For My Sins

by Alex Nye

  Would that I could believe his lies!

  And yet, they were not lies, merely misplaced confidence. He did try, I heard, even from the Netherlands where he fled in the end.

  But here in Fotheringhay I gave up believing in Bothwell long ago.

  It is many years now since his death, and I wait to catch a glimpse of his ghost. So far he has never haunted me here in my cell. His restless soul, it seems – unlike those of Knox and Darnley, and my brother Moray – is strangely at peace.

  Dunbar

  June 1567

  It was a relief to be riding swiftly over the cumbersome ground instead of stumbling on foot. To ride was like flying, and it is painful to me that I am largely deprived of this occupation since I became Elizabeth’s ‘guest’. In my youth I rode like any man, and better. It was one of my greatest pleasures in life.

  My horse flew through the night, skilfully clearing rocky obstacles, never stumbling, never faulting.

  Bothwell had sent out scouts to check the way ahead was safe. One of them came back with the news that a rebel contingent were still on the prowl in the area, so we took the long route to Dunbar, skirting the Lammermuir hills to the north. We hoped this would throw them off the scent.

  It was three in the morning when I saw the sturdy fortress of Dunbar etched in black against the horizon. The sky behind was just beginning to catch fire, spilling its radiance across the sea.

  Bothwell was riding ahead of me, but he turned in his saddle on seeing the castle and shouted a command to the men at the back. As he did so he caught my eye.

  The castle stood proud and substantial on its ridge of irregular black rocks. Dunbar would ever more occupy an ominous and ambiguous place in my memory. Here Bothwell had forced himself upon me, making marriage between us inevitable.

  Had he been patient and asked for my hand in marriage a third time – would I have accepted, persuaded by the growing warmth of my feelings? I have reflected on this often. I shall never know, of course, for Bothwell chose a different course of action. He was not a patient man. He was impetuous, impulsive, passionate.

  A man with flaws.

  Our horses were damp with sweat and my whole body was racked with fatigue, aching with exhaustion.

  Once inside we sat down to a makeshift meal like a group of hungry fugitives, hastily devouring our food, too exhausted to talk. I could hear the surf pounding the rocks below, while dawn streamed through the narrow windows in golden threads.

  There was a mood of optimism and cautious excitement. We had plans to raise a great army from here and recapture my capital. The rest of the country, the Catholics in the north, would rally under our banner and join forces with us to ensure that the crown remained safe from rebellion. Our ranks had already swelled since the night we fled Edinburgh pursued by the rebel lords. Many had joined us and more would follow. We had sent word out, urging all royalists to muster under Her Majesty’s banner at Dunbar.

  I looked at the men gathered in the great banqueting hall. There were noblemen and low-born alike, sitting at table together without respect of origin or lineage, a liberating freedom engendered by necessity. We were merely reacting to the moment, and all differences were expunged.

  I felt reassured, moved by the readiness with which the country had responded. As I watched these men eat together, I felt queen of this country more than ever before. I could lead my men into battle and lead them to victory. My breast was full of unwomanly valour.

  I have yet to see my sister Elizabeth display such physical bravery in the face of danger. Although I was with child, I did not allow this to hold me back.

  As the day progressed, and more men streamed into the castle, I took myself off to a quieter room to gather my strength. Bothwell joined me. We could hear the distant rabble from the banqueting hall, the murmur of numerous voices and the clatter of utensils.

  “The men are hungry,” I observed.

  “Aye, and ready for a fight! What is troubling you, Marie?”

  “When you left me at Borthwick, part of me did not expect to see you again,” I murmured.

  “I know. You told me. What did you expect?”

  “I know not.”

  I added, “If I am honest, I thought you might take your chances alone. I thought you would be in France by now, safe from all of this.”

  “And leave you to face the consequences?”

  “Why not? It has happened before.”

  “But not by me. I have never abandoned you yet,

  have I, Marie?”

  I was silent.

  “You do not trust me!” he said sadly.

  “I am not sure what I think. It is hard to trust a man who…” I hesitated, seeking the right words, painful as they were to speak, “forced himself upon me.”

  “I thought we had resolved that issue?” he said impatiently. “What else was I supposed to do if you would not see sense?”

  “Let us not discuss this now,” I said.

  “Gladly!” he muttered as I swept past him.

  The next day the whole of Dunbar rang to the sound of metal against stone. Heavily-armed troops surged through the courtyards and corridors of the castle. The entire fortress resounded with it.

  There was a mood of tense excitement, nerves and fear under a hot summer sky. Temperatures continued to rise. It was hotter than I had ever known Scotland to be, since my arrival seven years earlier.

  We went to sleep long before dusk, knowing that at dawn we would ride out early to meet our fate.

  Preparations had been made. We planned to advance on the rebel army before they had the opportunity to advance upon us. We would choose the battle site and thus gain the advantage.

  I slept in Bothwell’s arms that night though I did not know it would be for the last time.

