Moray kept a low profile and let Bothwell lead at Court. It was a good strategy – people’s curious eyes turned to this man who seemed so close to Mary. ‘Everybody suspected the Earl of Bothwell and those who durst speak freely to others said plainly it was he’, declared Melville.5 Mary went on as she had been, living in mourning, trusting that the small measures taken by the Privy Council were enough. She was mired in inaction. Bothwell was furious with Moray for having pushed a plot that had failed and exposed him to risk and the fragile alliance between the two collapsed into acrimony.
Elizabeth wrote to Mary on 24 February, two weeks after the murder, urgently pleading with Mary to prosecute the guilty men:
Madame,
My ears have been so shocked, my understanding so broken and and my heart so frightened to hear the awful news of the abominable murder of your husband and my slaughtered cousin, that I can barely write. And although I would take his death hard, with him being kin, I must tell you honestly, I cannot pretend that I mourn more for you than for him. O, Madame, I would not be doing as a faithful cousin should, or a loving friend, if I did not speak openly and beg you to preserve your reputation. I must and I will tell you what people are saying. They say that instead of taking measures to arrest those responsible, you are looking through your fingers while they escape, that you will not seek revenge on those who have done what is what you wished, as if the deed had been trusted to be forgiven, so the murderers felt assured to do it. I do not think this way. I would never hold such a miserable opinion of a prince. And even less of you, to whom I wish every good my heart can imagine and you could wish for. For this every reason, I exhort, I counsel, I beg you deeply to take this to heart and even if the guilty is the nearest friend you have, to lay your hands upon him, show to the world that you are a noble princess and a loyal wife. I write thus vehemently not out of doubt, but through the true love I have for you. I know you have other wise counsellors around you. But I remember that even our Lord had a Judas among the twelve. I assure myself that you have no one more loyal than I and you can rely on my affection.6
Elizabeth was pushed to desperation – and she wrote with her heart. As she knew the letter would be intercepted, she was careful to present herself as entirely innocent and lay all the guilt on Scotland. In this she was right, although she could hardly claim no involvement in fostering support for Moray and had paid him on other occasions. Elizabeth suggested that Mary had even promised the plotters impunity and raised the possibility that the murderer could be Mary’s ‘nearest friend’ – by which she could have meant Moray, Bothwell or even Maitland. It is very striking that Elizabeth wrote ‘regardant entre vos doigts’ [looking through your fingers] – a phrase she did not use particularly often. These were the words apparently used at Craigmillar about Moray – when the nobles told the queen that they would quit her of Darnley, one way or another. Coincidence? Or had Elizabeth’s spies managed to get hold of the document or reports – and the phrase was used here, pointedly, to remind Mary of who else might be looking through their fingers at the matter? But whatever Elizabeth thought, Cecil was working to protect Moray and made it clear to him he would be welcome in England.
Catherine de’ Medici wrote to advise similarly: the queen should prosecute the killers immediately, and thus reveal her innocence to her subjects.
Mary should have chosen someone – anyone – to be scapegoated. There were no witnesses, and those who saw the men running away, like Mrs Mertine, could not identify who they had seen. Trials had risen and fallen on less in the period and Mary needed to be ruthless to preserve her position. The people may have seen it as a show trial, but at least it would have given the impression Mary was taking the matter seriously. In her letter to Ambassador Beaton in Paris, she had promised to prosecute the murder swiftly. But a week, two weeks passed. She did nothing – and this suited Moray, Bothwell and the rest of his circle well.
Mary’s belief that she had been the main target of the explosion was blurring her judgement. For, as she saw it, Bothwell could never want her killed (and in this she was right, he had too much to gain with her alive) and so could not have been part of the plot. But whether she was too fearful, too loyal or too dependent on Bothwell to move against him, she should have accused someone else. The problem was that many high-born lords were complicit or had known something of what was going to happen. And Mary too had some knowledge that Darnley was about to be set up, and was plunged into guilt that he had died.
