Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  “She has been discreetly silent.”

  “As always.”

  “But I believe she favours our cause and will support us, if not with troops, most certainly with money.”

  “On what do you base this belief?”

  “She has reacted vehemently to the Darnley marriage. She does not want a Catholic king in Scotland.”

  “Perhaps not. But”—now here was the crux of the matter, the one question that above all must be answered—“what else can you offer her? Have you another ruler more suitable to her tastes?”

  James sighed. He opened his lips as if to speak, then closed them.

  So he sees himself as king, thought Knox. But at least he has the good sense not to blurt it out. Or perhaps not even to speak the words to himself.

  “The Lord will provide,” James finally said.

  “The Lord can only make the same selection as the rest of us. I see no other alternative to the Queen. She is the last remaining royal Stewart. Now, if the idea of royal blood is dispensed with altogether, many interesting possibilities arise. Directed by the Holy Spirit, we could elect a ruler. As the Vatican claims the Popes are elected.” He laughed dryly.

  “Aye. Perhaps.” James gave a tentative smile.

  So that’s the route he foresees, Knox thought.

  “But the English Queen will never permit this,” Knox pointed out. “For she herself must, perforce, honour the concept of royal blood being somehow different from all other blood. Without that, she herself has no claim to the throne. Her title was not based on unchallenged legitimacy, nor on Parliamentary permission, but on the magic of royal blood. She’ll not support your rebels.”

  “I have royal blood, too! As much royal blood as Queen Elizabeth!” cried James. “Both our fathers were kings, both our mothers commoners!”

  “With this difference: Elizabeth’s father married her mother and had her crowned Queen.”

  “Then he repudiated her and executed her!”

  “Nonetheless, a form of ceremony was gone through. The Pope does not recognize it as legal, but that has become her glory.” Knox had a sudden thought. “You do have enough royal blood that, were you to win in this attempt to unseat the Queen, it could be conveniently recognized. But”—he glared at James with his bright brown eyes—“first you must win.”

  * * *

  A few hours earlier, whilst Knox was still in bed at the merchant’s house at St. Andrews who had offered him hospitality prior to preaching his sermon, Mary had arisen and put on a great mourning gown of black with a wide mourning hood—the gown she had worn to the memorial mass ending her forty days of deep mourning for François. She had worn it many times since then, and each time she had felt that in so doing she was coming back to François and saying, “I have not left you, and I never will.” Now, on her wedding morning, she felt compelled to wear it for the last time, to have François present at the marriage, to give his blessing and release her. Only François could give her away.

  At six o’clock in the morning, the Earl of Lennox and the Earl of Atholl came to escort her, one on either side, to the chapel at Holyrood. She came slowly down the long aisle, where the priest was waiting, and then Darnley stepped forward and took his place by her side.

  Quickly the final banns were read, and quickly they repeated their wedding vows to one another. Darnley took a triple ring with a diamond in the middle and side rings of red enamelled gold, and at the words, “With this ring I thee wed,” he slid it on her finger.

  “I now pronounce Henry, Duke of Albany, Earl of Ross, and Mary, Sovereign Lady of Scots and the Isles by the grace of God, to be man and wife indeed,” said the priest. The sound echoed throughout the chapel.

  “Te Deum laudemus!” Riccio exclaimed. “It is done and cannot now be broken!”

  Mary and Darnley turned to him and embraced him as the only confidant for their secret betrothal.

  Mary allowed herself to be escorted back to her chambers, there to lay aside the mourning clothes, never to resume them. The Marys pulled out the pins and, with solemn respect, helped her to disrobe. They laid the mourning cloak out on the bed and folded it almost tenderly, putting sweet herbs along its length. Mary leaned forward and kissed it before allowing it to be closed in an embroidered satin bag.

  Mary Seton saw the tears in her eyes and, drawing her aside, away from the gay chatter, embraced her. “You honour François by your tears of loyalty and remembrance. But, my lady, he died in the flower of youth, leaving you to grow older without him. The young you will always be his wife. But you are a different woman now and that part of you, the part that has arisen since, is not disloyal to love the Lord Darnley.”

