The Queen's Mary: In the Shadows of Power...

by Sarah Gristwood

  As the queen stepped out into her presence chamber, Livy and Fleming fell in behind her, carefully lifting the shining train. Left behind, it seemed to Seton that Beaton watched her Majesty almost with compassion – almost a proprietorial air.

  ‘Of course they all hate him.’ It was stating the obvious: Seton didn’t bother to reply. ‘Her too, because of him, maybe.’ Seton felt her shoulders tense in shock; this was not a thing you said aloud, whatever you might think secretly.

  But Beaton didn’t pause for a reply. Instead she carried on, still in the dreamy tone of pleasure, ‘Do you ever think what the hating, anyone’s hating, and the ill-wishing, can do? Just the hating alone. Do you ever, Mary?’

  Thirty-two

  They’d seen the pattern before; the surprise was that the collapse came so quickly. At the wedding the queen was – well, not quite riding high, but firm in the saddle, anyway. Like a monarch who’d chosen her path ahead, and like a woman committed to the man she would marry.

  Then came the change – that very night, or the next day. They noticed the queen’s speech was coming in jerks, and that her eyes were blinking too rapidly. That then the tears welled up and she seemed hardly to notice, sunk of a sudden into a kind of melancholy.

  ‘You don’t suppose he’s told her anything, do you?’ said Fleming to Seton rapidly. They’d snatched just a moment together in a corner, while the other girls fussed about her Majesty. Beaton had gone home right after the ceremony – Livy too. It was hard for Livy – while her husband held loyal to the queen, his parents were of the other party.

  ‘What do you mean, told her?’ But Seton knew. Told her – or let slip, he’d be careless now he knew he had her – how much he’d known beforehand about the murder of Lord Darnley.

  But turning to look at the drooping queen, Seton thought it was something more personal even than that – and Fleming, the woman beloved, saw it too. Had the queen really thought he loved her for herself? For a powerful woman, surely, that was the ultimate folly. All these years, when she seemed to know the rules of the game… It’s extraordinary, thought Seton, how long and how closely you can live with somebody, and still not know them entirely.

  *

  ‘Ees it true?’ It was one of the Italian envoys at Seton’s elbow, and she had hard work not to push him away. ‘Is it true? I hear – heard – she called for a knife to kill herself, I mean the Queen’s Majesty?’

  It was true – she’d heard it, she and Fleming, as they sat sewing in the outer room, while the queen was inside with Bothwell. And they hadn’t been the only ones, that was the trouble. The queen had already told the French ambassador she wished for nothing but death, and he’d lose no time in passing it on to Catherine de Medici.

  *

  Who’d have thought he’d be so stupidly jealous? Couldn’t be more so, even if he had been wildly in love with her Majesty. And it wasn’t other men – as if queen Mary had time or eyes for those! – it was just anything, apart from himself, that gave her pleasure.

  Even the queen’s ladies. Seton had begun to find herself on edge, whenever she had to pass close to Lord Bothwell, in her duties about the Queen’s Majesty. And did she imagine it, or was Maitland waiting for Fleming, did he greet her with an air of relief, when she came off duty at the end of the day?

  Maitland saw more of Bothwell’s work than most, of course. Saw the kind of letters he was writing – as one ruler to another – even to Queen Elizabeth in England. Issuing a decree against counterfeit money – who was he, to go issuing decrees? Annulling all the dispensations that had allowed Catholics to worship freely.

  It was enough, or almost, to make you wish for Lord Darnley.

  *

  Lord Darnley wasn’t far from all their thoughts; never mind that the Protestant lords were taking care to keep his memory green. But it was not the victim but the living boy, vainglorious and vital, that Seton remembered as she stood on the sandy shores of the Firth and watched Bothwell running the ring. Just as Darnley had run, some thirty months before.

  That was the thing, the most puzzling thing, about the Queen’s Majesty. Despair in private – either slump, or a babbling misery they had to take care not to attend too closely. And then, from this abyss, an order for her clothes; and be sure to dress her properly.