If Mary had been guilty, she would have tried to foist the blame onto someone else. Instead she walked as in shock, fearful of what the other lords had done and aware that all her prior refusals to hear about ‘the matter’ or assent to Darnley’s removal could count in some eyes as an awareness that it would be done. Mary had told her lords over and over again that she would not hear of them dispatching her husband. And yet they had all disobeyed her, even Moray, even Bothwell. Never had her powerlessness been more blatantly obvious to her.
As the days dragged on and still nothing happened, the outrage grew. Darnley, who had been little liked, was transformed into a saint, a sacrificed martyr, and the public screamed for justice. He should be avenged but also the reputation of Scotland was under threat. Despite the violence between the lords, the Scots liked to see themselves as a fair people, rather than the blood-mad French or Spanish or the aggressive English. But this – who had ever killed a king before?
The first placard had accused Bothwell and his servant Balfour and noted the queen had known of it. Another placard, two days later, blamed Mary’s foreign servants. One included words as if written by the queen, declaring ‘I and the Earl of Bothwell were doers of it’. There were drawings of Bothwell and the words ‘Here is the Murderer of the King’7, as well as slurs against Mary and the whole court. At church, ministers begged God reveal the guilty, for they knew their congregations demanded justice. The placards and posters were seized and taken down – but appeared again overnight. Bothwell thought it was his enemies at court and others thought Cecil was to blame – if he had a hand in it, he would have been protecting Moray. The Spanish ambassador worried that Elizabeth might interfere to ferment unrest ‘more for her own ends than for any love she bore the king’. He was right – and some of the placards probably were posted by English spies.8
Moray himself probably had a few put up. But although both men might have been involved, the movement was too organic, too widespread, to be laid at the door of one person. The people were stunned and wanted answers. Unfortunately, the government then began to investigate the posters, arresting painters and scriveners and testing their handwriting and drawing style. Seeing the government arrest ordinary working men, while letting the killers of the king go free, only inflamed the public further.
Archbishop Beaton wrote from Paris to Mary telling her she must take vengeance, pleading with her to show ‘the great virtue, magnanimity and constancy that God has granted you’ and urging that she should ‘do such justice as the whole world may declare your innocence’. He didn’t hold back, telling her it was God’s will, and even went so far as to suggest that if she didn’t take action, ‘it appears to me better that you had lost life and all’.9 He was a kind and wise friend to her, but she was still listening to her Privy Council instead. They and Mary were still following due process, however slowly. Bothwell had appeared in Edinburgh surrounded by his heavies, near fifty of them, declaring that ‘if he knew who were the setters up of the bills and writings, he would wash his hands in their blood’. The people prided themselves on living in a fair country, where honest speech was valued. Their hatred increased – and more posters appeared accusing him.
By the end of February, the Countess of Bothwell was very unwell and afflicted with swellings. Had she been plunged into illness after suspecting her husband of the terrible crime? Or had she been poisoned by Bothwell to get her out of the way? The English spies thought the latter and certainly Bothwell had hardly rushed to spend time at her b
edside. Her brother Huntly was supposed to be Bothwell’s ally, and if Bothwell had poisoned his sister, it showed how confident and foolhardy he had become. Huntly was pressing her to end the marriage and the countess was giving the matter serious thought. She had always been in love with Alexander Ogilvie of Boyne, even though he was married to Mary Beaton. But still, she was young and could marry again, ideally to someone who hadn’t got himself mixed up in plots to kill the king. Yet, it seems unlikely that Jean had been poisoned, for that would be going too far, even for Bothwell.
