For My Sins

by Alex Nye

  Then it slipped out, words he might easily have regretted speaking. “You’ll no’ scare me. Your mother didn’t freeght me, and she was more brawn than yerself.”

  I stared at him, aghast. I should have struck him down then, while the iron was hot. I should have sworn to demolish his purpose before he could undermine me further. But I was mindful of the promise I had made to my brother.

  I bid John Knox a good afternoon and demanded that he be escorted from my presence.

  The palace rang with gossip afterwards. I could hear them discussing it in subdued voices, wondering how I would react.

  After our meeting that day I sat down on a low stool before the fireplace, where I wept tears of frustration.

  “Calm yourself, Mary,” Mary Livingstone comforted me, a hand on my shoulder. “You must be strong.”

  “How can I appear strong when I have an adversary like that ranting against me from the pulpit every week? How did my mother bear it?”

  “She struggled, and she rose to the challenge – as will you.”

  I looked up.

  It was James Hepburn speaking.

  “I had not known you were there, Bothwell,” I said.

  He came forward into the light. “You will succeed, Ma’am.”

  The atmosphere was tense suddenly.

  “My mother wrote of you often,” I said.

  “Did she?”

  “She told me how loyal you were.”

  He said nothing.

  “A ruler needs to find out early who are her enemies – but also her friends.”

  Mary Livingstone watched this little exchange with a wry look on her face which I could not quite fathom.

  I went to bed that night trying to suppress the vision of John Knox’s face before me, his flowing beard, his angry eyes, as his mouth worked on and on in a torrent of terrible invective and abuse.

  Edinburgh

  February 1563

  During my first year in Scotland I transformed the Palace of Holyrood, making it resplendent with furnishings brought from France. I covered the walls with rich gold tapestries; I filled the dull, forbidding rooms my father had built with oaken and marble tables, furnishings of velvet and damask, brocade sofas and porcelain, cabinets and silver lamps, gorgeously canopied beds.

  I lived mostly in the north-west tower. I imported my own library from France, glad these precious volumes had survived the journey across the high seas – texts in French, Latin, Greek, Italian, Spanish, and of course my native Scots. I was fortunate in receiving an education which most young women are denied.

  My brother frowned at these attempts to soften my surroundings. He declared it an extravagance.

  I reminded him that no money had been parted with. The coffers of the Exchequer remained untouched.

  I had simply brought from France what was already mine, and made good use of the items. I could not see that this should be a problem for my brother, but he used it as an excuse to complain of my lavish excess.

  I was often absent from Edinburgh during these years, continually on the move, my brother by my side, as we sought to put down rebellion. I rose to the challenge, thinking often of my secret heroine, Joan of Arc, who had been inspired to lead her people into battle.

  There is one incident, a fragment of memory from this time, which burns clear after all these years. We spent a memorable few nights at Cumbernauld Castle and one night the roof of the main hall caved in. It collapsed unexpectedly while we were dining. My brother was quite put out, but even more so when he observed my response to the incident, for I did tuck my skirts into my breeches and set about helping the servants to clear the hall of debris. We were hard at the task all day, and when night fell, I slept with them on the floor of the chamber as there was nowhere else to rest. The servants were full of gratitude, and did tell me how great was my kindness, but what I recall most about the incident is that it made me long for an ordinary status such as theirs, for it was a comfort to join in with them and be on good terms with those who work hard. There was great warmth and comfort in sharing their company that night, and I have longed ever since for such conviviality.

  During my absence from Edinburgh, Knox, of course, continued to preach against me in the pulpits,

  ranting about idolatry and implying that a French Jezebel could not be trusted to rule. His screams echoed above the rooftops and tenements of the city in a silent frenzy which – thankfully – only met my ears in muted whispers and rumours.

  “Did you know…?”

  “Have you heard…?”

  “What was it this time?” I asked.

  “The man is a fool,” Bothwell said. “Ignore him.”

  “But I thought you were a Protestant, Bothwell?” I chided him.

  “So I am, Your Majesty – but that does not mean I have to agree with everything Knox says.”

  Meanwhile relations with my brother became gradually strained over time. At first we presented a united front, but if I happened to disagree with him, he objected.

  “Why can you not accept that I know what is best for this country? I could have been…”

  He stopped.

  We both knew what he could have been. My brother was born out of wedlock, illegitimate, therefore ruled out completely from the succession.

  “I like not the direction of your thoughts, Lord James,” I told him.

  This exchange introduced a tension into our relationship.

  There came a time when I began to doubt the loyalty of my own brother.

  I did not know who to believe.

  I still do not know who to believe.

  Fotheringhay Castle

  September 1586

  My lady-in-waiting, Jane, has just entered the room. She stands, folding clothes and placing them by the fire to warm.

  The past tires me.

  She glances down at my writing book.

  “I am confessing here, Jane,” I tell her, patting the thick leather binding. “I have taken your advice.”

