Also by Carolly Erickson
HISTORICAL ENTERTAINMENTS
The Hidden Diary of Marie Antoinette
The Last Wife of Henry VIII
The Secret Life of Josephine
The Tsarina’s Daughter
NONFICTION
The Records of Medieval Europe
Civilization and Society in the West
The Medieval Vision
Bloody Mary
Great Harry
The First Elizabeth
Mistress Anne
Our Tempestuous Day
Bonnie Prince Charlie
To the Scaffold
Her Little Majesty
Arc of the Arrow
Great Catherine
Josephine
Alexandra
Royal Panoply
Lilibet
The Girl from Botany Bay
THE MEMOIRS OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS
Carolly Erickson
ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN
NEW YORK
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TITLE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
NOTE TO THE READER
A READING GROUP GOLD SELECTION
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE MEMOIRS OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. Copyright © 2009 by Carolly Erickson. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Erickson, Carolly, 1943–
The memoirs of Mary Queen of Scots / Carolly Erickson.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-2824-3
1. Mary, Queen of Scots, 1542–1587—Fiction. 2. Scotland—History—Mary Stuart, 1542–1567—Fiction. 3. Great Britain—History—Elizabeth, 1558–1603—Fiction. 4. Queens—Scotland—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3605.R53M46 2009
813'.6—dc22
2009013190
First St. Martin’s Griffin Edition: September 2010
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Out of the shadows and mists of time, figures are taking shape, and walking across the grand stage of imagination. . . .
THE MEMOIRS OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS
PROLOGUE
FOTHERINGHAY, FEBRUARY 1587
I saw it all. I was standing at the back, in a group of men I didn’t know, who like me were shivering in their woolen cloaks as it was as cold as a witch’s dug and the big fire in the middle of the room gave us no warmth.
I was there to watch her die, the woman I had loved and hated, wanted and rejected, fought for and nearly died for a dozen times. My wife, my joy and my burden, my sovereign, Mary, Queen of the Scots and Queen Dowager of France and rightful Queen of England too, though it was for that she had to die.
I was impatient. I wanted it to be over. Already I could tell that there would be shouts and a rush for the blood-stained block as soon as the axe fell because many of the men around me had their handkerchiefs out, ready to dip them in her gore. For as everyone knows, the blood of a beheaded criminal works wonders.
The thought of it, the mad rush of the men running past me, shoving me out of the way, the stink of the blood, the twitching body—for I had seen many an execution, and I knew that it takes a long time for a body to give up its last struggle and lie still—made me swear under my breath. I wanted no part of it. I didn’t even want to see it, or to feel what would happen around me as the men crowded to get up onto the platform to wipe up the bloody mess.
Lord, let it be quick!
Despite the cold I felt my forehead growing damp with sweat. It had to be the waiting, all the tense waiting, that was making me feel hot. I had known for weeks that it would happen soon, that she would have to die, but no one would say when, what day or what hour. Queen Elizabeth could not make up her mind to choose a day, and so poor Mary and her grieving servants were forced to drag out their mornings and afternoons and long weary evenings, never knowing when the dreaded message would arrive. Finally it had come, and here we were, waiting out the last cold hours of Mary’s life, stamping our feet and slapping our arms in a vain effort to get warm. Meanwhile I was sweating.
At last a small door opened and Mary came in.
There was a hush, then a murmur from the hundreds of men in the room. I heard the words “martyr” and “whore,” and “murderess” and I stopped my ears, not wanting to hear more. I glanced at her. Her long years in prison, as I knew well, had turned her from the lithe, graceful, slender beauty I had first met when she was seventeen into a stout grandam with wrinkled cheeks who walked with a rheumatic limp, leaning on the arm of her escort, her sad-eyed old equerry Erskine. She still had the husk of beauty, and her eyes, as she searched the crowd, were still a lovely shade of golden brown, though lighter than they had been when we first met.
She had on a worn black gown that had once been costly, and as she walked she fingered a golden rosary tied around her waist and the miniature I had sent her, of myself and our daughter. I recognized the small suite that followed her: besides poor Erskine, there were her surgeon Gervais and her physician Bourgoing, the steward of her household Adrien de Guise, a man she had known in her youth in France, and her favorite tirewoman Margaret Hargatt.
None of the men around me uncovered when she came in, but kept on their high-crowned black hats. Not wanting to be conspicuous, I did the same. The murmuring stopped. Mary sat d
own in a chair draped with black velvet, the low velvet-covered block in front of her.
