Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  “Bah. If he died for love of her, is that her doing? Men fall in love and do foolish things. Why should she feel obliged to recompense us?”

  “And why should we feel obliged to refuse? The material she offers is worth many pieces of gold. We must take what fate, guilt, and circumstance offer us; the same partners will rob us of plenty in times to come.”

  He had turned away. Her practicality smacked of opportunism.

  Ah, his bride!

  The groomsmen surrounded him, hailed him. In a buoyant body, they conveyed him to the Kirk, where she would be waiting for him.

  * * *

  Mary sat calmly in the royal box at the Kirk: a royal box that had never seen a Stewart until this day.

  What would the Pope think? she wondered. If he could see me now, gracing a Protestant wedding …

  She glanced over at Darnley, sitting beside her. He was sober and, as always when in that state, ingratiating and innocent.

  The church was crowded; there was scarcely an extra seat. Since the Reformed Kirk did not allow music, the buzz of voices filled the sanctuary. Now the Bishop of Galloway, the Lady Jean’s uncle, made his way down the aisle, wearing the modest attire of the Reformers. He took his place at the front of the church.

  At a signal, the guests began reciting a Psalm, and then Bothwell appeared from the right, flanked by an attendant. He stood quietly in front of the Bishop.

  The Psalm changed to a canticle of joy, and then the Lady Jean, heavily veiled in gossamer so that her cloth-of-silver gown shimmered like opal, made her way down the long aisle to join Lord Bothwell.

  Mary could not hear their voices as they recited their vows. She saw Bothwell take Lady Jean’s hand, then put a ring upon it. She saw him kiss her, lifting her face-veil to reveal her features. She heard the Bishop announce in ringing tones, “They are man and wife together.” Then they turned and, facing the congregation, marched out. Bothwell was grinning. Lady Jean looked pleased.

  In the large hall of Kinloch House, the company waited for the Queen and King to make their appearance before starting the festivities. The musicians were playing discreetly, delicately, and the banquet tables were laid with fine linen and glittering with crystal and gold. At the head table, ornate carved chairs were reserved for the bridal couple and the royal couple.

  As Mary and Darnley passed through the doorway, Bothwell bowed and his new Countess curtsied.

  “Felicitations,” said Darnley, taking their hands. “Felicitations, and may Hymen bless you and your hearth.”

  “Hmmm.” Embarrassed, Bothwell nodded curtly.

  Mary led the way to the waiting table, moving gracefully through the throng of her subjects.

  The larger, more ornate chair was hers, and she did not offer it to Darnley. He pretended not to notice. Seated on Mary’s right was Bothwell, and on her left was Lady Bothwell. Next to her was her brother, the new Earl of Huntly, blond and handsome. The rest of the company quickly seated themselves and the servitors began bringing out the streams of dishes—some delicacies from the Strathbogie region, seat of the Gordons, and some from the area of Liddesdale, Bothwell’s stronghold. Mary, whose appetite had waned during her pregnancy, took small helpings of salmon pie and powsowdie. The latter looked most unappetizing, a mixture of sheep’s head and mutton flank, but tasted surprisingly good.

  “I was brought up on this,” said Bothwell, motioning to the server to bring him more. “It is nursery food, in truth, something Border mothers give their bairns to serve as supper. But I always loved it.”

  “In France we had cinnamon broth with stewed Normandy apples,” she said, remembering with a stab of sweet longing those happy evenings in the royal nursery with François and Elisabeth and Claude. “I miss their apples.”

  “You’ll have to send for them, then. They should survive a sea journey well enough.” He took a great gulp of wine. “Still longing for France,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “No, that I do not.”

  “True, you’ve no reason to long for France when you surround yourself with Frenchmen, speak French, sing in French, write in French, sew with French threads, read French books, and have a French cook to prepare proper French dishes. And, oh yes, your confessor, that Dominican, what’s his name?—and your physician, Bourgoing. Didn’t I warn you long ago?”

  “You make it sound as though I have committed a crime!” She glared at him, sitting there so smugly, so much at home. “Can I help it if”—the Scottish foods, physicians, and books are so inferior, she almost said, but stopped herself—“if … if I was brought up there and I, too, formed childish preferences? I am trying to learn of Scottish things—”

  “With that Italian, Riccio?” He drank some more wine and plunged his knife into a hunk of venison on his plate and then transferred it to his mouth. He deftly ran his tongue over the sharp blade to clean it. She watched, expecting to see a thin line of red spring up along the broad tongue. But he went on talking as if nothing had happened. “Everyone detests him.”

  “Their hatred baffles me,” she said. “He has done nothing.”