  When she went out in public with Lord Bothwell, she looked every inch the sovereign. When they were out in public, he treated her that way. Took off his bonnet in her presence, with even exaggerated humility.

  It was as if they were both wearing masks: nothing wrong in that, that’s what a court is. But it seemed neither of them knew which face to put on, when they took the mask off at the end of the day.

  *

  The queen had married on the fifteenth of May; a week later she ordered a water pageant, a festivity. To celebrate, absurdly. Even though the court was dwindling to a ghost of itself, with more nobles leaving every day. Even though they all knew that behind the scenes the royal plate was being melted down to buy an army.

  We can’t go on much longer, thought Seton. But this wasn’t supposed to be just for these few days. This life – this marriage, and this queen who submitted to it – was supposed to be their lives till the end of the reign.

  Whenever that might be.

  *

  For days now they’d all been walking on eggshells, hardly daring to speak to each other beyond the bare necessity. So when, at the end of the first week in June, Seton came out of the wardrobe closet and found Maitland waiting there, she knew at once what he had come to say. He had his cap in his hand, she noticed absurdly, standing quite still as he eyed her gravely.

  She was glad he hadn’t left it to Fleming to tell her. Why hadn’t he left it to Fleming?

  ‘It wasn’t fair to leave it to Mallie.’ He always knew what she was going to say. ‘Heaven knows she has the harder job. She’s gone now to tell her Majesty.’

  Seton nodded, jerkily. She couldn’t trust herself to speak.

  ‘I have to get Mallie out of this.’

  Seton found her voice. ‘I know you do.’

  ‘I wish…’ He broke off and her hand jerked to halt him. She didn’t want any gesture, a man’s gesture, didn’t want to hear he wished they could also take her away. His head jerked, he’d understood her – but suddenly she was angry.

  ‘Yes, but that’s not all there is to it, is there? You aren’t taking her home to Lethington, are you?’ Seton could hear her voice was rising sharply.

  ‘I am, actually. But no – you’re right. I’ll leave Mallie with my family, and then I’ll join the Confederate Lords. Don’t think too hardly of me.’

  She turned her head away, between tears and fury. How else was she to think, pray?

  ‘I don’t believe I’m breaking my loyalties. I am loyal to the crown and always will be. The queen holds my blood debt. But my first loyalty is to my country – and I’ve no more loyalty towards the Earl of Bothwell than he has affection towards me.

  ‘Oh yes, I know it’s the cry of every rebel in history – that they’re rising not against the sovereign, but only against their evil counsellors. But sometimes it may be true.

  ‘I swear, you could almost believe the queen was bewitched.’ He broke off, embarrassed, a Protestant and a sceptic. Seton couldn’t pretend she hadn’t thought the same herself – she was after all a good Catholic, and not to believe in witchcraft was to go against the pope’s decree. Indeed, some had cried out about enchantment, when the queen was first besotted by Lord Darnley, let alone by this bully.

  ‘And what do you think’s going to happen here, Mary? Even if the queen somehow brings the lords to heel – this time – or meets them in the field and wins a victory? Do you think their malcontent is just going to go away? Do you think Bothwell’s suddenly going to become a reasonable man, or that Queen Mary will turn her marriage around and get the mastery?’

  Maitland was almost panting as he broke off. She’d never known him show his feelings so clearly. But sh
e knew his anger was not for her, and brushed it off as he made a sign of apology.

  She didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. No, she didn’t think any of those things were likely.

  ‘And there’s something else, too – remember this, Mary,’ he said with real urgency. ‘What if – when – it goes badly for the queen? What when she falls into the lords’ power? These are violent men, and this is a violent country. We’ve had five King James and only one has died in his bed. What are the chances for a woman and a baby?

  ‘Moray would settle for a queen retired abroad, and himself for a nice long regency. He’s kept his hands clean through all this mess, hasn’t he? Not that I think he hasn’t eyed the crown, but he’d not do anything openly against his conscience. But Moray isn’t here – and with him in France, there’ll be no one to check a creature like Morton, if any man with a hint of reason simply stays away.’

