Robert stood tall and declared, “Abandon you? I would gladly die at Your Grace’s feet!”
“And what good would that do?” she retorted.
Elizabeth stood up from her throne, which was mounted on a dais; looking down on them all she said, “Am I some foreign prince, come to oppress you and bleed this country dry?” The references earlier to her sister had rung true; so too did this question, and it brought back painful memories of the hated Spaniards who had swarmed the realm after her sister’s marriage to King Philip of Spain. “Was I not born in this realm of England? Were not both my parents? Is not my beloved kingdom and its people my only concern? What of my coronation oath? Do I forget that, my lords? Tell me, whom have I oppressed? Whom have I enriched to another’s harm? I have said that I will marry, and I will as soon as I can conveniently do so.”
That it would never be convenient was not a thing that she could share with them; they must continue to be content with her promises, because she knew what was best for England. It was not that she did not want to marry; she would have given almost anything to be able to marry Robert. But she knew that to marry would be to diminish the power she needed to rule effectively, and there was no surer way to civil disorder than to name a successor. It was unfortunate, but marriage or the naming of an heir would do the realm more harm than good, and they were all too shortsighted to see it. Therefore, as their loving sovereign, she must see it for them, and act accordingly. The day would come, and God send that it would be far in the future, when they would understand and realize that she had been right.
She continued to let her gaze wander about the room as she spoke. Some of the men looked beaten and cowed, others defiant and bold. It mattered not; her decision was made and they must accept it.
“My lords, though I be a woman, I have as good courage as ever my father had, and his before him. And I can assure you that I will never by threats or coercion be constrained to do anything. I thank God that I am endued with such qualities that if I were turned out of the realm in my petticoat, I would be able to live and prosper any place in Christendom. I shall keep the matter of my marriage and the succession in my own hand, where it belongs.”
Finally, every man in the room had the look of one chastened. She had beaten them down again; but it would be wise to ensure that they did not think her unloving of them, or ungrateful for their service and loyalty.
“You should beware of trying my patience any further,” she said. “But know this; you should pluck up your dismayed spirits. For a more loving sovereign you shall never have.”
She got her subsidy, and on the strength of nothing better than the same promises she had made before, and would make again, when needed; that she would marry when it suited her to do so and not before.
But best of all, Queen Mary Stuart would be bitterly disappointed. She knew that her cousin had fully expected that this time, with a son to hold up before the world, that she would have realized her great ambition to be named heir to England. Never! Not while she had breath in her body would she name either Mary or her dubious brat as the next ruler of England.
Tantallon Castle, November 1566
The lonely sound of keening sea gulls pierced her consciousness, but she saw nothing. She had heard it said once that of all the senses, one’s hearing was the last to go. That made sense. One may not have the strength to open one’s eyes, to take a sup of ale, or to reach out a hand seeking the comfort of touch. But the ears either heard or they did not. And her ears heard most distinctly the cry of the sea birds outside her window. With a great effort, she turned her head in the direction of the light and opened her eyes. The thick tapestry with which the northern wall was usually covered had been lowered and the shutters drawn open. Was it spring already? How long had she been here? The sun poured in through the windows of her bedchamber at Tantallon Castle. No, it was not spring; a sudden gust of wind felt icy on her skin.
Suddenly her ears detected another sound. Weeping. Someone was crying. With an enormous effort, Mary turned her head away from the window to the other side of the room. There in a chair sat Mary Livingston, one of her four Mary’s. Livingston’s elbows leaned on her knees, and she held her head in her hands; she was rocking back and forth in her misery. Her shoulders shook with her sobs.
Mary licked dry lips and tried to speak, but no sound came out. She must try again; she must know why Livingston was weeping as though her heart would break. She swallowed, drew another breath and said, “Why do you weep?”
Mary Livingston looked up in astonishment. In a trice, she was on her feet and at Mary’s bedside. “Oh, Your Grace!” she cried. “We had given you up for dead! Just an hour ago we lowered the tapestry and opened the shutters, so that your soul might fly to Heaven.”
