The Countess carefully opened the door of the Queen's anteroom. It was in a state of untidiness from the night's festivities. The door to the bedchamber beyond was closed. Quiedy she abstracted the key from the inside of the anteroom door, transferred it to the outside, closed the door and locked it. Then she dipped in a mocking curtsy, first to Mar and then to the taller of her two attendants, and with a whisper of skirts slipped away downstairs without a word said.
The tall man straightened up. He cast off the voluminous but somewhat tattered cloak and hood of the Atholl colours which had masked both figure and features, and stood revealed, in splendid half-armour, as Francis Hepburn Stewart, Earl of Bothwell. From the basket, beneath the sweetmeats, he drew out and buckled on his sword.
Mar beckoned, and cautiously opened the door of the King's anteroom. Peering within, he signed the others forward.
They moved inside, the third man revealing himself to be Mr. John Colville, a professional diplomat and one of the original Ruthven raiders, high in the Kirk party despite being an associate of Patrick Gray's.
Tip-toeing to the royal bedroom door, Mar listened thereat. He shook his head. With the utmost care, he tried the handle. It was locked, as anticipated, from the inside. James was unlikely ever to forget such a precaution.
The three men drew back. Mar took up a position close to the window, where he could watch the forecourt below. The other two examined the arras which hung against the stone walls, in case it should be necessary to slip behind it for cover from view. They waited, silent.
They were not long inactive. Quite soon there were sounds of stirring from the next room. Then a bout of spluttering coughing. The trio exchanged glances at the unmistakable sound of a chamber-pot being filled. Then, after some more movement, there was a loud thumping on the floor-boards beyond the door. This was the monarch's method of summoning his pages from the room directly below.
Motionless the three men stood, watching the door.
After some more thumping, the King's voice was raised in querulous shouting. 'Tam! Tarn Erskine, you ill loon! Here! To me. A plague on you, you lazy limmer! Here wi' you!'
A pause. Then they heard cursing from within, and the turning of the key in the lock. The door of the royal bedroom was flung open.
James came shambling out, to halt suddenly as though transfixed, as Bothwell stepped forward into the middle of the anteroom. The King made an extraordinary figure. He was naked from his bed, apart from a dressing-robe thrown hurriedly over his sloping shoulders, and his hose which sagged down to his ankles. In one hand he clutched certain of his underwear. Never an impressive figure, he showed now to less advantage than almost ever before. A wail escaped from his slack lips.
'Eh…! Eh…! Christ God – Bothwell!' he gasped. 'Fran… Francis Bothwell!'
The Earl removed his hand from his sword-hilt to sweep off his bonnet in a deep bow, smiling but unspeaking.
The King's great liquid eyes rolled and darted. Panting, he took a single step, almost involuntarily, towards the window.
Mar moved back a pace or two, so that his broad person filled the narrow embrasure. At the same time, Colville hurried from his stance by the inner wall, and slipped past the King and into the bedchamber. It was essential for their purpose that James did not reach either of the windows, to shout to or otherwise alarm the guard in the forecourt below.
James stared from Mar to Bothwell, and back. 'Johnnie!' he choked. 'You, Johnnie! Johnnie Mar.' Then his voice rose in a bubbling yell. 'Treason!' he cried. 'Treason!'
A shade anxiously Mar glanced out and down, to see whether this dread shout had reached the massed ranks of the guard confronting the palace gates. There was no sign of alarm below, however. He raised a hand to Lennox and Atholl, who still stood there, waiting to calm and reassure the soldiers, if necessary.
Bothwell spoke, the first word of any of the conspirators. 'Not treason, Your Grace. Far from it. We but seek your good. And the good of your realm…'
'Liar! Traitor! Devil! Tis treason! You seek my life. I ken it – fine I ken it, Francis Stewart!' Wildly the King glanced behind him, to find Colville standing there within the bedroom doorway. 'Waesucks – I am betrayed! Betrayed!' he all but sobbed.