  He turned sharply, at a noise in the next room – reminder they wouldn’t get much longer in privacy.

  ‘It’s different for me.’ That was all Seton found to say, lamely. It’s different for me, because I have nowhere else to go and no other use to be, other than staying with the Queen’s Majesty. It’s different for me, because I have no other loyalty. I am hemmed in as surely as if someone had sewn me to the fabric of the queen’s destiny.

  ‘I know it is. I know you must stay. But take care of yourself, Mary.’

  He was gone, as a door opened at the other end of the room, and Seton was left wondering whether she’d ever see him again. Thank God there was a job to be done, right now, close at hand. She must get to her Majesty.

  But, she thought, as she hurried towards the queen’s chambers, that people were always telling her to take care. They never said how, precisely; never wanted to take on the task themselves.

  There was a cry of anguish from the queen’s rooms and Seton pushed the thought away.

  Thirty-three

  The queen had begged – ordered – her not to leave; and then in the end she herself was the one to go. Story of my life, all our lives, thought Seton wearily.

  Fleming had rushed out of the queen’s room in tears, and left Seton with a hard embrace but no word. But the queen had said enough for three. She didn’t blame Fleming for leaving – give her credit for that – and she didn’t even rail at Maitland for taking her away. It was just, everyone’s going, I want to die, everyone’s leaving me.

  Clutching Seton’s arm with burning hands, she said, ‘Swear you’ll never go, Seton. Swear you’ll never leave me!’ Spinning away again to beat at her own temples she didn’t notice Seton hadn’t got the promise out. Just as well, maybe.

  And then word came that Bothwell was taking the queen away for safety. Just the queen. No one seemed to think what would happen to her ladies, not even to the very last of the Queen’s Marys.

  Seton didn’t push it. Couldn’t really, could she? It was Bothwell had command of this journey. They were tumbling a few of the queen’s goods into a bag – a silver bowl and kettle for her washing, a little cabinet and key for her papers, and at the last minute Seton ran after the man as he carried the pathetic baggage away.

  ‘Here – she’ll need these.’ She thrust in a handful of silver hairpins. It felt like the last thing she could do for Queen Mary.

  *

  For herself now she wanted just one thing; to get home to Seton Palace. It was still home, surely. She’d got word to her brother to send an escort but she was glad, very glad, when he came himself to fetch her, for all that on the journey back they rode almost silently. Were her stirrup leathers the right length, was she tired, needing a break? That was all George said, but it was enough, in a way.

  When they reached Seton the great house seemed hushed. Almost as if it too were shamed, in Seton’s fancy – for all her head told her the business of living and loving, of baking and brewing, didn’t halt so easily.

  As they’d done before, Seton found that her steps and George’s turned first towards the chapel. So this is why they call it Mother Church, she thought. It came over her in a rush, this comfort always waiting, no matter how far you had strayed.

  Still, they were silent, until George spoke heavily. ‘Well, at least we know where we are.’ Turned to look at her, to check she’d understood him – when he saw she hadn’t he went on, reluctantly.

  ‘At least we know where our loyalties lie.’

  Seton wasn’t sure whether he was telling her, or asking her. She squeezed his arm in reassurance, but couldn’t think of a reply.

  *

  The trouble is, she wasn’t exactly sure, Seton realised, waking up the next morning, between the cool linen sheets. By the window that looked towards the Firth, flowers stood in a precious glass goblet – kind Isobel must have had her room prepared with even more than her usual care. But then, the whole household was treating her like a fragile invalid, or someone who’d escaped from a war. Which in a way she had, thought Seton gratefully.

  She was loyal to the queen, of course she was; was and always would be. Never mind anything else she wasn’t just ‘the queen’, like a figure in an old May play. She was Queen Mary. Who liked her hair brushed long and smooth, who got a moustache of spices on her upper lips when she gulped her hippocras at night, who always remembered her maids’ birthdays…

  But for everyone else in this great house, their loyalty was like a badge they wore – not something they had to eat like bread, every moment of every day. They were loyal when it mattered, and George at least had to think what that loyalty might cost them. But then they could all go back to their real lives – even George, in his way.

