by Jean Plaidy
Author’s Note
It is probable that no historical character has ever aroused more ardent supporters or more fierce detractors than has Mary Stuart. Strangely enough these admirers and detractors extol or defame irrespective of their religious faith. This is most unusual and is no doubt due to the fact that, in contrast with the disputes which almost always involved those who lived in the sixteenth century, those which concern Mary are not, in the main, about religion. The questions so fiercely debated in Mary Stuarts case are: Did she write the Casket Letters? Was she a willing partner in her abduction and rape? Was she a murderess?
My research for Royal Road to Fotheringhay led me to discover a Mary who was sometimes quick-tempered, sometimes gentle, always charming, tolerant and warm-hearted; but because I have been unable to exonerate her from implication in the murder of Darnley I want to stress that when assessing Mary we must not weigh her deeds and behavior by present-day standards. She lived in an age when life was cheap and cruelty part of daily existence. Many men and women of the past who were considered during their day as patterns of virtue would receive a very different verdict if they had lived today. For example: Michelet says that Gaspard de Coligny was the most ennobling character of his times; yet the discipline he imposed on the battlefield would be called cruelty today, and it is by no means certain that he was guiltless of the murder of François de Guise. It is very necessary to remember this when considering the part Mary played in luring her husband to the house in Kirk-o’-Field. In her generation she was kinder and more tolerant than most of the people around her; but she herself faced death more than once, and in the sixteenth century, the elimination of human obstacles was not deemed a crime of such magnitude as it is today.
Other questions asked are: How could a woman, having lived as virtuously as she had (even Brantôme had no scandalous gossip to record of Mary) suddenly indulge in an adulterous passion, and take part in the murder of the husband who stood between her and her lover? How could she, beautiful and cultured, suddenly become the slave of Bothwell, the uncouth ruffian from the Border?
I have sought explanations by posing questions of my own. Mary was not healthy and her pictures do not support all we hear of those outstanding attractions; so what was the secret of that immense physical charm which she undoubtedly possessed? I believe it was largely due to an extremely passionate nature which was but half awakened when she met Darnley and not fully so until it was recognized by that man—so experienced in amatory adventures—the virile Bothwell. I believe that dormant sensuality to have been the secret of her appeal. And why was it so long in coming to fruition? I think I have found the answer in Mary’s relationship with the Cardinal of Lorraine, that past master in all things sensual, whose closeness to Mary would have given him every chance to understand her; and, being the knowledgeable man he was, he could not fail to do this. The scandal—the origin of which was traced to Bothwell—that Mary was the Cardinal’s mistress, cannot have been justified; yet theirs was no ordinary relationship, and I am of the opinion that it was the reason why the passions of such a passionate woman were so long dormant.
The Casket Letters and the poems are perhaps the most discussed documents in British history. If they were actually written by Mary, there can be no doubt of her guilt. But are they forgeries? It is impossible to answer yes or no, for the mystery of the Casket Letters has never been solved. It seems clear that some of the poems could have been written by no other hand than Mary’s, and it is equally clear that some parts of the letters could never have been her composition. (I refer in particular to the crude reference to Darnley in Letter No. 2, the most incriminating of all the Casket documents.) Yet might it not be that the letters were in some part forgeries, in others Mary’s actual writings? Because a part is false it does not follow that the whole is. Who else could have written those revealing poems? Who among the Scots was sufficiently skilled in the French language? Maitland of Lethington? He was a cunning statesman, but was he a poet?
Mary was raped by Bothwell. Those who would proclaim her an angel of virtue are ready to concede that. An important question is: When did the rape occur? Was it in the Exchequer House or later at Dunbar after the abduction? Was Mary herself in the plot to abduct her? If so, she and Both-well must have been in love before the staging of that extraordinary affair, and it is more than likely that the rape took place at the Exchequer House. Buchanan’s ribald account is clearly exaggerated. The story of Lady Reres being lowered into the garden in order to bring Bothwell from his wife’s bed to that of the Queen might have been written by Boccaccio and is too crude to be believed; but Mary was at the Exchequer House, and Bothwell’s servant did live next door. Why should not Buchanan’s story be founded on truth?
I have discarded, selected and fitted my material together with the utmost care and I hope I have made a plausible and convincing picture of Mary, the people who surrounded her, and the circumstances which made Fotheringhay the inevitable end of her royal road.
I have studied many works and am indebted in particular to the following:
History of France. M. Guizot.
History of England. William Hickman Smith Aubrey.
British History. John Wade.
Henri II. H. Noel Williams.
Feudal Castles of France. Anon.
Lives of the Queens of Scotland and English Princesses
(Vols. III, IV, V, VI, VII). Agnes Strickland.
Letters of Mary Queen of Scots (Vols. I and II),
with Historical Introduction and Notes by Agnes Strickland.
The Scottish Queen. Herbert Gorman.
The Love Affairs of Mary Queen of Scots. Martin Hume.
The Queen of Scots. Stefan Zweig.
John Knox and the Reformation. Andrew Lang.
The Life of John Knox. George R. Preedy.