  Jane smiles. “It is between yourself and God, Madam. No one else. But it will be a comfort to you.”

  “I will entrust this book to you for safekeeping when the time comes, Jane. When I am gone, you can be the guardian of this volume. And you can decide what will happen to it.”

  Jane Kennedy’s eyes brim with tears and she looks sad. “No, Madam. You will not die soon. We have many years together yet – all of us.”

  “And are you content to remain trapped alongside me between these dank castle walls?”

  “I am content enough to serve you, Madam.”

  “You are very kind, Jane. And loyal.”

  “I am not the only one,” she replies.

  Perhaps she is right and Mary Queen of Scots has not been forgotten. There are many beyond these walls who would risk their lives to further our cause, to see me released and returned to Scotland. I used to believe that my son waited for me there, and that he would demand my release so that we could endeavour to rule jointly. But, sadly, that is not the case. He broke my heart. He thought only of himself and did nothing to secure my release.

  That is another bitter pill I have had to swallow during these terrible years of captivity.

  “It is sometimes a little hard to believe that anyone cares,” I offer in a tired voice.

  “You will see, Madam. But we must tread carefully.”

  She pauses and adds carefully, “Forgive me, Ma’am, but I do not always believe that the letters you receive from France are genuine. I think you must be wary.”

  “I trust Babington.”

  “So do I, Madam. But what if he too has been tricked?”

  I shake my head. “All will be well,” I tell her. “You will see.”

  Jane looks worried as she watches me put aside the writing book and pick up my tapestry.


  “But how do you know your replies have not been intercepted, Your Majesty?”

  I give her a long level look.

  “I do not know. But I trust to God.”

  Jane does not look convinced by this.

  She continues to fold clothes and pours a few more coals onto the fire. It knocks apart the little pyre we have built, and the burnt-out pieces crumble into ash before it revives again.

  I am ringed around by Walsingham’s threats and his spies. Sometimes I find myself even doubting Jane. How easy would it be for Walsingham to turn my closest friends and servants against me with the threat of torture? Who would not consent to turn double-agent when threatened with the rack, the boot and the screw?

  “These are evil times we live in, Jane.”

  She stops what she is doing at the fire, and her back is rigid.

  “Indeed, Your Majesty.”

  “I am very grateful to you, Jane. I hope you know that. I would be lost without you.”

  She makes a hasty motion, thrusting the poker back into its cradle. “Don’t be silly, Ma’am. We are all your friends here – Elizabeth, Didier and I. And don’t forget little Geddon,” she laughs. Then adds on a more serious note “We will never desert you, Ma’am.”

  A piece of kindling cracks in the hearth, like a pistol-shot in the darkness.

  Sparks fly.

  As I watch the flames lick the coals I think of how many perish in this fashion. Catholics are being burned throughout the land – at Queen Elizabeth’s orders, just as in Mary Tudor’s day. Knox hated Catholic monarchs because of what happened to his friends, but the Protestants are no better in their methods.

  Walsingham is cunning and sly. Will he find me out?

  I pick up my embroidery silks and stab my bright tapestry with the needle. My life is a web on which sorrow and pain stitches itself.

  It is incomplete. I study the picture with a wry smile on my lips. I have stitched a cat with evil, gleaming yellow eyes; there is a mouse between its paws. Elizabeth is the cat and I am her victim, being teased and toyed with. Every tapestry of mine is a narrative alive with symbolism.

  The stitches are miniscule and delicate. Although my eyesight has suffered over the years and my shoulders have become rounded, no one doubts the skill with which I execute these tapestries. It is sometimes said that the pen is mightier than the sword, but there is also power in my needle.

  I watch the thread grow taut as I weave my anxiety and sorrow into the tapestries I create, in and out, in and out.

  In the corner of my chamber there is a spider’s web, stretched tight across the cornice. For weeks now I have studied the intricate weave of that web, like Robert the Bruce in his cave. It has pockets and cradles, strung like a hammock from several hooks. It is a work of art, the architecture of the spider. I heard it once said that spider’s web is stronger than silk. It bends, but it does not break. I imagine winding a whole sticky spool of the stuff to use in my embroidery.

  How strong would it be then? How inviolate?

  Crookston Castle and Stirling Castle

  February 1565

  It was the year of the Big Freeze. The lochs froze like plates of glass. Trees became statuesque forests of spindly white with winds whistling through them. The cold was interminable and ruthless. Coal fires were lit

  throughout Holyrood and they greedily swallowed up our supplies of fuel. No matter how much wood was chopped or how much coal was heaped in the scuttles, the fireplaces devoured it.

  I wore voluminous cloaks of velvet and damask, lined with soft white sable fur to keep out the chill. Despite the freezing conditions I continued to take delight in

  getting to know Scotland. The royal court was constantly on the move, riding across country to stay in the various residences and castles dotted about my kingdom.

  The more I was seen in evidence by my people, the

  more I could count on their support. I visited both Protestant and Catholic lords alike, keeping the nobility on side no matter what their religious leanings during this turbulent time. We all heard stories of what was taking place in England, terrible atrocities.

