“No.” He stuck his face up into hers. “Then if you won’t play my game, I’ll punish you!” With astonishing speed, he flipped her on her back and began pulling at her clothes.
“Henry, no!” What had come over him? He smashed his lips down on hers, causing her to bite her lip, and she could smell an odd but not unknown odour. What was it? It was something she had tasted before.
He was ripping at her underclothing, exposing her. “Don’t move!” he was hissing in her ear. “Don’t move! I command you!”
Instead of obeying, she tried to throw him off. He clamped his hand down over her mouth and breathed, “You must not defy or disobey your husband! You know that you are to be submissive to my will!”
“Mmmm—mmmm—” she kept trying to speak. What was happening to him? Then, suddenly, she recognized the smell. It was whisky. He was drunk. She almost laughed with relief. That was all it was.
“Hush!” he said. He was biting her shoulder; his free hand was still ripping at her clothes. Like a madman, he held her a victim while he satisfied his desire.
Outside she could hear the sound of a soldier’s horn being blown, announcing that it was time for camp supper. It seemed very far away.
* * *
John Knox, left behind in Edinburgh, wrote his description of the failed rebellion and said, “Albeit the most part waxed weary, yet the Queen’s courage increased manlike, so much so that she was ever with the foremost.”
Yes, he had to admit it: the Queen had matchless courage. And the rebellion had come to nothing. Lord James and his compatriots had had to flee into England and take sanctuary there.
I warned him, thought Knox. I warned him there were not enough sure men on his side. The fence-sitters came down on the wrong side of the fence.
* * *
Back in Edinburgh, Mary gratefully took possession of Holyrood again. Entering the palace, she was struck with the thought that only a short while ago the rebels had come there, hoping to enjoy it. Never had it seemed more precious to her.
Late that night, she knelt in front of the ivory crucifix from St. Pierre and spoke softly to it.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered, “thank You for delivering my kingdom.” But inside there was a deep sadness. She could not help but remember her high hopes, her trembling expectation when she had first received the summons to return to her land, before this very cross.
“I have tried, in all ways, to be a wise ruler. I have sought Your guidance. Yet some nobles have been dissatisfied, and rewarded my efforts with treason.” That was the truth of it, and it hurt, even if they had been thwarted.
“Please help me!” she blurted out in a louder voice. There had been more disturbing episodes with Darnley, violence followed by unctuousness, and she was frightened. At times he seemed to change into a person she did not recognize.
And he showed no interest in helping her with the aftermath of the rebellion, the justice to be administered, the rewards given. It was as if he had no part or concern in the country at all, although he kept begging to be granted the Crown Matrimonial. Sometimes, when he was being rough, he would say, “No wonder I will not sign the papers or attend the Council meetings, when you withhold my rightful title! Do it, and then I will!” Her answer was always the same: “Show yourself worthy first.”
A sound! Someone had come into the room! Mary froze, afraid it was Darnley. But a gentle hand was placed on her shoulder, and she heard Mary Seton’s soft voice saying, “I will pray with you.” She knelt down beside her mistress and kept absolutely still. Not until Mary rose did Seton stand as well, rising in that beautiful motion that gave grace to all she did.
“It sorrows me to see your heart so troubled,” said Seton.
“There is nothing that He”—she nodded toward the crucifix—“cannot cure.”
Seton took her hand and led her to a chair. She sat opposite her and took both hands in hers. “I thought that marriage would bring you happiness,” she said.
“So did I,” said Mary. “And I cannot say I am unhappy. I have some happy news. I think I am with child.”
“That is happy news! And what does Lord Darnley say?”
“I have not had the—opportunity to tell him.”
“I see.” Seton waited to see if Mary would say anything else. Then she said, “I am sorry about Lord James. I know it grieves you in many ways. Betrayal is worst when it comes from those who have reason to love us.”
