For My Sins

by Alex Nye

  How can you dismantle so much history?

  How can you wish to destroy beauty and art? Knox takes a hammer to the past and wants to smash it to bits. He wants to rewrite the history books, declare himself the King and Master, masquerading under the banner of religion. He is radical, extreme, ready to operate through terror and judgement.

  Knox and Darnley: they are two of the troubled souls who haunt me here in damp, dismal Fotheringhay. Whatever it was they wanted of life, they are not at rest. They have not found peace. This much I know…

  But it was another who waited for me on the

  far side of the churchyard wall, under the shadow of the overhanging trees.

  As we emerged from the subterranean depths of the burial vaults into the moonlight, I heard the jangling of a harness. The silhouette of a man on horseback rose above the wall.

  “Quick,” Darnley urged me, dragging me after him where I was stepping carefully for fear of stumbling. He was full of cowardice and desperation. He did not want the conspirators to find him in the act of escaping – and what is more – helping me to escape.

  Our cloaks brushed against the damp grass and I could see clouds of mist escaping from the horses’ nostrils, rising like steam against the brightness of the moon.

  “A full moon is not what we wanted,” a familiar voice said.

  Darnley recognized the voice too and hesitated a moment.

  “That ruffian Bothwell is here?” he asked.

  “That ruffian, as you call him, saved my mother’s life on many an occasion. He was loyal and steadfast.”

  I spoke with not a little trace of reproach and bitterness, which I am sure was not lost on my young husband.

  “Make haste, Your Majesty,” came the familiar voice again from the darkness. “There is no time to lose.”

  We mounted the horses that were waiting for us, endeavouring to silence the jangle of harness and bit. Then we moved with stealth through the trees on the edges of the churchyard, bending low to avoid creating a silhouette, hugging the wall. I glanced upwards at the many windows of the Palace. Did I detect movement in those narrow panes? It was hard to tell.

  Bothwell was right. What we did not need was a full moon, which was picking out our silhouettes in movement. The white orb hung low in the sky, like a lantern lighting up our figures. Thankfully, a sudden cloud crossed before it and we were doused in darkness. Breathing a sigh of relief we took advantage of the brief respite and broke cover, then headed for the boundary wall of Edinburgh. As we clattered through the cobbled streets, I glanced from left to right at the shuttered houses on either side of us. Would anyone suspect or recognize our little troop for what we were – a queen on horseback, in flight from Rizzio’s killers? I pulled my cloak closer about my face.

  The people of Edinburgh had shown great concern for the safety of their Queen earlier, when rumours of the incident had reached their ears. If they did suspect me of fleeing, they would not move to stop me or help the rebel lords. Those scheming conspirators – Morton, Ruthven and Douglas – were no friends of the people. They operated only in the interests of their own rise to power – like so many before and after them.

  By the time the moon reappeared we had left Edinburgh far behind and were on our way to Dunbar. The clouds had saved us from detection.

  We listened anxiously for the thunder of hooves behind us. How soon would my absence be discovered? I had left clothes and pillows stuffed beneath the coverlet of my bed and Lady Huntly had left instructions that I was not to be disturbed, but how long would it be before the guards grew suspicious and sought to check on me?

  After an hour or two exhaustion caught up with me in my frail state; when it was clear that we were not being pursued, I pulled my mount to a halt.

  “Mary,” Darnley cried, “what in God’s name are you doing?”

  “I am unwell, Darnley,” I replied. I felt my stomach heaving and, leaning forward over my horse’s neck, I retched from the saddle.

  “There isn’t time for this,” he cried, glancing over his shoulder into the distance.

  “I’m sorry if my sickness inconveniences you, Darnley, but it is beyond my control.”

  He glared at me in frustration, urged his horse on, but when I did not follow suit he rode back again.

  “You have to make haste. We are going too slowly.”

  “I am with child, Darnley. I cannot go any faster. If you are so concerned for your own safety then why do you not ride on ahead? I will go at my own pace. I care about the safety of this babe, even if you do not.”

  He glared at me once more then spurred his horse forward.

  Bothwell, who had been watching this exchange, moved to ride beside me. He made no comment but I was aware of his presence. And his silence.

  He kept pace with me throughout the rest of that long journey.

  The moonlight was unsettling. In truth I was afraid that Rizzio’s murderers would discover my empty chamber and ride out to detain me; but I spoke the truth to Darnley when I said that I could not ride any faster. I was in some discomfort and had to stop several times more on the journey, to empty the contents of my stomach, retching in an undignified manner from the saddle. Darnley rode on ahead.

  Bothwell gave me a shrewd sideways glance.

  “His Grace is very keen to save his own skin,” he remarked.

  I nodded.

  “I must apologize,” he murmured.

  I waited a moment, wondering.

  “For what?”

  “It is not my place to criticize your husband.”

  “No, it is not,” I replied quietly.

  After a while he said in a soft voice, “You are sad.”

  I did not turn to look at him.

  “Would not anyone be in my position?”