Lord Bothwell. Robert Gore-Brown.
J.P.
Mary the Queen
ONE
THROUGH THE GREAT ROOMS OF THE CASTLE OF STIRLING five little girls were playing hide-and-seek. They were all in their fifth year and all named Mary.
She, whose turn it was to seek, stood against the tapestry, her eyes tightly shut, listening to the echo of running feet, counting softly under her breath: “Ten… eleven… twelve …”
It was fair now to open her eyes, for they would all be out of sight. She would count up to twenty and then begin to search. Livy would give herself away by her giggling laughter. She always did. Flem would betray herself because she wished to please and thought it wrong that her beloved Mary should not succeed immediately in everything she undertook. Beaton, the practical one, and Seton, the quiet one, would not be so easy.
“Fifteen… sixteen …”
She looked up at the silken hangings. They were soft and beautiful because they came from France. Her mother spoke often of France—that fairest of lands. Whenever her mother spoke of France a tenderness came into her voice. In France there was no mist, it seemed, and no rain; French flowers were more beautiful than Scottish flowers; and all the men were handsome.
In France Mary had a grandfather, a grandmother and six uncles. There were some aunts too but they were not so important. The uncles were all handsome giants who could do anything they wished. “One day,” her mother often said, “you may see them. I want them not to be ashamed of you.”
“Eighteen… nineteen… twenty …” She was forgetting the game.
She gave a whoop of warning and began the search.
How silent the rooms were! They had chosen this part of the castle for hide-and-seek because no one came here at this hour of the day.
“I am coming!” she called. “I am coming!”
She stood still, listeni
ng to the sound of her voice. Which way had they turned—to the left or to the right?
She wandered through the rooms, her eyes alert. Was that a shadow behind the stool? Was that a bulge behind the hangings?
She had now come into one of the bedrooms and stood still, looking about her. She was sure she had heard a movement. Someone was in this room. Yes, there was no doubt.
“Who are you?” she called. “Where are you? Come out. You are found.”
There was no answer. She ran about the room, lifting the curtains, looking behind the furniture. Someone was somewhere in this room, she felt sure.
She lifted the curtains about the bed and there was little Mary Beaton.
“Come out, Beaton,” commanded the little Queen.
But Beaton did not move. She just lay stretched out on her stomach, resting on her elbows, propped up on her hands.
Mary cried impatiently: “Come out, I said.”
Still Beaton did not move.
The color flamed into Mary’s face. She remembered that she was Queen of Scotland and the Isles. Great men knelt before her and kissed her hand. Her guardians, those great Earls—Moray, Huntley and Argyle—never spoke to her without first kneeling and kissing her hand. And now fat little Beaton refused to do as she was bid.
“Beaton, you heard me! You’re found. Come out at once. The Queen commands you.”
Then Mary understood, for Beaton could no longer contain her emotions; she stretched full out on the floor and began to sob heartbrokenly.
All Mary’s anger disappeared. She immediately got onto her knees and crawled under the bed.
“Beaton… dear Beaton… why are you crying?”
Beaton shook her head and turned away; but Mary had her arms about her little friend.
“Dear Mary,” said the Queen.
“Dear Mary,” sobbed Beaton.
Rarely did the Queen call one of her four friends by their Christian names. It only happened in particularly tender moments and when they were alone with her, for Mary the Queen had said: “How shall we know which one we mean, since we are all Marys?”
They did not speak for some time; they just lay under the bed, their arms about each other. The little Queen could be haughty; she could be proud; she could be very hot-tempered; but as soon as those she loved were in trouble she wished to share that trouble and she would do all in her power to comfort them. They loved her, not because she was their Queen whom their parents and guardians had commanded them to love and serve, but because she made their troubles her own. It was not long before she was sobbing as brokenheartedly as Beaton, although she had no idea what Beaton’s trouble was.
At last Mary Beaton whispered: “It is… my dear uncle. I shall never see him again.”
“Why not?” asked Mary.
“Because men came and thrust knives into him … so he died.”
“How do you know? Who told you this?”
“No one told me. I listened.”
“They say it is wicked to listen.”
Beaton nodded sadly. But the Queen did not blame her for listening. How could she? She herself often listened.
“So he is gone,” said Mary Beaton, “and I shall never see him again.”
She began to cry again and they clung to one another.
It was hot under the bed, but they did not think of coming out. Here they were close, shut in with their grief. Mary wept for Beaton, not for Beaton’s uncle, the Cardinal—a stern man, who had often told the Queen how good she ought to be, how much depended on her, and what an important thing it was to be Queen of Scotland. Mary grew tired of such talk.
Now she had another picture of the Cardinal to set beside those she knew—a picture of a man lying on the floor with knives sticking into him. But she could not think of him thus for long. She could only remember the stern Cardinal who wished her to think continually of her duty to the Church.
They were still under the bed when the others found them. They crawled out then, their faces stained with tears. Mary Fleming began to cry at once in sympathy.
“Men have stuck knives in Beaton’s uncle,” announced Mary.
All the little girls looked solemn.