Mary wrote to Darnley’s father, the Earl of Lennox, on 1 March promising that she wanted to find the culprits and answering his declaration that she should arrest ‘names contained in some tickets affixed on the Tolbooth’. But, she said, there were so many different posters and various names that they barely knew where to start. If he could name an actual guilty party and ‘stand to the accusation’10, she could authorise a private prosecution. In doing so, she laid all the responsibility on Lennox – and how could he dare? On the same day, she gave Bothwell more financial benefits and privileges linked to the role of sheriff of Edinburgh. He had no doubt been demanding them to secure his position. For who would accuse a sheriff who had the favour of the queen? The Spanish ambassador was beginning to panic: ‘the queen must take steps to prove she had no hand in the death of her husband, if she is to prosper in her claims to the succession’.11 There was no evidence that Mary had been involved in the murder plot, and her hatred for Darnley was less than that of many of the lords, who feared him taking their lands. But her continued failure to scream vengeance and prosecute was making people think that she knew more than she said. And thus she fell into Moray’s web, wrapped herself up in the strands.
If the Spanish ambassador hoped that Philip would write to Mary, he hoped in vain. Philip had still not made any public comment or written directly, as Elizabeth and Catherine de’ Medici had. He was surely attempting to hold himself clear from any suggestion of a Spanish plot. And even if he had written, Mary would have probably consigned it to the same basket as the letters from her cousin and her former mother-in-law. For Mary, due process and Parliament would attend to the matter and she was doing all she could. Her lords and her Privy Council were most pleased that she was so slow to act, so bound by the process they had recommended.
Later on 1 March, surely prompted by the news of the fresh benefits heaped on Bothwell, a new placard appeared. This was the worst yet, with a picture of a mermaid, breasts bared, with beautiful hair and a crown, ‘MR’ for Mary Regina on either side. She bore a rolled-up net in one hand and a large sea flower with petals that resembled the female genitalia. The mermaid represented a siren – with her net to catch unsuspecting soldiers – or even a prostitute. Under Mary was a hare surrounded by daggers. The hare was Bothwell’s symbol and it bore his initials, ‘JH’. The daggers referred to Mary’s protection of him and to his violent acts, as well as being positioned as phallic symbols pointing towards the mermaid. ‘Destruction awaits the wicked on every side’12 were the words. Mary was being depicted as one of the ‘wicked’ and she was devastated by the slur. It was the creation of an educated artist, and could possibly have been generated by the Lennox side. Mary had been publicly slandered as a prostitute and there was no going back.
Chapter Twenty
The Mermaid
The council proclaimed that James Murray, loyal to the Lennoxes and against Bothwell, should be arrested for the placards. As the council contained Moray, Argyll, Huntly and Bothwell, it could hardly be trusted. Murray fled to England – perhaps with the help of Moray or one of his network. The whole thing looked dreadful. Mary seemingly refused to find a culprit for her husband’s murder, but was happy to pursue a placard artist. Catherine de’ Medici was so angered by events that she wrote again to Mary that if she didn’t hunt down the killers, she should both think herself dishonoured and understand that Catherine and Charles IX would ‘be her enemies’1. On 8 March, Elizabeth’s envoy, Henry Killigrew, visited Mary and found her deep in despair. As he wrote, ‘I could not see her face but by her very words, she seemed very doleful.’2
Moray knew he was suspected and, still considering fleeing to England, decided to throw off the scent of crime and joined with Morton and others to declare he would give support to Darnley’s father Lennox in bringing the guilty to trial. Servants were beginning to talk and say that lords had banded together to kill Darnley. The discussions at Craigmillar Castle in late 1566 about Darnley between Maitland, Huntly, Bothwell and Argyll were being talked of, as well as the involvement of others. Bothwell clung harder to the queen. After all, he was the only one of the lot who had never conspired against her.
Lennox begged Cecil for help in prosecuting Bothwell – but the statesman was torn. Elizabeth wanted her cousin to act for herself, to prove that a queen could govern. Lennox decided to take action, come what may, and wrote to Mary telling her who he felt was guilty: Bothwell, Balfour, Rizzio’s brother, Joseph, and others. Matters had got to such a head that even Bothwell was arguing he should be sent to trial, to dispel the rumours. Mary was, by this point, struggling and ill from the terrible strain. She was pale, suffering from insomnia and fainting fits.