  We rode in silence for some moments more before I added stiffly, “I do not understand why they murdered my friend.”

  He considered his words carefully before he spoke.

  “In their eyes poor Davie was not aristocratic enough, and what was worse, he was a foreigner. Two black marks against him. He appeared to have Your Majesty’s ear.

  They did not like it. Jealousy, Ma’am, plain and simple.”

  “And you?” I glanced at him. “Were you jealous?”

  “Of what?”

  “Of the influence others have over me?”

  He did not answer me.

  “Every courtier seeks the queen’s ear. Everyone wants

  to be my adviser. I am a female monarch, weak in their eyes. But who can I trust? That is the question.”

  There was a long silence during which I listened to the husky breath of our horses and the soft rhythmic thudding of hooves against the earth.

  Eventually Bothwell spoke in a low voice that arrested my attention. “You can trust me, Ma’am.”

  I did not reply.

  There was a moment between us, a silent dialogue of understanding.

  Fotheringhay Castle

  October 1586

  “There was a moment between you, was there? Ahhh…how sweet…”

  Angel-face is back again, watching me from the shadows.

  I ignore him. Pale and whey-faced, Darnley occasionally breaks his silence to taunt me.

  “Do you think the world cares about you any longer? Do you think anyone would care if they lopped your head right off your shoulders?”

  I continue to sew, in silence.

  I do not understand how these ghosts find me here.

  When Jane or Elizabeth bustles in to attend to my needs, I breathe not a word of these encounters. I will confide in them everything else, but of the ghosts I say not one word. I fear to be thought insane, for then any last shreds of my credibility are lost.

  The Duke of Norfolk lost his head for me. He wanted to marry me with the blessing of the Pope a
nd the Catholic Church, but Elizabeth saw fit to deal with him. Men have loved me in droves before now. Boys and old men, eager to please, to rescue a maid in distress locked in a tower, sewing for her life.

  Where is my knight in shining armour?

  I once thought Bothwell was that man.

  Where is he now?

  The truth is he is nowhere to be found. Even his damaged spirit does not visit me here.

  So many of the men who played their part in my drama have met their bitter end. My half-brother Moray was murdered after a few short years acting as Regent over my son, to be replaced by Morton, who was murdered in his turn. Plots and counter-plots, betrayal, conspiracy and intrigue…

  I have outlived them all.

  And still my sister-queen, Elizabeth, hesitates to sign my death warrant. She will avoid it if she can.

  Anthony Babington is my final hope. My last knight in shining armour.

  I wait for him here, for his letters and whatever influence he can afford.

  But it is Bothwell I long for still. I remember those moments we had together, those first sparks of intimacy when he rallied to my side. He was my staunch defender: quiet, steadfast, but always there in the shadows, off-stage as it were.

  Why can I not persuade him to haunt me here?

  Why must I only have traitors for company? The grey-bearded Knox and his fanatical demons?

  The shadows shift uneasily in my narrow chamber.

  I turn my face away from Darnley’s pale ghost. I snap the silver thread with my teeth, and feel the squeak of pain. It reminds me I am still alive.

  Dunbar Castle

  March 1566

  The journey was a long and arduous one that night, and by the end of it my own feelings had undergone a transformation, but one which I was barely aware of.

  We made slow progress and I feared at any moment to hear the distant pounding of hooves behind us. Tension and fatigue took their toll, and I felt the last of my strength ebbing away. Bothwell glanced at me with kind concern from time to time, and I noted his courtesy and warmth.

  He has many critics, men who deride and reproach him for his rash actions, but I remember these small kindnesses which others were slow to offer.

  We reached Dunbar by dawn. When I saw that stark black fortress rearing up on the horizon ahead of us, with the morning sun rising over the sea, my spirits lifted.

  “At last,” I breathed.

  “We will be safe here, Your Majesty,” Bothwell said.

  We rode up the narrow causeway and beneath the portcullis. Far below us, the waves crashed against the black rocks and the sea stretched endlessly. I made to dismount, but Bothwell moved to assist me, followed by others I recognized in the dawn light.

  I was exhausted.

  “Where is Darnley?” I asked.

  “He arrived before you,” I was told.

  “Of course,” I muttered darkly.

  I was led to a room made ready for me, and fell to my rest, a dark relief washing through me, tinged with sorrow. I had done it. I had out-manoeuvred my enemies, Rizzio’s murderers.

  I lay for many hours on my bed, falling in and out of a deep slumber, my dreams punctuated by the slough of the waves beneath. In the courtyard I heard the steady commotion of armed guards and horses mustering under my banner. In spite of the noise I slept on, and the ring of horses’ hooves and steel weapons penetrated the thin veil of my dreams. It was the best sleep I was to enjoy in months. The sound of their mustering comforted me.

  And beyond the sound of men at arms rushing to my defence was the persistent murmur of the waves beating a perpetual tattoo against the castle ramparts. My sleeping thoughts were awash with reminders of the ocean, as gulls and cormorants pierced the air with their cries.