The death warrant was read. She was attainted of treason. She had conspired to kill Queen Elizabeth, the warrant said, and had exhorted others to kill her as well. She had to die.
Then a cleric preached to her, and afterwards knelt and began to pray in English after the Protestant fashion, for we were in England, after all, and England is a Protestant realm. But Mary, abandoning her chair and kneeling with difficulty, opened her Latin prayerbook and began to say her Catholic prayers, her voice carrying even more loudly than his, and some among the spectators crossed themselves and mouthed the old Latin words along with her.
At first I thought someone would silence her, and I looked around at the soldiers who stood by, and the sheriff’s men arrayed around the edges of the newly built wooden platform, their halberds at the ready, their faces expressionless. But no one in authority moved or spoke, and so she prayed on, her high voice broken but brave, until she reached her amen.
I saw now that one of her hands was trembling, and I could not tell if it was from the cold or from fear. I had an impulse to rush up to her, to put my own warm cloak around her, though I knew I didn’t dare. And in that moment she paused once more to look around at those gathered to watch her, and she met my gaze.
I knew at once that she recognized me. A light came into her eyes, and there was the faintest smile on her pale lips. I even thought I detected a flush on her cheeks, though it might have been a mere trick of the wintry sunlight that was beginning to filter in through the high windows.
“Orange Blossom!” I wanted to cry out. “My dearest! I tried! I did my best!”
But she had already begun to forgive the executioner Bull and his burly assistant for the bloody work they were about to do, and to hand them the token coins that were the symbol of her forgiveness.
It would not be long now, I thought. Only a moment and then those brave, loving eyes will close forever. Now I was the one who trembled, and I am not a cowardly man.
I turned aside, I could not watch. When I found my courage again and looked in her direction I saw that her women had taken off the black outer gown she wore to reveal the dark red gown she had on underneath it—red as dried blood, red for martyrdom.
Then I heard a silence, and then a swish of cloth, and in a moment, a dull thud. A shiver passed through the crowd. I looked up—and saw that the first blow of the axe had not severed her head, but sliced into it. A clumsy, crude blow, unpardonable! The knave had missed his target entirely. Vowing to slice him to ribbons once I found him, after the gory day was over, I watched as the next blow cut deep into her neck, but still did not sever her head entirely. Her blood gushed out, quantities of blood, and I could not help but gasp and try not to sob at the sight of it.
At the very last, before she died, she saw me. I swear she did. I saw her lips mouth the words “Jamie. My Jamie.” Her lips went on moving even after they held her head up, first by the red-brown wig that soon parted from the head and allowed it to bounce grotesquely along the floorboards, and then by her true hair, lank and gray and dusty from the dirt of the floor. Margaret told me afterwards that she thought Mary had been trying to say “Jesus” when her lips moved. But it wasn’t Jesus, it was Jamie.
Even in death the queen was afraid of her. Afraid of what the people would do when they learned she had been killed. So a huge bonfire was made in the courtyard, and every scrap of clothing with blood on it was burnt on that fire, and every relic of her found and destroyed. Even the executioner’s apron was burnt to ashes, against his protests. No one was allowed to leave Fotheringhay to carry the news of Mary’s death for days afterwards, and the huge iron gates of the castle were shut and closely guarded.
I left as soon as I was able, for I was no one important, just a peddler of potions, and no one wanted to keep me from delivering my oil of vetiver and larks’-tongue balm. Besides, I was eager to get to the coast, where the Black Messenger waited, her crew eager to sail to Lisbon and join the Most Fortunate Fleet. There I would tell the story of Mary Queen of Scots to whomever would listen, and I would boast that I, James, fourth Earl of Bothwell, had been fortunate enough to love her, and to watch her die, and to live on to tell the world about it.
ONE
The trumpets sounded a brilliant fanfare, the shrill high notes soon lost in the bright April air, and the jousts began.
It was my wedding day, I was fifteen years old and quite content to be marrying the dauphin Francis, the boy prince I had known since we were both very small children. The elaborate, lengthy wedding mass at last over, the jousting to celebrate it was about to begin. Francis and I sat together under the roof of the wooden spectators’ pavilion overlooking the tiltyard, watching as the armored jousters rode in one by one, the crowd cheering and clapping for each.