  “Think you this is so?” whispered Mary.

  “Lady, I know it.” She reached out her hand and wiped away one small tear on Mary’s cheek. “Now go to your new lord and husband with gladness.”

  Mary clasped her hands and then let them go. “I am both more happy and more sad than I have ever been. Is it possible?” she murmured.

  “Yes. I can see it is so. But, pray you, the Lord Darnley must not see your tears.” Seton wiped away the next gathering of them. “Your bridal gown awaits!”

  Fleming and Beaton were bringing out the scarlet gown, embroidered with pearls and gold thread. It was stiff with richness.

  Mary allowed herself to be fastened into it and then put on her finest jewellery: her black pearls and the Great Harry, and huge pearl earrings from the oceans beyond India. The Marys brushed her hair and then fitted a pearl-encrusted satin cap upon her head. The rich hair spilled out behind it.

  There was dancing and a formal dinner, followed by trumpets and the distribution of largesse in the courtyard, then a supper. Mary and Darnley twined round one another in the stately dances played on the slide trumpets, recorders, and violas. Darnley never took his eyes from hers, staring at her as at a goddess or an apparition throughout the long day.

  At length, after the formal dinner, three separate dances, the supper, the trumpets, the largesse, Mary and Darnley took their leave of the company, making their way to her apartments and finally to her bedchamber.

  There were no attendants, by her command. When they shut the doors they were completely alone.

  Candles burned in all the sconces, and a large candelabrum of French workmanship stood on her work desk with ten white tapers. She came to him and embraced him. She had meant to say something, but there were no words worthy, no words to express her feelings both of final sorrow and of the release from it, the finding of her new treasure.

  One by one they blew out the candles, one by one they removed their bejewelled clothes until they lay together in the great royal bed, smooth young flesh seeking its own.

  “You have made me King,” he finally murmured, the first words he had spoken since entering the chamber.

  “King indeed; King of everything,” she whispered.

  “This bed is my realm, your body my land,” he said. “Let Christopher Columbus and Francisco de Coronado go to America; you are my new-found land and I seek to explore it all.”

  Outside in the streets of Edinburgh, the citizens were causing a tumult about the marriage, and some near the Mercat Cross stepped aside as the royal herald approached the Cross, then mounted its base and unrolled his parchment. Two trumpeters blew a fanfare as he read the Queen’s proclamation that her beloved husband Henry, Lord Darnley, Duke of Albany, was henceforth to be styled and honored as Henry, King of Scotland, by her own wishes.

  No one cheered.

  * * *

  A week later, another proclamation was read at the same site, this time at high noon. Three blasts of the royal horn followed, officially declaring the Lord James Stewart, Earl of Moray, an outlaw and rebel traitor to the Queen.

  XXIII

  “And is my armour ready, my love?” Darnley was waiting anxiously in his bedchamber at Holyrood as Mary sought him out in his quarters. She had had an unpleasant discussion with Lord Seton; not that Seton hi
mself was unpleasant, but the topic was: the rebellion of her brother Lord James, and the refusal of him and his compatriots to appear at her summons.

  “I had no choice, did I?” she kept asking her faithful Master of the Household. “I had to call for men and arms to support me. Now I must take the field against him.”

  Lord Seton shook his head. “It is a tragedy.”

  “This is the second rebellion against me by a subject!” Mary could hardly believe her own words. “First Huntly, now Lord James. And after all I have done for him!”

  “It is because of all you have done for him,” Riccio’s voice piped up.

  Lord Seton looked up in surprise. “I thought we were alone,” he said pointedly.

  Riccio emerged from the little side room. So that was where he had been hiding!

  “Forgive me, I could not help overhearing,” Riccio said. “I was addressing some correspondence in the turret room. But, my dear Queen, as I said, it was precisely because of all you had done for him. You gave him vast tracts of land, elevated the bastard to be the greatest in the land. Is not the rest predictable?”