  When I woke the sickness had passed and I felt reassured that the child in my womb was safe. I joined the others in the main hall for a meal. From time to time I caught Bothwell’s eye across the crowded chamber. Halfway through the meal I called him to my side.

  “My Lord Bothwell,” I began. He inclined his head politely. “You served me well yesterday.”

  He nodded. All his actions towards me were calm and understated.

  “My mother wrote to me in France, telling me how she could rely upon you. She mentioned your name often and urged me to remember that I could trust you. I believe she was right.”

  Bothwell met my gaze briefly, but said nothing.

  “I wish to show you my gratitude by making you warden of this castle.”

  “Your Majesty is very kind.”

  “Kindness has nothing to do with it,” I said. “Dunbar Castle is a safe fortress to retreat to. It has offered us protection and may well do so again in the future if I have need of it. To have you named as warden of this castle can only be to our advantage.”

  I tapped the side of my wine glass and the assembled company ceased their chattering.

  A silence fell and all eyes turned to me.

  “I wish to make an announcement,” I declared.

  The crowd hesitated.

  “I wish to make our friend here – James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell – warden of this castle, in reward for his services.”

  There was a ripple of applause, glasses were raised, and the announcement passed unremarked as the murmur of conversation started up again. It was all in the ordinary way of things, but then I chanced to glance in Darnley’s direction. He was standing transfixed with a strange look on his face. I could read his thoughts like a book. He was consumed with resentment that he made a poor show of concealing from me.

  Fotheringhay Castle

  October 1586

  “Jealous of that oaf?” Darnley explodes. “That rough Border laird, strutting about the corridors like he owns the place?”

  I pause, thread held taut for a moment, listening. He is here again, hovering in the passage beyond. My servants and ladies have left me in peace. I am alone. Almost…

  Darnley’s voice rattles on.

  “He was more of a liability than I ever was, and that’s saying something. Where is he now?” His sea-blue satin rustles in the shadows as if he is real.

  “I don’t see him here? Do you?” he adds, making as if to seek out Bothwell’s ghost in the corners of the room.

  I lower my tapestry onto my knee and concentrate on the delicate weave – tiny infinitesimal stitches that glitter

  and gleam in the dark. Silken threads, silver and gold,

  pick out the detail with such effortless skill. I need a steady hand for this elaborate fretwork, and a careful eye.

  Darnley is right.

  Bothwell‘s ghost has never appeared in this chamber, neither to reproach nor comfort me.

  He offers nothing now.

  In the corridor outside my room I hear guards marching, stamping their feet. They make so much noise they keep me awake at night. My sleep is always troubled, disturbed by visions of the past and fears of the future.

  When I look up again the room is empty. Darnley has vanished. I stare at the spot where he stood. Not even a shadow or a footprint in the dust remains. My needle is still held mid-air, my careful stitching arrested.

  I do not know if he is real or a figment of my imagination sent to torment me.

  Perhaps I am being driven mad by lack of sleep and worry as I wait patiently for the end that never comes.

  Dunbar Castle

  March 1566

  When I close my eyes I hear again the endless crashing of those waves against the rocks below. I imagine myself standing on that exposed parapet, as the wild winds

  whip my face. I can see the wide North Sea stretching toward the horizon, all the way to distant rocky islands one has never even heard of, where human beings have barely set foot. The foggy marshlands of Norfolk are tame in comparison. I long for those bracing winds, the pounding
of that ocean.

  It was a happy few days I spent at Dunbar Castle, despite the circumstances that had brought me there, and the terrible crime I had recently witnessed. I felt determined, sure of my own power. I look back upon those years of my youth with bittersweet nostalgia. Although in peril, I could rise to the situation with spirit.

  After a hearty breakfast in the Great Hall I summoned those closest to me. “Send out messengers throughout the north of the country, warning them of what has happened to me, and requesting their help.”

  “And if no one responds?”

  I turned to look at my husband, for it was he who had voiced this doubt.

  “They will,” I replied. “They must.”

  “Have no fear on that score,” a quiet voice murmured.

  I caught Bothwell’s eye and smiled.

  Darnley glowered and – turning on his heel – swept from the room. I watched him go with a sinking heart. I had no time for his petulance; it was exhausting trying to keep him docile, and now was not the time. Right now I needed to focus on my goal – reinstating myself at the centre of my own kingdom, back in my own Palace, with my enemies routed.

  “They will not get away with this,” I told Huntly and Bothwell. “I will see them to the edges of the borders… and beyond.”

  From my room I watched as several riders left the castle in haste, racing across the hills, spurring their mounts on until they were no more than a blur on the horizon, hooves pounding into the earth with relentless purpose. They would spread out and rally my supporters to action.

  Once they had left the castle fell to quiet again and I waited tensely for news, wondering what events were taking place in Edinburgh in my absence. How had they reacted when they discovered my empty chamber, that their prisoner had flit the cage? I imagined their blind panic and disbelief, their frustration.