  Went back to calling for his wine, and making love to his wife, and talking with the falconer about whether the new hawk was shaping well, or the huntsman about a fine buck spotted on their territory. It was like leaving the church after you’d made your confession, before the great annual festivities.

  They didn’t have to be loyal with every step they took through the palace galleries. They didn’t have to be loyal when the queen batted the hairbrush away in the bedchamber, and cried out that no one understood, that they none of them truly cared for her, that she wanted to die; and you had to bite your tongue not to say, ‘Well, you’d be out of it then, but what’s to become of me?’ Or – ‘Yes, well, you should have known better, shouldn’t you? Since everyone else saw Bothwell clearly?’

  You had to be loyal when Bothwell came into the bedchamber smirking, and began to undo the belt of his doublet. Looking slowly around him, as if he had a message for every woman in the room, not just for Queen Mary.

  You had to be loyal when people, a person, tied into your heartstrings seemed to be turning the other way… Seton jumped out of bed, flung open the door, and called the waiting servant to bring her water, quickly.

  After all, what would she do if, unthinkably, she did ask to be allowed to leave the queen’s service? What could any woman do?

  Wait for her brother to arrange a marriage for her. If anyone wanted an alliance with one of the disgraced queen’s Marys.

  *

  It was the seventh of June, that morning when Seton first woke up at home: just a week later when the great house was disrupted by a clatter of hooves. Oh, they hadn’t been in a bubble, all that time. Tired men had galloped into the courtyard before now and George had relayed the ill news, tersely. To Seton first and she was grateful for it; acknowledging it concerned her most directly.

  Bothwell had a castle in the Borders but it appears he’d taken Queen Mary only as far as Borthwick Castle, closer at hand. (Just as well, really, thought Seton irreverently. Heaven knows how the queen would have done on a longer journey, with hardly a woman to help her. Well – just as she’d done fleeing after Rizzio’s murder, maybe.) But, Borthwick! That bleak double tower, rearing up out of the rough country like some great squat troll of story – a place to keep a garrison in, not the Queen’s Majesty.

  But it was defensible, all right – walls thicker than t
wo men laid head to toe, and the ground on three sides falling steeply away. The lords had tried to raid it, but Bothwell had slipped out of a postern gate and galloped clear away. It was the queen who stormed up to the battlements and stood there shouting down at them. And they replied in kind… George couldn’t hold back a grimace of distaste, when he told this part of the story. The lords withdrew back towards Edinburgh – which would stand fast against them surely?

  But then – George’s voice had a note of disbelief – Edinburgh Castle had been turned over to the rebel lords. The men and arms Bothwell had counted on would not now be coming to support the Queen’s Majesty. The rebels sacked Holyrood kirk and the royal mint; the queen would be shorter than ever of money.

  *

  But you had to hand it to Queen Mary. She was down but never out, and she always knew how to surprise her enemies. The night after Bothwell fled, she too slipped away from Borthwick – disguised as a man! All those times we played it as a game, thought Seton, and who’d have guessed she’d ever be doing it in grim reality? The queen met up with Bothwell, and he’d taken her to Dunbar. Dunbar, of all places! – where they… But if the queen did not object, thought Seton, then who was she…

  They heard the lords were recruiting men around the streets of Edinburgh. Twenty shillings a month wages, they were offering – ‘And they said the court were the extravagant ones,’ muttered Seton, disbelievingly. They’d assembled a force three thousand strong, and no wonder, with those rates of pay.

  The queen put out a proclamation, that all loyal men should assemble at Musselburgh. Six hundred men she had behind her when she rode to meet Bothwell, who had raised two thousand more. The forces were matched, or nearly. They left the troops outside Edinburgh, near Craigmillar. And then, – thought Seton, with dawning horror when she saw Queen Mary – ‘then they came heading our way.’