  “No,” she snapped. “I despise ingratitude! It is the one failing I cannot tolerate!”

  “He had no incentive to follow you any longer. Withholding favours would have been a surer method of ensuring his loyalty.”

  “I am his Queen, by divine right of royal blood!”

  Riccio shook his head pityingly. “I think his own portion of royal blood is speaking more loudly to him.”

  “I will be revenged upon him!” she cried, leaving the room and rushing to Darnley’s quarters. Now there was Darnley, waiting, eager for his armour.

  “I—I know not.” She had forgotten about his armour, which was to be gilt and was being hastily made up for him by local blacksmiths by welding other pieces together, and coating them with gold.

  “Oh.” He looked so disappointed. Then he brightened and said, “What will you wear?”

  “I shall just borrow some men’s half-armour. And as I shall wear it under my clothes, it is not important that it be ornamented—or even fit very well.”

  She allowed herself to admire Darnley in his setting. He had overseen the furnishing of his apartments, and had paid particular attention to his bed. Only the finest velvet hangings were selected, and on them were embroidered his own familial crest and lineage.

  “Do you know what my mother has on her bed hangings?” he had said, holding Mary dreamily one afternoon after a tender interval of lovemaking. He had begun to laugh. “She has images of saints pinned to them! Only pinned—that way she can ch-ch-change them according to the s-s-season!” He was laughing so hard he could hardly finish the sentence. “My mother. I shall always think of her that way.”

  “I should like to meet your mother,” said Mary. Darnley talked about her a great deal.

  “No, you wouldn’t. She’s a harridan.”

  Now Darnley was standing, fingering the hangings on his own bed. “I am tired of the purple,” he said. “Perhaps I shall change to gold.”

  He had only had the purple for a month! “I am afraid all such expenditures will have to wait,” she said. “In order to pay for the troops to march against Lord James, I must pledge my jewellery. Five thousand men are costly to maintain in the field.”

  Darnley dropped the bed curtain. “Thank you for my armour!” he said. “I had no idea that it would be such a sacrifice.”

  She smiled at him. “Consider it a wedding gift,” she said grimly.

  * * *

  Mary had issued a call to arms for able-bodied men, asking them to muster at Edinburgh with fifteen days’ provisions. Five thousand had come to follow her banner, with the Earl of Morton leading the advance guard, and the Earl of Lennox commanding the rear guard. Riding with Mary in the midst of the host were Darnley, the Marys, the lords who were still loyal, and Riccio. Just before leaving, she had released Lord George Gordon from prison, where he had languished since his father’s rebellion, and restored him to his hereditary title as Earl of Huntly.

  It was Lord James who benefited from Huntly’s rebellion, she thought. It was Lord James who reaped the reward of his fall. Now, at least, the son will always be the enemy of his father’s enemy. And the enemy of my enemy is my ally.

  The rebels, under Lord James, had gathered at Ayr, on the west coast of Scotland. He was not alone; the Duke of Châtelherault was with him, as an hereditary enemy of the Lennoxes, and so was Kirkcaldy of Grange. That hurt Mary as well as surprised her; she had always thought Kirkcaldy loyal and clear-headed. The Earl of Argyll was also on their side. Reports were that they had only about twelve hundred men, but were expecting northern troops from the Earl of Argyll to join them shortly.

  “We will engage them in battle before their reinforcements come!” Mary cried. “On to Ayr!” She and her troops streamed out of Edinburgh, banners flying, in late August. The days were golden and hazy, and it was easy to pretend they were just on a progress through the countryside, enjoying the mellow warmth and seeing the farmers bringing in their harvest. But under her scarlet and gold embroidered riding dress was the light armour she had felt called to wear, and under her hood and veil she wore a steel helmet. She carried pistols, thrust into her waistband, to have instantly to hand.