  He tried to erase my fears with easy assurances.

  “Just look at all the men who have gathered under your banner, Marie. You have so many supporters. They will not let you down.”

  “But the others,” I said. “They are so determined.” I shook my head. “Do you think that even if we win the day tomorrow, they will ever leave us alone?”

  “Think of victory,” he said. “Not defeat! God has promised us a victory tomorrow.”

  “I have never taken you for a religious man before now, James.”

  “I am not!”

  “What will we be certain of this time tomorrow?”

  At first light I was woken by the swell of the waves against the rocks and the sounds of noisy preparation below. Although it was not yet dawn, it was already too warm, a sultry closeness, which did not bode well for battle.

  What would this day bring?

  Carberry

  June 1567

  I rode out before dawn at the head of a substantial force, leaving Dunbar behind. I was clad in armour and the attire of any fighting soldier.

  Carberry Hill is a name I shall never forget. The Battle of Pinkie had been fought on the site of this hill, twenty years earlier when King Henry of England was launching his bloody raids over the border, and a trench still lay at the foot of the incline as evidence, like a raw wound in the landscape. It was these raids which had forced my mother to pack me off to France at the tender age of five, for my own safety. We had been separated ever since, other than those two visits she made to the French court. Was this an ill omen, that we had chosen such a site for our encounter?

  We had heard that the rebel lords had left Edinburgh and were advancing upon us, so we lined up on Carberry Hill in readiness, the trench before us like a slit throat. My army covered the crest of the hill, the silver of their armour glinting in the early dawn light. I sat astride my horse, beside Bothwell, the rampant red lion of Scotland

  floating on the air above me to mark my position among the troops. I turned my head and looked at the men either side of me. No one spoke.
We stood still and waited for the enemy.

  There were no birds calling, despite the heat and the early hour.

  It was hot and close, and I felt my nerves build.

  We could hear them long before we saw them, their kettledrums pounding as they slowly advanced. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, but we stood our ground. The noise was distant but loud, thrumming through the earth and making the trees shake where they stood.

  From our elevation above the plain we could see the countryside for miles around and between the trees I began to see movement. The rebel army was coiling like a snake through Musselburgh. The beating of their drums was terrifying and I could feel the fear rising in the men around me.

  I could also see the Pinkie Burn winding its way in peaceful loops between banks of willow, sedge and reeds, and then the densely wooded banks of the Esk further away, but closer still came the ranks of the rebel army. On and on they came, as the sun began to rise behind them.

  “How many of them are there?” a voice muttered.

  There were murmurs of apprehension from our own army, and a cautious silence as we viewed the opposition. It seemed to take them an age to advance. They came on and on and then finally stopped on the other side of the trench. A white silk banner was borne above their heads.

  I screwed up my eyes. “What is that?” I asked.

  Bothwell conferred with his men and someone handed him a field glass.

  “There is a picture and an inscription, Your Majesty!”

  “And what does it say?”

  Bothwell hesitated before replying. “I think it is meant to represent your husband, Ma’am.”

  I looked at him, askance. “My husband?”

  “Your last husband, Ma’am!”

  With some reluctance he went on to explain, “It shows him lying on the ground next to the house at Kirk o’ Field, with your little son, Prince James, kneeling beside him, praying.”

  “Praying?”

  There was a silence.

  I snatched the field glass from him and peered through it. “How dare they use my son in this fashion?”

  I could see a banner unfurling from the little Prince’s mouth with the words ‘Judge and Avenge my cause, O Lord!’ painted upon it.

  My countenance grew pale. “They take my son’s name and claim to be acting on his behalf, as if he seeks to avenge the murder of his own father? When it is they…they who sought Darnley’s murder in the first place? What hypocrites are they?”

  I remembered Craigmillar and our secret meeting, all organized and convened by my brother Moray and my then Secretary of State, Maitland – he who could now be seen mingling with those gathered below.

  The hypocrisy felled me in one blow. I could barely catch my breath. They were claiming to fight their battle in my son’s name.

  Fotheringhay Castle

  October 1586

  Here in this damp, chilly chamber, the fire smouldering low in the grate, I have had time to reflect on the vicissitudes of life and the conclusion I have come to is this. If they were seeking to avenge anyone’s cause, then the God they serve is unjust.

  I am not afraid.

  I have suffered so many injustices at the hands of men that my rage has turned cold inside my icy breast. I am done with men like Maitland and Morton and the rest of them. I have nothing more to say to them.

  When the last trumpet sounds, I will confront my God and demand to know why he has withheld his compassion all these years while my tormentors and captors were allowed to go free?

  Is that a sin?

  To demand the truth of God?

  To demand answers?

  I do not understand why those men felt able to accuse me when they themselves were guilty of the crime. Their souls were blackened with the deed, their hands bloodied. Darnley’s blood was smeared all over their consciences, and yet they felt able to stand on their moral rectitude – with Knox’s backing – and accuse me!

