by Jean Plaidy
Oh to be rid of him! thought Mary. Could there be a divorce? Was it possible?
She had made an alarming discovery. She was to have Bothwell’s child. She asked herself how she could explain this pregnancy. Something must be done and done quickly.
She told no one. She must keep her secret until she could find a way out of her trouble. She loved intensely. She could have been happy. But her love was bringing her nothing but misery.
It would have been better if I had died before I knew this love, she told herself continually. It would have been far better if I had never lived to sin as I now sin.
How could she confess her wickedness? How could she seek the comfort of her religion when she dared not confess? How could she promise to reform her ways when she had not the power to do so, when her lover could so easily make her his slave?
On Christmas Eve she signed the pardon which would bring Morton, Ruthven, Lindsay and the other rebel lords back to Scotland. She knew that doing so was tantamount to signing Darnley’s death warrant.
Darnley knew it too. When he realized what had been done he lost no time in leaving the Castle of Stirling. He made for Glasgow, that territory which was under his fathers domination.
Only there could he feel safe from his enemies.
IT WAS JANUARY and the weather was bitter. Mary, alone with her thoughts, told herself again and again: I cannot do this thing.
And every time she answered herself: But I must.
Darnley was suffering from the smallpox, and safe in his father’s castle he was carefully guarded by his father’s men.
When Mary told Bothwell of the child he was by no means displeased.
“There must be no delay,” he said. “You must see that. Delay is dangerous for us now.”
“Why do you say these things?” she demanded, feeling half demented. “What good could come to us… even if we were rid of him? What of you? You are not free!”
He had laughed. “I’ll be free and ready when you are.”
“And Jean?”
“She will stand aside. There’ll be a divorce on the grounds of consanguinity. We are related.”
“So, we shall both be divorced and then—”
“Divorced! Divorce takes too long where Kings and Queens are concerned. Do not forget the child. It should not be born out of wedlock and it will not wait.”
She closed her eyes and tried to fight free of the spell he laid upon her. She thought fleetingly: If I could go to a nunnery…. If I could live out my life there…. But he had his arms about her; he was giving her those rough caresses which always brought memories of the Exchequer House.
He said: “He must be brought from his father’s territory. He could stay there for months surrounded by Lennox’s men, hiding in safety. He must be brought to Edinburgh.”
“Who will bring him?”
“There is only one who can.”
“No!” she cried.
“Yes,” he said, smiling. “He would come if you went to him. You could bring him from his father’s territory. We need him here in Edinburgh.”
“He is sick.”
“All the more reason why you should look after him.”
“I have told him that all is over between us.”
“Women… even queens… change their minds.”
She said faintly: “You had better speak plainly.”
“Go to him. Promise him anything. But bring him out of his hiding place.”
“Promise him… anything?”
Bothwell laughed. “It is hardly likely that he will be in a condition to ask you to redeem your promises.”
She turned away. “I cannot do this.”
He seized her, and forced her to look into his face.
“You will do it,” he said. “You will consider what it means to us, and you will do it.”
She could refuse him nothing. He knew it, and she knew it. Now she cried: “No, I cannot do this thing. I never want to see him again, but I cannot do this.”
He did not urge her then. He laughed; he caressed her; he reduced her to that state of mind and body when she had no thought or wishes beyond the immediate moment.
“You will,” he said, “do this for me.”
And she knew she would.
When he had left her she remained alone and in torment.
She picked up her pen and, because she dared not write of the terrible thing which was in her mind, she wrote of her passion for the man who had completely enslaved her. She wrote of the tears she had wept on his account, of that first brutal encounter which had taken place before she had known this overwhelming love.
RIDING TOWARD Glasgow in the bitter weather, Mary felt like a woman in a trance. She knew that she would play the part which was desired of her. Her own will was subdued. Her lover had as complete possession of her mind as he had of her body. There was one thing which could help her do this: her hatred of Darnley.
When she reached the castle she was taken at once to Darnley. If he had sickened her before, he did so doubly now. The marks of his disease were on his face and the room was unpleasantly odorous. He wore a piece of fine gauze over his face to hide the disfigurement as best he could. But he was pleased to see her.
“It is good of Your Majesty to come hither to see me,” he said humbly.
“There is much I have to say to you. You are very sick.”
“I shall recover.”
She could not bear to look at him. She said: “Why have you behaved so badly? If you had not… But tell me why you write letters complaining of the cruelty of ’some people.’ You mean your wife, of course. What have I done to be treated so by you?”
“You will not forgive me. You turn from me. I long to resume our normal married life and you will have none of it. I know that I have acted very foolishly, even wickedly. Madam, I am very young. I am not twenty-one yet. I am younger than you are. Let us try again. There is only one thing I desire: to get back to that happy relationship which was ours. Oh, Mary, you loved me once. Have you forgotten?”
She shuddered. “It was so long ago. I did not know you then.”