  There had been continuing negotiations about whom I should marry. I was surrounded by male advisers who brought pressure to bear – all insisted I should marry well to provide an heir for the throne.

  I think now of my wily sister, Elizabeth – how she submitted to the negotiations, hummed and hawed, kept suitors dangling, and then somehow never finally agreed to marry anyone. She remained the Virgin Queen, married to her country. Do I now wish I had done the same, avoided marriage altogether?

  A life without love?

  Without pain?

  Without disappointment?

  That winter Darnley rode over the border into our territory. Elizabeth sent him, I believe.

  I was invited by his father, Lord Lennox to visit them at Crookston Castle.

  No mention was made of Darnley at first, but I could not avoid noticing him. He struck me as a fine-looking

  young man. I was twenty-four years of age. Darnley was nineteen: tall, lean and lusty-looking. He gave the impression of being well-educated, refined, and made a welcome change from the gruff Scottish lords I was surrounded by. He played the lute and the virginals, he could sing and dance and play cards. He was amusing – I could tell that at a glance. My eye was caught, but not my heart.

  As I left Crookston Castle with my entourage, I thought about how my advisers did urge me constantly to find a husband.

  It was not long before our paths crossed again.

  We were at Stirling Castle. The Great Hall was filled with guests. All four fireplaces were blazing and the long trestle tables were laden with food. Music was playing; the sound of the lute and the virginals hung in the high wooden rafters above. There was snow outside. Through the small diamond panes, I could see a white sugary coating over the mountains. Flaring torches lit the cobbles and the air in the courtyards outside was bitter – but inside here we were warm as toast while darkness fell.

  Lennox had made sure that I encountered his son at Crookston Castle. He then drove home the advantage, I believe, by insisting that Darnley follow me to Stirling and make himself amenable. I saw him now among the guests, without his father this time, but attended by a couple of valets.

  Bothwell was there too, watching, as was my half-brother, Moray.

  When Darnley approached and led me onto the dance floor, I was happy to oblige. I love to dance and when I was young I could have danced without stopping, until dawn rolled in over the mountains.

  He was an excellent dancer, a skill which was not lost on me. He wore sky-blue satin, a shining cloak that swished with his swift movements, and a high collar which showed off his good looks to perfection. The slashed velvet of his doublet and hose revealed the faintest of blue silks beneath.

  I could feel eyes upon me as we danced. Lord Lennox would have been delighted had he been there; Bothwell and Moray were less so.

  After several hours there was a lull in the dancing and I took a break, cheeks still aflame and eyes wide. Darnley acquired a lute from one of the musicians and began to pluck its strings – with the same delicacy of skill with which he could dance. I watched him, entranced. I will admit he had succeeded in holding my attention.

  He played a quiet melody, softly singing a few notes in a low voice which sounded surprisingly intimate despite the crowded hall. The entire court was watching us, while pretending not to, of course, but it was obvious that all present would be keen to know where my interests lay.

  I was not completely won over at this point. My heart was still my own.

  There was a moment, as he sang, when he lifted his eyes and looked straight into mine. I was the first to look away.

  Bothwell and Moray exchanged knowing glances with each other.

  The next day Moray came to visit me in
my private apartments. Most of the guests were still present, and Stirling Castle rang to the sound of blacksmiths and ostlers, horses being led across the courtyards. The Great Hall was being swept, the debris from the night before cleared by scores of servants. The kitchens were always busy with activity, kitchen boys and porters, steaming, simmering, chopping, plucking, kneading and baking. The smells wafted across the courtyard and found their way into my rooms.

  “Did you enjoy the festivities yesterday, my brother?” I asked him cheerfully.

  “I did, Ma’am.”

  He regarded me coolly, and I think I almost knew what was coming next.

  “You appeared to be enjoying yourself too, Mary. Are you aware that Lord Lennox’s son is a Catholic?”

  I shrugged. “It has been mentioned to me.”

  He frowned and chewed his lip for a while.

  When I said nothing he launched into his main point.

  “You know, Mary, I have stood by you all these years, supported you…but I am afraid I cannot answer for your safety if you should decide to marry a Catholic.”

  “Marriage? Who said anything about marrying him? You are a little quick off the mark, brother.”

  He gave me a long piercing look and pursed his lips. The silence between us spoke volumes.

  Of course, once he had planted the idea in my head it began to take seed, festering away like a little wound.

  Perhaps I would never have considered Darnley as a serious contender if my half-brother Moray had not laboured the point. If he had kept his thoughts to himself I might have allowed Darnley to pass on by after a little frivolous flirtation.

  After all, there was something a little light and insubstantial about him, something I could not quite put my finger on. It was as if he lacked substance.

  I stood at my window watching the snow fall.

  “It never snows in France,” I observed later that afternoon.

  Lady Jean Stewart, my half-sister, glanced at me.