  Behind in Edinburgh she had left Erskine in command of the castle, and had told Randolph that if he attempted to aid the rebels with money from England—for Lord James had attempted to put a religious colour on his insurrection by painting it as a matter of Protestant conscience outraged at the wedding of two Catholics—she would have his house surrounded by guards.

  They marched westward, through Linlithgow and Stirling and thence on to Glasgow. The weather held, still giving their venture a holiday air.

  To Mary’s surprise, the rebels did not stand to fight them, but instead attempted to slip past them and take advantage of her absence in Edinburgh. Wheeling the troops around, Mary’s forces retraced their own steps back toward Stirling. But suddenly a violent storm hit; water spilled from the heavens like Noah’s downpour, swelling the small streams to raging forces. The rain was coming down so hard that it ran into their mouths and left them gasping for air. When they reached the banks of the usually small stream called the Carron, some of the men were swept away and drowned in what was now a mighty river.

  “Let us stop! Let us stop and wait here!” cried Darnley. The rain was running off his helmet like a veil, and his hair straggled out from beneath it.

  “Nay!” cried Mary. “We cannot! We must press on!” She looked at the churning, muddy waters of the rampaging stream, and crossed herself. “God have mercy on the souls of the lost.” Then she urged her horse forward, praying that she not be swept away. Her horse, a strong swimmer, made the other bank safely. Behind her, Darnley was following, his arms clutching his horse’s neck.

  * * *

  The rebels entered Edinburgh just ahead of the storm, but could not take the city. There was no sympathy for their cause; the townspeople did not rally to them, and Erskine, loyal to the crown, fired on them from the castle, so they were forced to flee. This time they retreated back in the direction of Stirling, then went south to Dumfries, where they waited forlornly for English aid.

  Mary’s army stopped at last, and tents were pitched in the field. She was excited beyond measure; word had just been brought to her of the rebels’ flight. She stood in the door of the tent, holding its flap, watching the sunset that was now staining the waters of the subsiding Carron.

  “I wished for this,” she murmured. “I wished to see what it was to be a man, and wear armour, and lie out in the fields all night. They say you should be careful what you wish for, that it will surely come to you.”

  “And do you like being a man?” asked Darnley, who was stretched out on the camp bed.

  “In some ways.”

  “Fighting is such fun!” cried Darnley. “I have enjoyed it immensely.”

  “We have done no fighting as yet,�
�� said Mary. “All we have done is ride and chase the rebels.”

  “Indeed, we should call it the Chaseabout Raid. Lord James and his men have kept out of our way,” said Darnley. “He will flee across the Border by tomorrow. Unless Bothwell intercepts him.”

  “Aye. Bothwell rules the Borders. But I did not charge him with tripping the rebels.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “I am testing him. He reentered Scotland without permission, still technically under arrest. He has yet to come seek an audience. So I am curious whether he will now come actively to our aid, or look the other way. He may perhaps be bitter at his mistreatment at my hands. Again, it was directed by Lord James!” With a sickening realization, she saw that many of her actions had been urged on, prompted and promoted, by Lord James, actions that had driven men away from her and left her isolated—and in his hands.

  “Never mind about that,” said Darnley. “Come here!”

  Puzzled at the tone in his voice, she ignored it. “Look at the river,” she said. “The Carron … but to the poor men swept away, it proved to be Charon himself.”

  “I said come here!” Darnley was smacking the camp bed. “And close the tent flap!”

  Mary went over to him, where he was lying full length, a strange look on his face. As she came near him, and bent over, he grabbed her and pulled her on top of him. His fingers were digging into her neck.

  “So you want to know what it is to be a man?” His voice was rough. “Very well, then. You be the man. Take me. Take me against my will.”

  Mary felt an unfamiliar sensation of fear. He was, suddenly, different. His eyes held a cold, staring look. “Nay, what a foolish thought!” She tried to pull herself away, but he held her fast. There was surprising strength in his grip. “Pray, release me.”