“You knew part of me. I was like that. I could be like that again. I have been led astray by my own folly … by the folly of others. I think of you constantly … as my Queen and as my wife. How could I ever be content without you, having known you?”
“I cannot believe you to be sincere. I know you, remember. If I took you back there would be those hideous scenes… that shameful humiliation. I cannot forget what you have said to me, how you have humiliated me—not only in private, but before my subjects.”
“Then you would take me back? You would let me be with you again?”
“How could I trust you?”
“You could! You could!”
“Hush! Do not excite yourself so. It is bad for you. Lie still. Speak calmly.”
“Speak calmly when you are here, when you have ridden here to see me?”
“I am uncertain—” she began.
“Mary, I will be a good husband to you. Mary, why should we not be happy together? We have a child … a son. We could be happy.”
“If we were different people we might be. I … I have brought a horse-litter for you.”
He was pathetically alert. “Why so? Why so?”
“I wish to take you back with me to Edinburgh.”
“To take me back!” He looked wildly about the room. “To take me back, Mary? I have too many enemies at the Court. They have sworn to be revenged on me for …”
“For David’s death,” she said. Her eyes were brilliant as she looked full at him and went on: “It is just a year since David died.” The memory of David, pulling at her skirts as he was being dragged across the floor, gave her courage. He—this sick and repulsive boy lying in the bed—had had no compunction in sending David to his death. She went on: “That is what you are thinking of, is it not? You fear them because you plotted with them to kill David and then deserted them and informed against them.�
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He nodded slowly and fearfully. He said: “I hear that they have plotted to do me harm. But I would not believe that you would join them in that. Why do you wish me to go back to Edinburgh?”
“Because so many talk of the strained relations between us. I would have us appear to the world to be living in amity together.”
“Mary,” he said, “I will come back on one condition. I will rise from my sickbed and come back to Edinburgh if you will give me your promise to be my wife … in all things.”
She hesitated.
He went on: “If not, I shall stay here. I want your solemn promise, Mary. You and I shall be at bed and board as husband and wife. Promise me this, and I will leave with you tomorrow.”
She was silent for so long that he said sulkily: “Very well then, I remain here. It is far too cold for me to travel.”
“You would be comfortable in your litter. You would have the utmost care. In Edinburgh we should all be together… you, I and the child. I would care for you myself.”
“I will come only if you promise me that one thing: we shall be as husband and wife and you will never leave me as long as I live.”
“As long as you live,” she repeated, and the shivering took possession of her again. She went on: “But it would have to be after you have recovered. We could not be together until then.”
“I will recover quickly,” he said eagerly.
“Very well. We shall start tomorrow.”
“Your promise, Mary?”
“I give it.”
“And never to leave me as long as I live?”
“Never to leave you as long as you live,” she repeated.
“Then let us set out tomorrow.”
Shaken, relieved and horrified, she said to herself: It is done. Soon my task will be over.
DARNLEY WAS sleeping deeply, his disfigured face turned away from her. Mary sat in the sickroom watching through the long night. She was too distressed to sleep and she could not sit idly; so she took up her pen and wrote to her lover.
“I am weary and sleepy, yet I cannot forbear scribbling as long as there is any paper….”
She had been writing for some time without considering what she wrote but setting down her thoughts as they came into her mind. She glanced back over the paper and read:
“He would not let me go but would have me watch with him. Fain would I have excused myself from spending this night sitting up with him….
“I do a work here which I hate much….
“Excuse me if I write ill. I am ill at ease and glad to write unto you when others be asleep, seeing that I cannot do as they do according to my desire, that is between your arms, my dear life whom I beseech God to preserve from all ill….”
There were tears in her eyes and they fell on the paper.
Will this night never end? she asked herself. She looked at the man in the bed, and she thought of the man whom she loved, and she murmured: “It were better if I had never been born, better I had died long ago when a child, and so many thought I should, than that I should come to this.”
THEY LEFT Glasgow next day.
“Are we going to Holyroodhouse or the Castle?” asked Darnley.
“To neither,” she answered him. “In your state it would not be good to stay at either place. You are sick of a disease which many fear. I have had a house prepared for you, and there you shall rest until you are well enough to come to me at the palace.”
“And share your apartments,” he reminded her.
“And share my apartments,” she repeated.
“Bed and board,” he said, smiling. “Where is this house?”
“It is one of those on the southern slope of the city. You know the ruins of the Church of St. Mary. There are several houses there, and this one belongs to Robert Balfour. He has lent it to us that you may rest there until you are well enough to come to the palace.”
Darnley frowned. “Among all those worn-out and ruined houses! You would mean Kirk-o’-Field, would you not?”
“Kirk-o’-Field, yes. Close to the ruin of St. Mary’s.”
“It is an odd place to which to take me.”
“It is near Holyrood, and for that reason it seems suitable. It is an old house, it is true, but we have furnished your apartment royally. When you are within and see the bed I have had set there for you, and the rich hangings I have had put up, you will agree that you are as comfortably housed as in your fathers castle.”
