by Alex Nye
Yet where were they now? Maitland and Moray were both proving increasingly difficult to pin down.
The mood in Edinburgh was tense. The townsfolk kept to their houses, as if they were aware of the increasing factionalism and the dangers it could pose. If one happened to back the wrong side, one could lose everything. It was best to lie low and watch how the great and the good of Edinburgh played out the drama to their advantage.
Did the townsfolk of Edinburgh know something that I did not?
Vague whispers began to reach me on the air.
“Burn the witch! Burn the harlot!”
Did I imagine those voices I heard as I walked in the Palace gardens, looking up at Arthur’s Seat and the Crags louring over us like a shadow?
Master Knox was preaching like fury from his fiery pulpit, showering the people with his wrath. The air was red-hot with his accusations. Not all of the townsfolk cared to listen to him. Many held him in contempt; but they knew when it was best to keep silent. Theirs was a humdrum world, filled with humdrum concerns, and they wisely held themselves aloof from the concerns of the powerful. They merely watched, and waited.
As did I.
The wolves were closing in…
Edinburgh
Early April 1567
When Bothwell returned from Stirling Castle, he came straight to me in the Palace.
I was standing before the great fire in my private apartments, trying to manage the ever-present sense of dread.
“Your Majesty…”
“How was my little son?” I asked, stepping forward anxiously on seeing him.
“He was perfectly well, Your Majesty.”
“And did he cry when you left him?”
“He was reasonably contented,” Bothwell said. “He was busy being entertained by the Earl of Mar’s children and had no time to wonder at your absence. He is wonderfully used to the changes forced upon him.”
I twisted the rings on my fingers nervously whilst struggling to hide my emotions.
Bothwell watched me closely; the look of empathy in his eyes did not go unnoticed. It moved me. Then he took me by surprise by suddenly kneeling before me, and gently taking my hand.
The action alarmed me at the same time as it did stir my blood. I gazed at him in shock.
“Your Majesty…” he hesitated then spoke my name in as soft a voice as I had ever heard him use. “Mary…would you consent to be my wife?”
He looked up at me with such frank appeal in his eyes, it quite took my breath away.
“Lord Bothwell, are you serious?”
“Never more so!”
I regarded him coolly.
“But the idea is ridiculous,” I burst out. “You already have a wife! Had you forgotten?”
I could see that he was offended.
“A small impediment, Ma’am…”
“Small?” I cried out in disbelief. I gathered my thoughts. “In the Catholic Church we do not condone divorce. Your Kirk is a strange and twisted affair, to my mind.”
Although I was refusing his offer, my hand still remained in his. He released it now and turned away from me. His disappointment was evident.
Recovering myself quickly, I began to protest.
“I cannot consent to your kind offer, Lord Bothwell, much as I am flattered by the attention you pay me. It would not be an expedient move to make at this stage.”
“Surely, Ma’am, if you will pardon my saying so, there has never been a more expedient moment, when you have need of my support?”
“My mother had need of your support and you did not marry her!”
He looked taken aback and I wondered if I had gone too far.
Then a spark of mischief entered his eyes.
“Let us not speak of this again, Bothwell, please? I have no wish to lose your friendship.”
Warm words that I hoped he would respond to.
“You value our friendship so much?”
“But of course!”
“You need my support, Ma’am. There are precious few you can trust at present.”
I did not like him to draw attention to the vulnerability of my position.
Despite my refusal of Bothwell’s offer, he was persistent. The second time he did ask for my hand in marriage, he produced a legally binding document that had been signed by many prominent men in my Council. I unrolled the parchment and gazed at the array of signatures. Then I read what the bond had to say. It urged me to marry again, now that I had been left a widow, that this would make my kingdom more secure. That if I should choose to marry soon, the Earl of Bothwell would be the favoured choice of those named in the Bond, being as he was a native of Scotland rather than a foreigner. Nowhere in the document was his wife’s name mentioned. I had heard it rumoured that Lady Jean Gordon was eager to be shot of him – she had said as much herself – so perhaps Bothwell was right to say there was not much of an impediment there; but I was not of the opinion that it would be wise to marry a man who already had a wife living.
I laughed when I read the document. “I cannot agree to this, Bothwell.”
“You are not persuaded a little of their arguments?”
“A little…” I conceded. “But it is not my intention to marry in haste, especially to a man who already has a wife.”
A second refusal was not what Lord Bothwell had expected, and he was not pleased.
We parted, not on good terms, and this saddened me.
It was a night or two later that placards began appearing throughout the town accusing Lord Bothwell of the murder of my husband. One was affixed to the Palace gates where I could not help but see it. On it were the symbols of a hare – an image that appeared on Bothwell’s family’s coat of arms – and a crowned mermaid.
The import of it was not lost on me. I had it removed and burned.