Francis and I stood, and clapped with the others, but I stooped a little, for I was so much taller than my new husband that it was embarrassing. I was much admired in my lace-trimmed gown of ivory silk, my long reddish hair coiled like a crown on top of my head, my throat wreathed in diamonds, a long rope of large pearls dangling from my belt to the hem of my gown. My new father-in-law King Henry called me his “petite reinette,” his little queen, and said that I was the loveliest child he had ever seen. Only I was no longer a child, I was far too tall for that, and growing taller every day. While my new husband Francis, poor boy, was pathetically stunted in his growth, quite the runt of his parents’ royal litter.
The cheering grew louder as King Henry rode into view, magnificent in his gleaming armor of chased silver, his metal helmet with its tall waving white plume, his long lance pointed upward.
I looked over at Francis, and saw that his small face was pale, slightly greenish. He appeared bilious. Knowing him as well as I did, I was aware that uncomfortable situations always made him nauseous. He was very uncomfortable now, aware that those seated near us were nudging each other and tittering, murmuring to one another that he was a coward.
The king had announced that Francis would join in the jousting, but at the last minute Francis had become frightened and fled to the spectators’ pavilion, humiliated and miserable. I felt sure that he knew, better than anyone, how futile it would be for him to take the field against the older, stronger competitors, how he would have difficulty couching the heavy lance, aiming at his opponent’s helmet (he was squeamish about hurting anyone or any thing), how if struck himself he would fall heavily from the horse and might well be trampled.
“Fight, boy, fight!” his father was always shouting at him. “How can you be a king if you can’t even be a man?”
But he couldn’t help his size, or the fact that he was cursed with a slight, weak body or that he was a poor athlete quick to tremble and run when chased by an opponent. I felt protective toward him—I was two years older after all—and had always defended him, ever since we were children together. I was still defending him on our wedding day, glaring at those around us who were smirking and making insulting comments and wishing, as we stood up there in the pavilion, that I had worn slippers rather than shoes so that the difference in our heights would not be so obvious.
With a thunder of hooves the king rode down the length of the narrow tiltyard, making us all gasp in admiration. He took up his position at the far end, away from us. We could see his splendid mount tossing its head and skittering and shying nervously, waiting for his full speed and power to be unleashed. The challenger now rode toward the near end of the long corridor of combat, his armor too shining in the sunlight and his charger strong and full of spirit and power.
King and challenger faced one another, the grooms who had been holding the horses loosing their hold and scurrying away. Drums rolled. Another fanfare sounded. Then, as Francis reached for my hand and we both held our breath, the jousters rode at breakneck speed toward one another, lances lowered and pointed at one another’s heads.
There was a sickening thwack as the king’s lan
ce struck the challenger’s visor, shattering into a dozen pieces, and the hapless challenger fell over sideways off his horse.
Grooms rushed to the armor-clad figure lying prone and tried to revive him. When they failed, he was dragged off out of sight and the earth was quickly raked to evenness where he had lain. It all happened so fast that I could almost believe I had imagined it—except for the red stain in the brown earth, and the deep tracks leading off toward the stables.
I looked at Francis, and saw that his pallor had increased. He looked ill. Was he about to throw up?
I reached for my handkerchief. If the worst happens, I thought, I will cover his mouth with my handkerchief. Maybe only those in the very front of the crowd will notice.
At that moment I heard my new mother-in-law’s low, syrupy voice.
“If you spew,” she said in Francis’s ear, leaning down from where she sat behind us, “I swear I’ll turn your head into a boiled cabbage.”
At this Francis seemed to straighten up a little.
“Courage!” I whispered to him. “Only five challengers more.”
“Leave me be!” he said sharply, both to his mother and to me. I felt relieved. He was irritated. His irritation would preoccupy him, I felt sure, and would prevent him from disgracing himself by being sick.
My mother-in-law the queen, Catherine de Medicis, now leaned over me.
“That’s the way, little reinette,” she said with a smile. Her round, jowly face had the heaviness, her leathery, pockmarked cheeks the roughness of a peasant woman in the marketplace. Her small dark eyes were shrewd. “Encourage him! He will need all his courage tonight.”
I knew very well what she meant. It was widely rumored that my husband was impotent. There were no pregnant serving girls claiming to be carrying his baby, as was often the case (so I was told) with princes. Francis was timid with everyone, even the serving girls, and seemed to shrink from the grown men and women around him.
I heard another voice, a much more welcome one, and turned to see that my grandmother Antoinette de Guise was coming to sit beside the queen, shooing away one of the latter’s attendants with a wave of one beringed hand and settling her ample self on the cushioned bench.
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