'Not so, Highness,' Mar declared urgently. 'Would I betray you? This is but a necessary step. To ensure your royal safety. There may be trouble. Fighting. The Papists are stirring, assembling. This Parliament has been sore on them. It is even bruited that Huntly is returning. I have the guard protecting the palace. But who knows who are your enemies within, Sire? The Hamiltons. Morton. Crawford. We are all good Protestants, but…'
'False! False!' James exclaimed. But it was at Bothwell that he gazed, as though fascinated by those piercing, vividly blue eyes under sandy brows. Seeking to cover his nakedness in some degree, he backed against the wall. 'Satan's tool! Satan's right hand…!'
Bothwell grinned. 'Scarce that, Sire – or I could have arranged this a deal more conveniently by witchcraft! I come but to seek your pardon, indeed, for breaking my ward. To stand trial before my peers on the witchcraft charge, if so be that is your royal wish. And to protect Your Grace from the evil that threatens from the Papists and those who would endanger your throne.' All this, the Earl announced with an expression of mockery quite at variance with his words. 'Your Grace has cause to thank me, not to fear me.'
James gnawed at his lip, in an agony of doubt.
'It is the truth, Sire,' Mar assured. 'Fear nothing…'
There was a diversion. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and the landing outside, and the door opened to admit a party of gentlemen. The royal eyes widened at the sound and sight of them, and he started forward in sudden hope, forgetting his precarious modesty and all but leaving his bed-robe behind him. He faltered, stopped, one trembling hand out appealingly, the other seeking to draw together his robe and cover at least his loins with the clutched underwear.
Ludovick of Lennox came first, followed by the Earl of Atholl, the Lords Ochiltree and Innermeath, the Master of Orkney, Sir James Stewart of Eday and Sir Robert Stewart of Middleton. They all bowed to their unclothed monarch, but kept their distance at the other side of the room.
James's expression underwent a series of swift alterations, as sudden relief was banished by uncertainty, perception, renewed fear and alarm, almost despair. He recognised that every man who had come in was a Stewart, of his own house. But they had none of them come to his side. All stood ranged behind Bothwell, even Lennox. Almost, it might have seemed, they left a gap amongst them for their dead kinsman Moray.
The King tried to speak, his thick lips working. 'Vicky…!' he got out, at length.
That young man inclined his head slightly, but said no word.
James looked from one to the other, and back to Bothwell, and a new gleam of hope dawned in those tell-tale eyes. He had his own intelligence, and perceived, panic-stricken as he was, that Bothwell could not have assembled all these fellow Stewarts in order to murder their royal relative before their eyes. Out of a strong sense of self-preservation, and no little cunning, he summoned an excess of courage of a sort, deliberately changing his whole attitude and bearing. He addressed Bothwell only, in as loud and declamatory a voice as he could muster, dropping his underwear and drawing himself up, to hold wide his robe, so that his nakedness should be displayed, not hidden.
'Do your worst then, my lord,' he declared strongly, even though the words trembled. 'I am wholly in your power. Take your King's life. You, nor your master the Devil, shall have his soul!'
Bothwell was scarcely to be blamed if he stared, so unlike James Stewart was this.
'Strike, man!' the King went on, warming to his part. 'I am ready to die. Better to die with honour than to live in captivity and shame. Aye, better. Stay… stay not your steel, Francis.'
That this was sheerest play-acting all knew well, for James's horror of cold steel was common knowledge.
But the performer had met as keen a play-actor as himself.
Bothwell, recovering from his surprise, glanced round at his supporters. Then he drew his sword with a dramatic flourish, and as James involuntarily cowered back at the sight of it, he threw himself forward. But somehow he had his sword whipped round now, and he sank to his knees before the other, presenting the hilt to his monarch.
'Here is my sword, Sire,' he cried, to the shrinking King. 'Take it and use it on me, if you truly believe me traitor! See -I bare my neck.' He bent his head and pushed up his sandy hair with his left hand. 'Strike shrewd and fair, Your Grace, if you deem me ever to have harboured a thought against your royal person.'
James gobbled and blinked and wagged his head, hoist with his own petard. He could no more have used sword on Both-well, or on any man, than he could have flown in the air. On the other hand, to do nothing, to indicate that Bothwell did not deserve death, was to condone all, besides displaying the greatest weakness. He temporised.
'False!' he mumbled. 'Nay, kneel not, man – and add hypocrisy to treason. You ha' plotted my death. I… I call upon you now to execute your purpose. Aye, your purpose. For I'll no' live a prisoner and dishonoured.' That was declared with rather less conviction than before.