Fotheringhay Castle
October 1586
More letters arrived from abroad, informing me that rumours were sweeping across the frontiers of Europe, catching fire as they went, claiming that Bothwell was a constant guest in my Palace during these troubled times. Were these rumours true, they asked? Would I risk everything for the sake of a rough Border laird, an ambitious upstart?
Banish him, they urged me.
I ignored them all.
What did they know of my tangled affairs?
How could I banish Bothwell? What did foreigners know of the terrible dangers and perils of trying to rule Scotland, with a man like Knox at its helm?
The more dangerous my position became, the more I did rely upon Bothwell’s support.
Darnley’s ghost stands sentinel at the door, watching me. He leans nonchalantly to one side.
“He was guilty – and you know it!”
I still my needlework and meet his gaze.
“No one else sees you. Only I.”
He shrugs. His silence encourages me to continue.
“I had him acquitted in a court of law. He was put to trial, along with the other suspects who were named in the placards pinned about town. There were so many of them, you see. You had so many enemies!”
Darnley glares.
“And why did you not let my father attend the trial?”
“He was quite welcome to. Lord Lennox was informed that of course he could attend, but that we could only allow six armed guards to enter the city along with him. Any more than this would pose a risk to the security of the realm. Surely he understood this?”
I resume stitching. “He did understand it, and stayed away.”
“Exactly!” Darnley bursts out, exasperated by my coolness.
“No one mourned you, Darnley, except your own parents. If that seems cruel, then I am sorry, but I did my best by you for as long as I was able.”
He cannot deny it.
“Knox had you d
own as an adulteress and a murderess.”
“Yes, those were some of the choice epithets he used.”
Along with whore and harlot and Jezebel!
“He preached against you all the time.”
“So I believe. But he was no whited sepulchre himself.”
“An upright man of virtue like Knox? How could you possibly think of him otherwise?”
“I had my sources. There were rumours about him too. He was not without his faults. He was a man of passion although he sought to hide it. He hated women, and he hated the idea of pleasure or enjoyment. He thought art and beauty were not appropriate in a religious building and wanted every expression of art erased from the face of Scotland. He wanted a God after his own image. An angry God! Full of wrath!”
Darnley sniggers slightly. “Yes, it was a very angry God he worshipped. But we all tried to please him. Even you!”
“He preached such formidable sermons against me in St. Giles’ High Kirk. Even when he knew the half of it to be untrue. He simply saw his chance to be rid of a Catholic monarch – and a female one at that. No, Knox was no stranger to hypocrisy.”
I draw my bright thread through the weave and smile to myself. How odd it is that I should confide in my dead husband’s ghost after all these years!
“So, why did you agree to marry Bothwell in the end?” he asks me, stepping out of the shadows. “If you refused him twice – why not a third time?”
The walls of my damp cell seem to retreat and fade as the memories come pouring, flooding in…
And there is no one but Darnley left to listen…
Stirling Castle
April 1567
I come now to the strangest part of my history, the part which is hardest to tell.
My health began to deteriorate and I became anxious to see my son, Prince James. With this in mind I decided to leave Edinburgh, and fetch him back from Stirling Castle where he was still in the care of the Earl of Mar. I could not bear to be apart from my flesh and blood any longer. It was unnatural to me, to be torn from his side.
As I approached the high rock across the plains, I recalled my son’s baptism here, before Christmas, how it had snowed and how the kings of Europe and their ambassadors had flocked to my celebrations. The Palace kitchens had been a hive of activity then; the scent of their delicious fare had drifted across the courtyards morning, noon and night. Torches had flared along the outside corridors, and the windows of the Palace and state rooms had flickered with colour and light which could be seen for miles around.
How things had changed. Less than four months had passed and now my troubles threatened to overwhelm me. I was lonely, isolated. My husband lay cold in a stony grave beneath the chapel at Holyrood, a man of no more than twenty-one years.
I spent a sorrowful few days at Stirling, trying to persuade the Earl of Mar to let me take care of my own son. He refused, and his refusal tore at my heart.
“Would you defy me?” I cried.
“It is not safe to remove the Prince from Stirling Castle,” he informed me. “He can be protected and defended here. Can you assure the same would be the case if you took him to Edinburgh with you?”
I could not reason with him.
He remained staunchly defiant.
I spent an afternoon with my little son, walking with him in my arms, about the castle precincts, looking across the open plains. I pointed out the distant mountains, but he was still far too small to appreciate any of it, or to concentrate on anything but the pearl brooch on my cloak which he explored with his stubby fingers. The Earl of Mar did not let us out of his sight. I felt eyes watching us all the time.
The little baby prince put his head on one side and studied me intently, a mild-mannered but confused look in his eyes.
Was he wondering why I left him so often, why his life was governed by distant figures of authority who bore little resemblance to his mother?