Confused, Mary asked, “Have I been ill?”
Laughing now through her tears, Livingston seized Mary’s icy hand and began chafing it back to warmth. “Have you been ill!” she cried. “You have been near death for two weeks. Do you not recall? You became feverish the day after…the morning you returned from Hermitage, but you insisted upon going on with your Progress. By the time we reached Kelso you were off your head. The leech declared it was the childbed fever, but none had heard of it waiting so long, our precious Prince James having been born in June. Then all the talk was of poison. Your Grace complained of a grievous pain in your side and you vomited blood for two days. Nothing would do for you but that we should bring Your Grace to Tantallon, and so we did. But once here you have been insensible, and then this morning…”
“Yes?” said Mary. “What of this morning?” She could tell by the angle of the sun that it was well after the noon hour.
Tears welled up in Livingston’s eyes once again. “This morning we could not rouse you, Your Grace. It was then that the leech said that you must be dead, and he ordered the windows unbarred that your soul may fly.”
“Well,” said Mary. “I am not dead yet. But I am thirsty and very hungry.”
“Oh, Your Grace,” cried Livingston. “This is marvelous news! I shall stoke the fire, then with your gracious leave, I will order food to be brought. Could you sip a little mulled wine?”
Mary was seized with a sudden wave of dread. Perhaps it had been poison. She would put nothing past Darnley at this point. “Where is the king?” she asked.
Livingston turned from the hearth, poker in hand. “Gone back to Glasgow,” she said through pursed lips. She had never approved of Darnley as a husband for Mary, even though she had wisely held her peace on the subject. “He was ill himself whilst we were still at Jedburgh. His lord father sent a horse litter for him, and back to Glasgow he went to be nursed for the…” She stopped abruptly, a slow blush creeping up her neck.
“It is all right,” sighed Mary. “I know that he is poxed. He is better off with the Earl of Lennox if that is the case.”
Livingston laid a new log on the hearth and stoked the fire again. “So thought His Grace. And all at Jedburgh were nothing loath to see the back of him!”
“Huh,” grunted Mary. “Nor am I.” She cocked her head. “What are those voices that I hear?”
“I know not, Your Grace. Shall I…”
And then suddenly the door to her bedchamber burst open with a bang and Bothwell strode in. His eyes sought the bed where Mary lay.
Mary was too weak to sit, but she extended a pale hand. “Bothwell!” she cried.
“I came as soon as I heard,” he said. “I thought…”
“I am much better,” said Mary. To Livingston she said, “Bring food and drink for the earl and myself. And for his men.”
Mary Livingston bowed and backed out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. Adam and a brace of Borderers took up guard outside the door.
“I have been at Dunbar,” said Bothwell. “Hermitage was too vulnerable. They had to bring me there on a litter! But I would not have lived if you had not come to me that night, Mary.” His eyes searched hers.
“Oh, my l
ord!” she cried, the tears streaming down her cheeks. She held out her arms and without hesitation, Bothwell sat on the bed and held her close.
“What ails you?” he asked, lifting a gentle finger and smoothing the hair back from her brow.
“I know not, nor does the leech.” she said. “But I am better now, and so much more so now that you are here!” His face was no longer swollen but the bruises were still there, and had turned sickly shades of yellow and green. An ugly purple scar ran from his temple, across his ear, and down his neck. His hand was still bandaged. But he moved well for one who had suffered broken ribs.
Their minds had somehow become closely tuned; he spoke as if answering her unasked questions. “My head looked worse than it was,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Despite the grievous blows I took from Jock’s men, I was never senseless. My hand is annoying and bothersome, but whole. It was my ribs that plagued me the most. There were many days when I could not get my breath and I thought that I would suffocate. But they are better now. You saved my life.”
Would that you could save mine, thought Mary. And then with that uncanny awareness, he replied as if she had spoken the thought aloud.