'Nor will I, Highness,' Bothwell assured, straightening up a little. He kissed the hilt of his sword theatrically, and thrust it almost into the King's hand once more. 'Here shall be the end of your distrust of Francis Stewart! Us it now – or trust me hereafter.'
'Waesucks! I… I… ' In his predicament, James looked appealingly at the others, especially at Lennox.
That young man, in some measure, answered the appeal. Nodding, he spoke, if stiffly. 'Your Grace, I counsel you to raise up my lord of Bothwell. We are convinced that he intends no treason. If his manner of entry here offends you, how else could he have gained your face? He can serve you well in this pass, we are assured. Heed him, Sire.'
Something like a growl of agreement came from the assembled Stewarts.
James, thankful no longer to have to look at the kneeling Earl and his outstretched sword, released a flood of disjointed eloquence. 'It's no' right. It's no' suitable. This violent repair to me. To our royal presence. Is it no' dishonourable to me? Aye, and disgraceful to my servants who allowed it? It was ill done. Am I no' your anointed King? I am twenty-seven years of age, mind. I am no' a laddie any mair, when every faction could think to make me their ain property. You hear me? It is ill done.'
All eyed him steadily. None spoke. Bothwell had risen to his feet again. He returned his sword to its scabbard, with a noticeable screak and click. Play-acting was over.
The King did not fail to perceive it, and drooped puny shoulders, drawing his robe around him again. 'What… what would you have, my lords?' he muttered, almost whispered.
'Your goodwill and trust, Sire – what else?' Bothwell declared, briskly now. 'Your realm is in poor state. We shall order it better for you. These are true and leal men, of your own house. Trust them, if you still do not trust me.' 'Aye,' James sighed.
'Much must be done, and swiftly. Now. Before this Parliament breaks. That it may show the consent of the realm. And of the Kirk.' Bothwell paused, and waved a hand to Colville. 'But we can consider this while Your Grace dresses. Tom Erskine shall attend you forthwith. I would advise that you attend the morning session in person, Sire. To announce certain concessions. And decrees. We shall support you.'
'This morning? Aye.' There was a hint of eagerness in that. James darted a glance towards the window. 'Aye. This morning.'
Bothwell read his thoughts. 'Your Highness will be entirely secure, rest assured,' he said, with a thin smile. 'I have five score horsemen to escort you thither. And a thousand men in the city. All will be well.'
The King all but groaned.
Mar led the way into the royal bedchamber, taking care however to resume his stance at the window. James looked from him to Lennox.
'Vicky…?' he began. 'Och man, Vicky!'
Ludovick inclined his head, but kept his boyish features stern, unrelenting.
'Where… where is Patrick? Where is the Master o' Gray, my lords?'
'In his bed no doubt, Sire,' Ludovick answered. 'We have not concerned him in this matter.'
Once more Bothwell smiled, briefly. But he made no comment.
Thus, simply, quietly, without a drop of blood shed, the fearsome, devil-possessed and unpredictable Earl of Bothwell took major if temporary control of the realm of Scotland, after more spectacular attempts innumerable. There was no clash, no active opposition. A deputation of the citizens of Edinburgh, hearing rumours from the palace, did present themselves at the gates, and by the mouth of Provost Home asked if the King required their aid, perchance? James, only too vividly able to imagine his fate during the period of waiting for any such succour, sadly dismissed them. Thereafter, he rode in the midst of a strong escort of mosstroopers, Bothwell on one side, and happily the Master of Gray on the other, to the Parliament Hall, where he made a short and largely unintelligible speech conceding practically all that the Kirk party demanded, removing episcopal and prelatical seats from the legislature, and promising compensation for Moray's family, preferment for his young son and heir, and vengeance on his killers. More ringing and heartfelt cheering than he had ever known followed the monarch out into the High Street, with Bothwell doffing his bonnet right and left, and Patrick Gray singing gently beneath his breath.