Yes. That was it. He was no ordinary rebel. “He deluded himself that he would receive support from Queen Elizabeth,” Mary finally said. “But when he got to England, all he got from her was a public scolding. He was humiliated before the foreign ambassadors.” She laughed. “I was pleased to know that Elizabeth could be counted on to support me during a crisis. My sister sovereign has proved my good sister indeed!”
* * *
“Does it not please you, what happened to the rebels when they were granted audience with the English Queen?” asked Riccio, looking up from the correspondence he was transcribing. Mary had been dictating a formal reprisal of it to her uncle the Cardinal, full of balanced, carefully chosen phrases. Riccio sensed a withholding, a distance from the Cardinal. But then, the world had become a hostile place for her since her marriage, full of people who disapproved of her choice. Riccio suspected—though he had no proof—that the Cardinal was one.
“Ah—my brother!” Her face grew sad. “To have lost his loyalty … nay, I cannot lose what I never had. But I was so deceived in him!”
“Then what you have lost is your innocence, not a brother.”
“Aye. But I shall miss him. Miss what he was to me, miss him as a person.”
“You have a husband now. That should take the place of any brother.”
“They are not the same.” She was withdrawing again; it was the word husband that had done it. “A husband is a new grafting, a brother an old one.”
“Yet a husband is supposed eventually to be the strongest bond there is.”
“It takes time.” She turned again to a letter. “Shall we continue?” she said brightly.
* * *
Riccio put aside the writing materials. He was tired. It was tedious work to make each letter perfect, to space the words correctly on the page so they were visually attractive and worthy of the personage to whom they were addressed. The ink smeared easily, and the smoother the paper, the more difficult it was to keep the writing even.
“Now,” said Mary. “Would you care to be present at the forthcoming interview with Lord Bothwell, or do you wish to retire? I do not expressly need your services.”
Could he take her at her word? Interviews could be quite boring.
Just then Darnley appeared. He looked peevish. That decided Riccio.
“I believe I shall take my leave, dear Queen,” he said, rising and kissing her hand—and then, impulsively, her cheek. He turned from the writing desk and left the room.
Darnley glowered after him, then turned on Mary.
“You favour him above prudence,” he said, pouting. “Servants should not kiss queens.”
“Indeed they should not,” she agreed, to placate him. “But he is more like a brother than a servant.”
Still Darnley frowned. “I would think you have had enough of brothers,” he finally said.
His words caused an actual physical pain to pass through her. Enough of brothers … not enough of a brother …
“He was once a good brother,” she finally said. “I will cherish that memory.”
“You are charitable.” Darnley sniffed. “Do you mean to be so to the Earl of Bothwell?”
“Indeed. I must confess I admire his audacity. My justice was unjust, in that I took the Earl of Arran’s word against him—words since proven to emanate from the mouth of an insane man. Did he stand still for them, wait patiently in prison? No, he escaped.”
“And returned to Scotland without permission. Is that something to admire? Why is his disobedience more commendable than th
at of the Lord James? Because he did not see fit to raise an army against me, but rather to aid me?”
“Yes.” Darnley frowned again. “And now you wish to give him the Lieutenancy of the Borders in preference to my father.”
“And wherefore not? Bothwell is a native of that area. He knows it well, knows every man in it. He knows the intricate braid of loyalty and history, entwined in so complicated a pattern we can never make it out. Your father”—she had never come to like him—“being from a different area of the country, could never do suchlike. Loyalties are very local.”
“Bothwell did little enough,” Darnley persisted.
“He did not need to. The rebels fled forthwith.”
“Ummmm.”
Mary went over to him, threw her arms around him. “Do not begrudge him his recognition. We need him. We have lost so many others! Lord James gone, and Kirkcaldy—a very brave soldier! The very ones who fought for me against Huntly turned against me. They were the foremost soldiers in the realm!”
“The Earl of Bothwell,” the guard announced.
“Pray admit him.” Mary looked at Darnley, warning him. Darnley retired to a far corner, seating himself with an injured air and crossing his arms. He was so in shadow that no one would have seen him.