“There is a way,” he said dreamily. He was not looking at her; he was gazing out of the window at the vastness of Bass Rock. “Mary, the Council has agreed. The Lords of the Congregation are no longer willing to suffer Darnley as king. He is a fool and a tyrant, and they are determined to see him brought down. He is worse than useless. Something must be done.”
“And my brother is willing to support such a step?” asked Mary. “Darnley is English, and James has always been very thick with the English. Has he not?”
“He has,” agreed Bothwell. “But even the Earl of Moray can see that Darnley must be got rid of. In fact, it is he who first postulated the idea.”
Mary lifted a hand to the good side of Bothwell’s face. “Oh, if only it were possible!” she cried. “I swear to you, my lord, that unless I am quit of him by one means or another, I can never again have a happy day in my life!”
Bothwell let his gaze wander back from the window to Mary’s face. Their eyes locked and for a moment both were remembering that night at Hermitage Castle, when they had seen each other’s nakedness.
“There is a way,” he said again. The blue-green eyes glittered. What had happened to him that night at Hermitage, when he had lain so close to death? He had felt it then; he felt it again now. He coveted the throne of Scotland, to be sure, but now he wanted the queen to go with it. She was more to him now than just a woman’s body and a head with a crown. What had changed? He stared at her in frank curiosity, trying to discover what it was that made him feel so differently about her.
“Not divorce,” she said. “I can do nothing that might jeopardize the prince’s legitimacy or his claim to the throne. And my confessor says that since I married Darnley of my own free will, even against the advice and arguments of all, that I must learn to live with my choice.”
Bothwell had scant respect for religion of any sort, but he knew the queen professed a certain piety and he did not want to offend her. But this was fool’s talk. “All are agreed,” he said. “Something must be done.”
How safe she felt, cradled in his arms! If he said something must be done and that there was a way, then she believed him. “It must be nothing that would stain my honor,” she said in a whisper.
He was a Borderer and a fighting man. His sense of honor was far different from most men’s. A man must fight fairly; he must pay his gambling debts. Beyond that, a man must do what he must.
Mary’s eyes welled with tears. Nothing in her life had turned out as she expected. She had gone from being the pampered darling of the French court to the queen of a barbaric land where murder could be done before one’s very eyes and no one brought to justice for the deed. She sought revenge against Darnley for Davey’s murder with every fiber of her being.
“The Council has discussed a plan,” he said. “Are you content to leave all to us?”
If it would rid her of Darnley, she was more than content. But she wanted more than simply to be rid of her troublesome husband. She wanted Bothwell.
Mary placed her palm to his face in a gentle caress. “I love you,” she whispered.
So that was it, he thought. That was the mystery that he had been unable to solve. He kissed her lips, then drew back and searched her eyes. He had never been a man to hide from the truth. “I love you, too.” He had already discussed divorce with his wife; she was willing to agree for certain considerations. But he had his own conditions.
As if Mary had read his thoughts, she said, “This time there would be no question of bestowing the Crown Matrimonial. Free me of Darnley, Bothwell, and you shall be king of Scotland.” There was nothing else she could offer him to settle so great a debt; she hoped that it would be enough.
Glasgow, January 1567
When the cavalcade set out at sunrise, the world looked very white, but that was deceptive. Even though every blade of grass was coated with rime and sparkled in the golden glow of the dawn light, it was only that the dew had frozen. As soon as the sun was high in the sky and the temperature rose, the dew would melt and the world would show its true colors once again.
January was not the time of year for travel, but there had been little snow that winter, and the roads were dry. That was a blessing; at least the journey from Glasgow would be relatively swift. Only one more night would see her back in Edinburgh; back in Bothwell’s arms. They had secretly plighted their troth at Tantallon and since then they had been most discreet. Bothwell would find a way to free them both of their respective spouses, they would marry, and then together they would rule Scotland.