  I have had years in which to dwell on these injustices, nights in which to pray for guidance and absolution.

  My gilded prayer book hangs still at my waist. I open its delicate pages to extract what comfort I can.

  I kneel and I pray, but the answers are few.

  Carberry

  June 1567

  The sun rose higher in the sky and neither side made a move.

  I could make out Morton below, moving amongst the ranks of the mercenaries, clad in silver armour. I could see his dark brow, the long beard flowing over his breastplate. I took my sword out of its sheath and felt the heavy weight of it, hot metal hissing through the air. How I longed sometimes to have been born a man – like my brother Moray.

  My hatred for that man, Morton, was so intense I thrilled at the idea of spilling his blood. For a brief, dizzy moment I imagined myself running my sword through him, pinioning him to the ground.

  But there would be no blood shed that day.

  As the sun steadily climbed higher in a cloudless sky, it shone directly into our eyes. It began to glint against the armour, blinding us with its glare.

  The men grew thirsty and hot, but there was not a bit of shade to be had on Carberry Hill. When we chose our site, we had not anticipated the heat or the need for shade.

  When I rode out of Dunbar that morning my spirits were high, but it was not a noble battle we fought. Neither side was eager to engage in combat. We confronted each other across the Pinkie Burn, wary and hostile.

  A stalemate.

  We waited.

  They waited.

  Hours passed and nothing happened, although the men grew thirstier and hotter beneath their armour.

  Towards midday as I rode through the ranks, I realised they had lost their enthusiasm for a fight. I noticed a group of them break away and wander off in search of shade. I hoped the rest of the men would not notice this defection.

  In contrast, the forces below looked rigid, stern, ready for a fight; their white standard borne above the standard-bearers’ heads with an air of self-righteous determination.

  They were liars and they were hypocrites, but they were deadly serious.

  They knew how to manipulate the facts to suit their purpose. They had stolen the advantage, manufactured a masquerade of lies to support their ‘cause’. Their only cause, in fact, was rebellion, greed, the grasping of power.

  At noon a party of horsemen detached itself from the main body of the troops below and rode towards me bearing a flag of truce.

  “What do they want?” Bothwell muttered.

  “We shall find out shortly,” I replied.

  Maitland was at their head and when they were still some distance off he dismounted and walked on alone,

  on foot. The harsh glare of the sun bore down on us all and he laboured his way slowly, looking hot and dishevelled.

  I sat down on a block of stone to receive him, weary with the heat, and waited for him to come to us.

  It seemed to take him an age, but at last he reached the summit and came towards me.

  Then he dropped on one knee.

  I looked at him. “I am surprised at this show of obeisance, Maitland. It is not what I would have been led to expect of you, lately, considering recent events.”

  “Your Majesty,” he mumbled, mopping his hot brow with a handkerchief.

  “We are unused to such heat, I fear,” I offered politely.

  “Indeed!” he said.

  “So…you have come to ask…what? My forgiveness for your actions?”

  “Ma’am,” he eyed me coldly. “I have come as a mediator.”

  I opened my mouth to exclaim, “Oh, have you now?”

  But he continued – “To ask that you abandon Bothwell, and having done so, the confederate lords do promise that they will then gladly acknowledge you as their Sovereign.”

 
I paused, and waited, gathering my composure. It took an effort of will to contain my rage.

  “Do they?” I said. “How very kind of them! I was under the impression that I was their Sovereign no matter whom I should choose as my husband – it being an unchangeable fact! I was also under the impression that the Sovereign need not be dictated to by the very same men who murdered…”

  He interrupted me at this point. “I have not come here to quarrel with you, Ma’am. I have come with a view to peace.”

  I stared at him.

  How to outwit such an oily manipulator of the facts? After all, I knew his worth. I had appointed him my own Secretary of State because I knew him to be a man of diplomacy and tact, deception and subterfuge. Do those qualities contradict each other? In Maitland they did not. He managed to balance the half-truths, lies and distortions and transform them into a reality of his own making.

  “I am merely trying to acquaint you with the facts, Your Majesty.”

  “I know the facts, Maitland,” I answered drily.

  “This is what the confederate lords have stated as their truce.”

  “Truce?” I laughed. “Have you forgotten our meeting at Craigmillar?”

  I looked him in the eye, but he glanced away, down at the rebel hordes below with their banner suspended in the windless air.

  “Do you remember how I was allowed to remain in ignorance of the deed? What else did you decide that night after I left you all? How much did you keep from me, Maitland?”

  He looked a little awkward, although I was wrong if I imagined him to be contrite.

  “To rid me – and Scotland – of the problem of Darnley and when that was done, to rid yourselves of your monarch?”

  “All of this is irrelevant, Your Majesty. What matters now is that…”

  I cut him off. “What matters now is that you – and they – are gathered below, in defiance of your Queen.”

  “I am merely their spokesman,” Maitland answered flatly. “If you wish to be restored then you must leave Bothwell. Declare him unfit to be your husband.”