A special court of the Privy Council, consisting of Bothwell's peers, the Earls of Atholl, Argyll, Mar, Orkney, Glencairn, and the Marischal, considered formally whether he could be said to be guilty of treason or conspiracy. The accused tactfully absented himself from the proceedings, but his men surrounded the court in serried ranks. After a fairly brief deliberation their lordships acquitted Francis Hepburn Stewart on both counts, and commended him to the King's grace and assured benevolence. The next day, therefore Bothwell's peace was proclaimed by the heralds at the Cross of Edinburgh, amidst much jollification and free liquor for the citizenry. The matter of the witchcraft charges, which came into a different legal category altogether, were sensibly postponed until some suitable future date.
The Earl of Bothwell invented a new title for himself – Lord Lieutenant of Scotland – with Patrick's acclaim, though Lennox and others tended to look askance at it. The Kirk set up a Committee of Security to assist in the governance of the realm. Along with a number of others, Sir Robert Cockburn of Clerkington, the Secretary of State and Chancellor Maitland's son-in-law, was summarily dismissed. Patrick Gray, with typical sense of duty, made himself responsible for his office, meantime – this despite the fact that an ungrateful Parliament had not wholly accepted his claim for the?20,000 Scots, but had feebly passed it on to a special committee to consider.
On the subject of tides and offices, the Duke of Lennox found himself relieved of that of Lord High Admiral, in favour of its previous holder. He was allowed to remain Chamberlain, however.
The Earl of Moray remained unburied. His mother, as well as being a Campbell, was a woman of distinctly sceptical and disbelieving character.
Scotland watched and waited, as it had done so often before.
Chapter Twenty-four
PETER HAY, Lennox's page, came up the winding stairway of the King's tower two steps at a time, his spurred riding-boots stamping and jingling, his sword clanking – despite the edict that no swords were to be carried within the palace. Mary Gray and the Lady Beatrix Ruthven were descending, the former carrying a tambour-frame and the latter a box of threads, for the Queen's embroidery. They met at the first floor landing.
'Mistress Mary! Here's well met,' the young man exclaimed, somewhat breathless. 'I was looking to see you.' Recollecting, he doffed his distinctly battered bonnet. 'Your ladyship,' he acknowledged perfunctorily to the other and still younger girl. 'I'd hoped I'd find you, Mistress Mary…'
'Why, Peter – what's the haste?' Mary asked, smiling. 'What's to do? I thought that you were at Hailes, with the others? And you are all muddy. You… ' Her eyes widened,
and the smile left her lovely face. 'Peter – there is blood on your hands! What is it? What has happened? Is something… wrong?'
'Well… no. No, naught is wrong.' He said that without conviction, however. 'A mishap, that is all.' His glance flickered towards the interested Lady Beatrix. 'I bear a message for the Queen. From his Grace. From Hailes Castle. He sent me, for young Ramsay is sick and Erskine gone to my lord of Angus, at Tantallon. I am to escort the Queen to Hailes Castle. Forthwith. The King is to stay there long. Hunting. For some days. But… but I wanted to see you first, Mistress Mary…'
'You are not hurt, Peter? That blood…? Nor, nor any other?'
'No. It is nothing. Not my blood.' He looked again towards Beatrix Ruthven. 'Can I have a word with you, Mistress Mary? Before I see the Queen?'
The younger girl laughed. 'Give me the frame, Mary. I will tell the Queen that you will be with her presently. And shall not mention Master Hay! Her Grace is in the Orangery,' she told the page.
'Thank you,' Mary acknowledged. 'I shall not delay long. Come, Peter.' She turned, and led the way back upstairs to the apartment of the Ladies-in-Waiting.
Hay closed the door behind him, and stood looking at her. His clothing was spattered with mud, and flecked with foam from a hard-driven horse. There was a tension about him that was unusual and not to be mistaken.
'What is it, Peter?' Mary demanded. 'There is trouble, is there not? It is not Vicky? The Duke?'
'No. He is well enough. With the King and Bothwell. It is… other.' Putting a hand into the deep pocket inside his riding-cloak, he drew out a bundle of papers, letters, all mud-stained and dirty, some still sealed, some opened. Laying them down on the table, he pointed to the topmost, opened, soiled and crumpled. 'No doubt I should not show you these,' he said, 'but you have a better head than any I know. Besides, you are in some way concerned. You can tell me what to do.'
Frowning, she looked from the young man to the untidy papers and back. 'What is this? What have you done?'
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