotion to her religion he swept aside as the irrelevancy it was; once he was king she would do as he told her to do. He was no fool l
ike that milksop, Darnley, nor a besotted caricature of a man like David Rizzio. He knew what Mary Stuart needed and by God, he would give it to her, in spades. That would keep her quiet while he ruled Scotland in her name and in the name of Darnley’s brat.
Best of all, it would place him in a position to have his revenge on the queen’s bastard half-brother, James Stewart, the Earl of Moray. He would use Moray’s lust for the crown of Scotland as his tool to rid Mary of both Darnley and Rizzio. Moray could never be king, but with Mary disgraced and Darnley dead, he could be regent. It was as close as Moray would ever get to the throne, and was, Bothwell was certain, Moray’s objective.
So he would enthrall Mary through her blatant sexual desire, and he would use Moray and Rizzio to rid the queen of her useless husband.
Whitehall Palace, December 1565
The Earl of Moray arose from where he had been kneeling before the Queen of England. Upbraided and chastened by her, he bowed himself wordlessly from her presence. Once in the corridor, Cecil intercepted the earl and steered him towards the stairwell leading down to the section of the palace where he had his apartments.
Once they had a thick oaken door between them and the passageway, Moray removed his cap, loosened his doublet and said, “Well, that is done.”
Cecil poured two mugs of ale, added the needed spices, and thrust a hot poker into the first cup; the resultant hiss was the only sound in the room. Cecil watched as the vapor rose in misty curls, and then withdrew the poker, laid it aside, and handed the steaming mug to Moray.
“Ah, thank you, my lord,” he said.
Cecil mulled his own mug and sat down opposite the earl by the fire.
They sat in silence for a few moments, and then Cecil asked, “Where is the King of Scotland now?”
In High Places Page 27