“I knew it,” said Flem.
“Then why didn’t you tell?” asked the Queen.
“Your Majesty did not ask,” answered Flem.
Seton said quietly: “Everyone won’t cry. The King of England will be pleased. I heard my father say so.”
“I hate the King of England,” said Mary.
Seton took the Queen’s hand and gave her one of her solemn, frightened looks. “You must not hate him,” she said.
“Mary can hate anyone!” said Flem.
“You should not hate your own father,” said Seton.
“He is not my father. My father is dead; he died while I was in my cradle and that is why I am the Queen.”
“If you have a husband,” persisted Seton, “his father is yours. My nurse told me so. She told me that you are to marry the English Prince Edward, and then the King of England will be your father.”
The Queen’s eyes flashed. “I will not!” she cried. “The English killed my father. I’ll not marry the English Prince.” But she knew that it was easy to be bold and say before her Marys what she would and would not do; she was a queen and had already been forced to do so many things against her will. She changed an unpleasant subject, for she hated to dwell on the unpleasant. “Come,” she said, “we will read and tell stories to make poor Beaton forget.”
They went to a window seat. Mary sat down and the others ranged themselves about her.
But the vast room seemed full of frightening shadows. It was not easy to chase away unpleasant thoughts. They could read and tell stories but they could not entirely forget that Mary Beaton’s uncle had been stabbed to death and that one day the Queen would have to leave her childhood behind her and become the wife of some great prince who would be chosen for her.
THE QUEEN-MOTHER noticed at once the traces of tears on her daughter’s face. She frowned. Mary was too emotional. The fault must be corrected.
The little Queen’s stern guardians would have noticed the marks of tears.
Since the Cardinal had been murdered there were only three guardians—Moray, Huntley and Argyle.
The Queen-Mother herself could have shed tears if she had been the woman to give way to them. The Cardinal was the one man in this turbulent land whom she had felt she could trust.
She looked about the assembly. There was the Regent, Arran, the head of the house of Hamilton, and of royal blood, longing to wear the crown of Scotland; Arran, who could not be trusted, whom she suspected of being the secret friend of the English, who had hoped to marry his son to the English King’s daughter Elizabeth, and who doubtless had hopes of his son’s wearing not only the crown of Scotland but that of England. There was false Douglas, so long exiled in England and only daring to return to Scotland after the death of James; Douglas, who had schemed with the King of England. He it was who had agreed, when in the hands of the English, to the marriage between the little Queen and Prince Edward. It was he who had come with soft words to the Queen-Mother, setting forth the advantages of the match.
There was the giant Earl of Bothwell who had hopes of marrying the Queen-Mother. Was he loyal? How could she know who in this assembly of men was her friend? Scotland was a divided country, a wild country of clans. There was not in Scotland that loyalty to the crown which the English and French Kings commanded.
And I, she thought, am a woman—a Frenchwoman—and my child, not yet five, is the Queen of this alien land.
All eyes were on the little girl. What grace! What beauty! It was apparent even at so young an age. Even those hoary old chieftains were moved by the sight of her. How gracefully she stood! How nobly she held her head! She had all the Stuart beauty and that slight touch of something foreign which came from her French ancestors and which could enhance even the Stuart charm.
“God protect her in al
l she does,” prayed her mother.
She raised her eyes and caught the flashing ones of Lord James Stuart—Stuart eyes, heavy lidded, not unlike Mary’s, beautiful eyes; and the proud tilt of the head denoted ambition. He was a boy yet in his early teens. But ambition smoldered there. Was he thinking even now: Had my father married my mother, I should be sitting in the chair of state and it would be my hand those men would kiss?
“God preserve my daughter from these Scots!” prayed the Queen-Mother.
Now the little Queen stood while the great chieftains came forward to kiss her hand. She smiled at them—at Arran, at Douglas. They looked so kind. Now came Jamie—dear Jamie. Jamie knelt before her but when he lifted his eyes to her face he gave her a secret wink, and she felt the laughter bubble up within her. It was rather funny that tall, handsome Jamie should kneel before his little sister. She knew why of course, for she had demanded to know. It was because although his mother was not the Queen, the King, her father, had also been Jamie’s father. Mary had other brothers and sisters. It was a pity, she had said to her Marys, that their mothers had not been queens, for it would have been fun to have a large family living about her—even though she was so much younger.
Now her mother would not allow her to stay.
“The Queen is very tired,” she said, “and it is time she was abed.”
Mary wanted to stay. She wanted to talk to Jamie, to ask questions about the dead Cardinal.
But although they all kissed her hand and swore to serve her with their lives, they would not let her stay up when she wanted to. She knew she must show no annoyance. A queen did not show her feelings. Her mother had impressed that upon her.
They all stood at attention while she walked out of the apartment to where her governess, Lady Fleming, was waiting for her.
“Our little Queen does not look very pleased with her courtiers,” said Janet Fleming with one of her gay bursts of laughter.
“No, she is not,” retorted Mary. “I wanted to stay and talk to Jamie. He winked when he kissed my hand.”