“Mama has to leave you again,” I whispered, kissing his damp cheek. “All this will be yours one day,” I told him, indicating the mountains, those far pavilions that defined the edges of our world.
He did not understand me, of course. And I knew that in reality his kingdom would not consist of those beautiful mountains but instead powerful men who were difficult to control, who fought endlessly, conspired continually, and were quick to draw a dagger and blade. That was the reality, but my little son knew none of this yet.
His eyes were dull, I noticed, not particularly bright. Was this a symptom of his upbringing, the separation we bore? I did not want to see the truth, or notice the likeness to Darnley. Was this a son who would be moulded after a different image? If I was not there to protect him, how would others rear him? How would his tutors treat him?
“Your Majesty,” came a voice from the shadows. “The wind is cutting up here, and the little Prince will catch cold.”
“Fresh air cannot harm him!” I snapped.
“You would do well to return to Edinburgh and take care of your affairs there. You cannot afford a further absence, Ma’am,” the Earl of Mar warned me.
I kissed my little son James for the last time and left him in that sturdy fortress on its formidable rock.
“I will see you again in a few days’ time,” I whispered in his ear.
“He will be safe there, Your Majesty,” one of my women comforted me as we rode away.
I pulled my fur-lined cloak about my shoulders and hid my tears from them.
I did not know it, but that was the last time I would see my son.
It marked an ending, and I was not even aware of it.
Linlithgow to Dunbar
April 1567
We rode on, a small party of us. I did not go straight to Edinburgh, but stopped off at Linlithgow for one night. This was the Palace my father built. What had my mother made of it all when he brought her here? I do not know. There are so many questions I would have liked to ask her. Our time spent together was far too short. I mourn her to this day, and know that I always will, for we were very close despite our forced separation.
When I rode out at dawn the next day, I was accompanied by a few of my closest courtiers. It was the twenty-fourth day of April. We were heading towards Edinburgh, much to my regret. Everything in me wanted to head north instead, back to Stirling, but I controlled the impulse to do so and faced east.
However, we did not reach Edinburgh that night.
We came to the narrow stone bridge which crosses the River Almond, just outside the city. They were waiting for us – a party of about eight hundred armed retainers – on horseback. When I saw Bothwell in their midst I was deeply bewildered, confused. I did not know whether to be alarmed or relieved.
Sir James Melville was at my side and seemed uneasy in his saddle at the sight.
“What brings my Lord Bothwell here?” I asked Melville. “Did you have word of this?”
Melville shook his head.
“Perhaps he feels the need to accompany us back into Edinburgh?” I suggested, steeling myself for whatever encounter was about to follow.
Melville looked unconvinced.
As we drew near my courage failed me. There was something about Bothwell’s surly countenance,
the set posture of his shoulders that gave me cause for unease. His men surrounded us and I found myself vulnerable in their midst. In the chaos I became separated from my own courtiers and my ladies, until the only men I could see near me were strangers, armed and on horseback. Bothwell rode close to me and I looked at him questioningly.
“What is this, Bothwell?” I demanded.
“There is no cause for alarm, Your Majesty. I must ask you to accompany me to Dunbar Castle.”
“Dunbar?” I cried. “For what reason?”
“For your own safety, Ma’am.”
When I refused, he insisted, grabbing the bridle o
f my horse in his fist.
“I must ask that you do as I bid – Your Majesty!”
He spoke in a low voice, but there was no mistaking his purpose.
“You must ask? Then the answer is no. For the third time, Bothwell – no!”
“Edinburgh is not safe for you at the present time,” and he pushed his way through the crowd, forcing my horse to follow. He pulled me away from the vicinity of my own men and Melville, until I found myself surrounded by strangers, men I had never seen before.
I spun round in my saddle, seeking a familiar face, but there was none. I had become separated from my servants and my ladies-in-waiting. There was no one near to help.
And in this wise we were forced to ride with Bothwell’s army to Dunbar. I was not too unduly alarmed at first, for I was confident that Bothwell would not wish me harm, but I was bewildered and disappointed.
In the many small towns and villages we passed through, I was unable to cry out or call for help, and it would have been unseemly to do so. Bothwell had – up till now – been a loyal supporter of the crown, someone I could trust. Amongst the men nearby I did, at one point, spy James Borthwick and asked him urgently to ride back to Edinburgh and secure help from the citizens there, which I have reason to believe he did. For later on during our journey two salvoes of cannon were fired from a distance; they had little or no impact on Bothwell’s intent, however. We rode on at speed to the coast.
Bothwell held my horse firmly by the bridle until we got up close to Dunbar Castle itself. When I heard the familiar roar of the waves I knew that we were near.
We clattered into the inner courtyard; walls which had once offered shelter and protection now closed around me like a prison; I began to realise that no one would raise a finger to assist me.
Bothwell looked at me. “It is not necessary that your ladies-in-waiting should stay, Your Majesty.”