She could hold off no longer. The placards, the desperate pleas of her advisors, the panicked importuning of foreign diplomats and their royal masters; she had to submit. On 22 March, Mary wrote to Lennox, promising him the trial he longed for. As she wrote, ‘the persons nominated in your letter shall . . . undergo such trial as by the lords of this realm is accustomed’. She promised him her ‘earnest will and affectionate mind to have an end to this matter, and the authors of so unworthy a deed really punished’.3 On 23 March, her official forty days of mourning for Darnley was ended, with prayers for her dead husband’s soul.
Mary was still in shock – as we know, matters suggest she had heard that Darnley was going to be threatened, although she expected it would not be done when she was nearby. Everything else she had forbidden and refused to hear talk of – thinking her lords would obey her. Her fear was that she would be implicated by any trial. Perhaps, had she initiated a trial straight away, there would have been sympathy for any involvement of hers that might surface. Darnley was, after all, a bad husband, a plotter of murder, and violence was a language he understood – plenty of families would have made physical threats to a new husband who was treating one of their female relations so badly. But by this point, any awareness of Darnley’s fate damned her in public eyes and made her a murderess too. So Mary had to put men whom she believed had been most loyal to her on trial, and thus was naturally fearful that she would be incriminated and pulled down with them – an eventuality that would be most gratifying to Moray and the others, who would gain with her fall and could deny all involvement. Mary again fell ill almost as soon as she had made the announcement and it was reported back to England that ‘she has been for the most part either sickly or melancholy ever since’.4
Still, she rewarded Bothwell. It was Easter week and she gave him some priceless vestments originally from Aberdeen Cathedral that were said to be made of cloth of gold. She used the other vestments from the collection to ornament a memorial bed for Darnley. The gift was scandalous: not only was Bothwell about to stand criminal trial, and was a Protestant receiving Catholic objects, but the fact that the vestments were being divided between her dead husband and the man who many suspected to be her lover – it was too much. What was Mary thinking? It looks like a terrible lapse of judgement, an open mark of affection for a suspected criminal. But if it was a present to keep him onside and keep her name and complicity out of the trial, it makes sense and is reasonable. The most important thing was to stop herself being implicated.
The gossip swelled. On the day before Mary had written to Lennox, 21 March, the Countess of Bothwell had begun divorce proceedings against her husband, on the basis of his adultery with sewing maid Bessie Crawford, over a year earlier. She wanted to release herself from someo
ne who might go on trial for killing the king but she was also obeying her brother Huntly’s suggestion that she divorce. Her act only fuelled the gossip that Mary and Bothwell were lovers.
In Paris, James Beaton, Mary’s ambassador and devoted friend, was saying that ‘the Lord James [Moray] was the author of the King’s death, and Lord Lennox is deluded and mocked by him’.5 People in Scotland must have told him. Or perhaps it was Mary, through secret messengers. If so, this explains some of her shock and panic. She’d understood her half-brother had been involved. Yet she couldn’t prosecute him: not only would he bring her into it, but he was too powerful, and she would suffer greatly for accusing him (not least from Cecil). Perhaps, at the beginning, Mary might have thrown Moray to the wolves and survived. But she did not, and now he had caught her in a mire from which she couldn’t escape.
With the trial imminent, Moray did what he always did when matters became too hot. He disappeared. On 13 March, he had written to Cecil asking for a passport to come to London and he set off at the end of the month. It is significant that Cecil granted a passport so quickly; he had protected Moray and did not want him exposed to a trial. Mary wept as he left. Her half-brother was deserting her in her hour of need – and leaving her with all the guilt and the pain of her husband’s death. When he reached England, he headed for London and started talking to anyone he could think of. He told the Spanish ambassador Silva that he had left Scotland for fear of Bothwell, who he made clear was guilty of Darnley’s death. He also said that Bothwell wanted a divorce so that he could marry Mary. That she and Bothwell were in cahoots. He played the terrified innocent, afraid of Bothwell, told everyone that he had done it. His plot had worked. Mary was well and truly framed.
The Betrayal of Mary, Queen of Scots Page 22