Into the room walked James Hepburn, his hat tucked under his arm. He came forward with purposeful steps, then knelt. All Mary could see was the top of his reddish-haired head. Then he raised his face and looked at her.
“Most gracious Queen,” he said, “it has been four years since last I saw you. Many things have happened during those years to change us into different creatures. Yet I affirm—and I am no flatterer—that your beauty has greatly increased, along with your power and reputation. You are now a true Queen. Scotland is fortunate.”
“Pray rise,” she said.
“Indeed.” He stood up, and she motioned him to her.
He walked, as stocky, muscular men do, with a sort of energetic purposefulness. He was thirty years old now, and whatever deprivations he had suffered in prison had been more than made up at the tables of France afterward. He radiated compact strength and self-sufficiency.
“Lord Bothwell, you entered Scotland without our royal permission,” she stated.
He smiled. “I beg forgiveness, Your Majesty. I had a yearning to return, and you were immersed in other concerns.” He raised his eyebrow. “I sought to spare you another administrative task—that of signing my papers.”
She could not help laughing. “Nay, you are incorrigible! That was not your true reason.”
He made a little gesture of humour.
“But whatever your reason, once here, you proved loyal to us in the recent rebellion. We are grateful for that, and return you to your former appointment as Lieutenant of the Borders, and commend you for your vigilance in securing the Borders for us when they were, of late, threatened.”
“No one came my way,” he said. “The rebels slipped across the border to Carlisle on the far western side, away from my jurisdiction. Oh, they’ve since migrated to the eastern side. I hear they now lie at Newcastle, sustained by an insultingly paltry subsidy from Queen Elizabeth.”
Mary felt herself start. So Elizabeth was supporting them, despite her haughty words to the contrary!
“Newcastle,” he continued, “is a dreary town with a stout castle. And those ruins of the wall nearby: poets and scholars make much of them. Perhaps the Lord James can amuse himself with them. He can sit amongst the moss-covered, tumbledown mounds and speculate on the passing of time and of queens.” He paused and cocked his head. “Elizabeth publicly ordered him from her realm as a traitor. Yet there he remains and even receives support from her.”
Was that a question? “Then things truly are not what they seem,” Mary finally said.
“I could not agree more,” Bothwell answered.
“Yet who is to be trusted?” A thin voice issued from the corner: Darnley’s.
“Until I know who speaks, I dare not say,” said Bothwell, with a smile. “It might prove too dangerous.”
“The King speaks.” The slender voice came again.
“Ah.” Never had Bothwell’s voice sounded richer and thicker. “Then must needs I say, trust only those who love your liege lady and Queen as devotedly as you do. Although she is beautiful, kind, clever, and trustworthy, there are those who dislike her for all those virtues, and would work her harm. ’Tis a mistake to assume a good ruler will be beloved. Her very virtues can inspire envy and hatred among lesser men.”
“The rebels are considerably lessened men now,” said Mary. “For they will forfeit all their lands and titles as soon as Parliament meets. No more Earl of Moray. He overreached himself.”
“A dangerous thing, Your Majesty.” Bothwell sounded amused. “A good lesson for us all.”
“Then don’t overreach yourself with this lieutenancy she’s given you!” shrieked Darnley, suddenly standing up.
“I wouldn’t think of it,” said Bothwell earnestly. “I’m content with what Her Majesty sees fit to give me.”
* * *
After Bothwell had taken his leave, with assurances of loyalty, Mary turned to Darnley.
“You need not be so harsh,” she said, sinking down in a chair.
“I do not trust him,” was Darnley’s cold answer.
“He has done nothing to merit distrust, unlike all the others. I had to expel Ambassador Randolph for his part in encouraging the rebels. Morton remains here, but I know he dallied with my brother and keeps up a constant correspondence with him for all that he led my troops and is Chancellor of the realm. It is true that Argyll did not openly support the rebels by bringing his promised troops, nor did he flee with them, yet he has forfeited my trust, for he betrayed both sides.”