“And you… will you be at this house in Kirk-o’-Field?”
“I shall have my bed taken there. I shall sleep in the room below yours, so you will not be lonely. Your man Taylor and a few others will be with you. And I shall be there too.”
He nodded. “But Kirk-o’-Field! A dismal place!”
“Only outside. Inside it will be as a palace furnished for a king.”
As they came into Edinburgh and Darnley saw the dismal surroundings of the house which had been chosen for him he was uneasy. He looked with distaste at the house itself which had been lent by Robert Balfour, the Provost of Kirk-o’-Field and brother to Sir James. It was a house of two stories. There was a spiral staircase in a turret by means of which it was possible to enter the lower chamber and the upper through two small lobbies. On each of the two floors there were a few rooms which were more like cupboards than rooms—these were the garderobes and here the servants would sleep. Sliding panels acted as doors for these garderobes. The house had been built over an arched crypt.
“Such a spot!” he said, “For a king! Ruins all about me and a view of Thieves’ Row from the window!”
“Wait until you see your apartment.” She showed him the lower chamber in which was her velvet state bed. “This is where I shall sleep. I shall be immediately below you. Let me show you your apartment and then food shall be brought.”
He was cheered when he saw his apartment. It was decorated with tapestry and velvet hangings which had been taken from the Earl of Huntley at the time of his disgrace, as had the magnificent bed and most of the furnishings. Darnley could not complain of these.
He lay exhausted on the bed and thought of the future. He believed he had acted wisely in becoming reconciled to the Queen and in showing his trust in her. He would emerge from this sickness a handsome young man again; he would be the Queen’s adored husband. He only had to lie in bed and recover his strength and his handsome appearance. Then all that he desired would be his.
MARY HAD SLEPT in the velvet state bed at the house in Kirk-o’-Field on Tuesday and Friday of that week. On the Friday, late at night, she had heard the sounds of stealthy footsteps close to the house. She had not awakened Lady Reres who had been her companion since she had gone with her to the Exchequer House, but had crept to the window. She had seen French Paris and some of James Balfour’s men opening the door of the crypt and carrying in something bulky. She shuddered and went back to bed, wondering what the men were doing.
On the following day when she returned to Holyroodhouse, she had a few moments alone with Bothwell. He had taken her into his fierce embrace.
He said: “’Tis a fine bed you have there in Kirk-o’-Field.”
She looked at him wonderingly. “I saw it,” he told her. “I have keys to all doors. A fine velvet bed. I have a fancy for that. We’ll share it on our wedding night. Have it brought from the house tomorrow and a less fine one put in its place.”
“Why… tomorrow?” she asked.
“Because I ask it, and because you will do anything in the world to please me.”
DARNLEY SAID: “Why are they taking away your velvet bed?” “It is too fine for such a room as the one below this.” “Yet… to take it away… after you took such pains to have it brought here!”
“I wish it to be cleaned and prepared.”
“Prepared?”
“For our reconciliation.”
He was smiling. “It shall be our bridal bed, for it shall be as though we are newly married. You will be here tonight, Mary?”
“I shall come to see you tonight, but I shall have to return to Holyrood as there is a wedding which I am expected to attend. Bastian is marrying Margaret Carwood. You know how fond I am of Margaret—and of Bastian. I promised Margaret I would dance at her wedding and that I would see that hers was a fine one.”
“Would that I could dance at Margaret’s wedding!”
“There was a time when you would have scorned to dance at a servants wedding.”
“I was so young. I was overproud! And look to what my folly has brought me!”
She turned away because she knew that if she tried to say more the words would choke her.
After a pause he said: “This is a strange house. Do you think it is haunted? I hear footsteps. I fancy I hear whispers. There are strange noises in the night. In the crypt, it may be. I seem to hear these sounds.”
“This is such a small house that you would naturally hear noises from without.”
“Perhaps that is it. Mary, I think much of the velvet bed.”
“Yes,” she said faintly, “the velvet bed.”
“You shall see that I have changed. I was so young, Mary, and the honor done to me was too much. You … so beautiful… so desired by all, and to be so much in love with me as you were! And then to be the King. Remember my youth. Why do you weep, Mary? Is it for the past?”
She nodded, and she thought: For the past, for the present, for the future.
ROBERT STUART, Mary’s baseborn brother, had come to see his kinsman Darnley. Robert was in a quandary. The Stuart characteristics were strong in him, and the Stuarts, if they were often weak and foolish, hated cruelty and were overwhelmingly tender and generous to their friends.
Robert was disturbed. He had heard rumors and the rumors concerned Darnley.
Why, Robert asked himself, should Darnley have been brought to a house such as this? Darnley was a fool not to see the reason. There was a plot against him and his enemies were all around him. Even the Queen hated him and wanted to be rid of him. Why could not Darnley see what was so clear to others?