Bothwell had not exaggerated when he told her that the Council was adamant that something must be done about Darnley. It seemed that the Scottish lords were every bit as anxious as herself to free Scotland of her husband’s bothersome presence. Even her brother had been most sympathetic to her great desire to be rid of her husband. In fact, so enthusiastic was the Earl of Moray to devise some means of freeing his sister from Darnley that he had even agreed to make common cause with his hitherto sworn enemy, Bothwell. Nothing could have suited Mary better; there were no two men she trusted more than her brother and Bothwell to accomplish a goal. They had told her to leave the matter in their hands, and that she was most willing to do.
Her brother had even agreed to support her plan to marry Bothwell and make him king. After all, a queen must be married; did not the constant haranguing of Elizabeth by her people, high and low, not attest to that amply?
But in order to move against Darnley, they must have him in Edinburgh. And he must agree to return there of his own free will. That task had been left to her.
It had not been difficult; she and representatives of the Council had traveled to Glasgow to visit Darnley in his sick bed. She had apologized for her spiteful treatment of him, and promised that as soon as he was well again, they would resume their marriage and he would have the Crown Matrimonial bestowed upon him, just as he had always wanted. The Lords assured him that this was so. Mary had made much of him and declared that if only he would come back to Edinburgh with her, she would nurse him back to health in no time at all. The Earl of Lennox had been delighted with the turnabout of affairs, and so on this frosty January morning, Darnley was warmly ensconced in the litter that would carry him back to the capital.
As the hours passed, Mary wished with all her heart that she was mounted and riding in the fresh air. But Darnley demanded that she stay with him in the jolting litter. The curtains were drawn against the cold, to be sure, but also to keep anyone from seeing him. The disgusting, running sores on his face and hands, and in other places best not mentioned, were horrible to look at. He wore thick gloves on his hands and a linen mask over his face to hide the ravages of his disease, and he would allow no one near him save his wife. The only peace she got was when he fell into a fitful sleep as they jogged along in the ve
lvet-draped litter. Mary looked down upon the sleeping form with a shudder; he who had once been so handsome. It was true that she had promised, but it would be cold in hell on the day when she admitted Darnley back into her bed.
After hours on the road that seemed more like centuries, the sun was finally low in the sky. They would stop for the night at Illieston Castle in the village of Livingston, the family home of her own Mary Livingston. Although small, Illieston was well-appointed and had been used as a royal hunting lodge by the Stewart kings for generations. Livingston had ridden ahead to make certain that all was in readiness; as they approached the castle she stood at the door in welcome.
Darnley was sleeping the slumber of the very ill; he was carried to their apartments and lain in the bed. He would suffer none but the queen to tend him; Mary seized the rare moments when he slept to take advantage of her freedom. Cooped up in the litter all day, she wanted nothing so much as to drink in the fresh air. It was a cold afternoon, but she walked the hillside behind the castle as the sun began to dip below the horizon.
How, she wondered for hundredth time, did the lords plan to rid her of Darnley? It must be death; nothing less would preserve the rights of her son to the throne of Scotland. But how? In what manner? There were several means by which he could be accused of treason, a crime punishable by death even for a king consort. Especially for a king consort! When she thought of poor Davey, and the look of bloodlust in Darnley’s eyes as he had been stabbed by all those men, her ire rose in her breast. Execution would be too good for him! He should be made to suffer as poor Davey had suffered. No one but her cared about Davey, but many did care that the king had stood by while a loaded pistol had been aimed at the queen and her unborn child, the heir to Scotland. Surely to condone that she be so vilely treated, surely that was treason! And she was convinced that Darnley had tried to poison her before fleeing to Glasgow. Like most things, he had bungled it, and she had only been sick unto death. But could it be proved? Darnley had also been threatening to kidnap the prince, thankfully safe and sound at Stirling Castle with a royal guard, and rule in his name. To do so he would have to kill her; the very threat itself implied her death. Was that not treason?
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