“Do you, then, hold loyalty so dear?”
“Above all else. Once someone has betrayed me, or even looked on and not lifted a voice or sword to halt the traitors, he is forever lost to me.”
“A sad thing, passing sad, to be lost to you,” Darnley said, kissing her hand. His beautiful, long-lashed eyes were closed.
Now she would tell him. Now, when he was being sweet.
“Henry, we have a joyful event before us. We are expecting an heir … see, even now he makes me tired. But I can rest. For the next seven months there will be quietness and pleasure—a perfect climate for the baby.”
Darnley’s face was flooded with happiness. “A baby! Oh, Mary, my love! A baby, our baby!”
She felt relief, although she had not known how uncertain she was of his response. Of late, his response was so unpredictable.
Darnley hugged her. “I am eager for the birth, and proud to be the father of your child. The father of a king—that is what I will be! An undisputed king. He’ll not need to get Parliament’s approval for his title, nor rely on his wife to procure it for him!”
“Oh, leave this. You worry it like a dog a bone.”
“You order me to leave you? Very well!” He turned and rushed toward the door.
“I did not order you to leave me, but to leave the subject—”
The arras flapped as he slammed the door of the chamber behind him. It was a familiar sound, and a familiar sight.
Mary left the audience chamber and made her way into her bedchamber. She was tired, and moved slowly. So far the pregnancy had made itself felt mainly by causing her to feel drowsy all the time and draining her of energy. She had not suffered any of the nausea or fainting Bourgoing had predicted. She still carried on all her duties, which, in the aftermath of the Chaseabout Raid, had turned from battlefield action to political decisions. It was tiring.
Of late, confined by physical lassitude, she had enjoyed needlework, particularly designing emblematic panels. At first it had been something merely to keep her hands busy and keep idleness at bay, but gradually it had grown into a challenging mental exercise and, beyond that, into an easeful escape, an escape into a world where all was ordered according to some arcane
pattern. At present she was working on a panel that depicted herself and Darnley in symbolic form. It showed a land tortoise climbing up the base of a crowned palm tree. He was the tortoise, she the tree. When the Marys had asked her what it signified, she refused to tell. That was the virtue of emblematic panels: they could mean anything.
She sank down into the sitting-chair that had been padded with a quilt and positioned in front of the window, and took up her sewing box. The design expressed her growing unease about Darnley—was he a land tortoise seeking only to climb to a higher position through marriage? He harped and harped on the Crown Matrimonial … why had not Parliament granted it? Why was she so cruel as not to call Parliament and demand it?
In the meantime he paid scant heed to his kingly duties; he was never there to sign documents, so a stamp facsimile of his signature had had to be made. He was always hawking, or riding, or …
She pulled out a thick strand of tawny silk and began separating the threads. She threaded the correct number through her needle, holding it up to the light.
… going out at night. Where did he go? She used to descend the winding staircase to his room after supper, hoping to see him alone, only to find him gone, no matter how foul the weather. When she questioned him about it, he would refuse to answer. Sometimes, very late at night, she would hear a commotion in the courtyard as he would demand to be let back through the gatehouse. His voice would be loud and slurred. Even during the day the odour of wine was sometimes about him.
She began filling in the yellow spots on the design of the tortoise’s shell. Pull the thread through, pull the thread out, pull the thread through … it was so soothing.
She was lonely, more lonely than she had ever been, because the one person she should have been able to talk to, she could not.
I married to escape loneliness, she thought, and instead I have found it in a most terrible form.
And the realm had not quieted with the end of the Chaseabout Raid. There was still discontent; she could sense it in the silences about her, in the sullen low spirits that seemed to pervade Edinburgh. Darnley was heartily disliked; and now there were times when she, too, disliked him. It had begun with his cruelty in the tent, during the aptly named Chaseabout Raid.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 43