  “He has displaced your Scottish councillors. People think he is a Papal agent. Some even whisper that you are his lover.” He repeated the venison, knife, and tongue feat.

  “How absurd.” But she remembered Melville’s warning months ago. She looked down at Riccio, seated at a lower table. He was smiling and gesturing. Suddenly she had to admit it: from a distance he did look like a frog.

  “It offends me that he is here today,” said Bothwell. “Why did you bring him?” His voice was rough.

  “He is of my household; he is a friend.”

  “Yet you are not providing the feast, but good burgher Kinloch.” He jerked his head toward the lean, blue-eyed merchant of Baltic trading. “Did you assume an Edinburgh tradesman would want to feed a foreigner?” He glared at her. “You underestimate their hatred of him. You underestimate their dislike of your consort and your marriage. You underestimate the weakness of your position. You underestimate—”

  “You overestimate my mercy and tolerance!” she snapped. “For a subject to use such licence in speaking to me, no, it is not to be borne! You are impudent, sir, and above your station, and for all it’s your wedding day, your mouth is an unruly knave!” She turned to Lady Jean, who had been talking to Darnley. “I wish you much joy in this rash, overbold talker!”

  “I could say the same to you,” said Bothwell, his words in the ear of her turned head, “for you’ve just described your own husband.”

  She started to retort, to leave the table, when she realized that no one else had heard him, and that indeed, Lady Jean was attempting to answer her hasty words.

  “Your Majesty, he’s a soldier and speaks as he would to his troops,” she said in a quiet voice. “If I must choose one or the other, I prefer a rough-spoken soldier to a smooth-spoken courtier.” She glanced subtly at Darnley, who was smiling blankly, and the point was made.

  “I hope his wooing proves more gentle than his manners,” said Mary, looking at the placid, self-possessed young bride. Bothwell’s quick, rough amours were well known. She had even been told—by Riccio—that Bothwell’s embraces were so crude he often posted someone as a lookout while he had his way in a corner with a wench, then buttoned his breeches and departed five minutes later. Poor Lady Bothwell!

  “We will be honeymooning at Seton,” she said, interrupting Mary’s vivid picture of Bothwell hunched in a corner indulging his lusts.

  “I wish you joy,” Mary managed to say.

  “We anticipate it,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Indeed we are longing for it,” Bothwell added in a low voice.

  * * *

  The banquet went on until late afternoon, and then was followed by a ball—for all that Bothwell professed himself a Knoxian, thought Mary. Indeed, the Protestants seemed to savour the entire experience much more than they ought, and the musicians played so long and so enthusiastically, she wondered where the
y had obtained their musical scores. From forbidden France?

  By dancing with him and talking with him, Mary managed to keep Darnley away from the wine servers, and indeed he was quiet and polite for most of the evening, occasionally speaking at length with the Earl of Morton and several of his Douglas clansmen, then breaking off with a smile for another dance.

  On their slow and stately passage back down the High Street toward Holyrood afterwards, they passed the dark, hulking Tolbooth.

  “Do you still plan to pass the Bill of Attainder against Lord James and all his men when Parliament meets next month?” he suddenly said.

  “You once pointed out that he had far too much land,” Mary replied. “Now he shall have none. Yes, the Lord James and all his supporters, now hiding in England, shall forfeit their land for their treason. I am surprised that you ask. Why is that?” She was suddenly suspicious.

  “No reason. Only that—perhaps it is unwise, perhaps there might be some other way—”

  “There is no other way, Darnley.”

  * * *

  As she got into bed that night, she wondered what approach Bothwell would make—might at that very moment be making—to his new wife in the bridal bed. She hated to think about it. Poor Lady Bothwell!

  XXVIII

  The winter seemed to be a whining dog, sinking its teeth into human bones and gnawing, refusing to let go, worrying and teasing its victim. Some days the sky would lighten and a hint of warm air, seemingly from Italy somewhere, would spread out over the land. Courtiers would be able to play tennis and practise archery. Then the leaden pall of cloud would clap shut overhead once more, and the light, singing air of the south would vanish, squeezed into nothingness by the abrupt grip of Arctic air.

  The variations in temperature, the lack of exercise, and the confinement indoors made Mary weak and listless. Although it was Lent, she was given special permission to eat meat to help her regain her strength.

  The second Saturday in March—when flowers would already be blooming at Chenonceau—great mounds of ice lay in the courtyard at Holyrood, their surfaces granular from the repeated thawings and refreezings. Little ice nuggets sparkled like diamonds in the grey crust.

  Mary stood at the window looking out. This inactivity is driving me mad, she thought. I cannot ride or hawk because of the child. At least Riccio and Darnley have been able to play tennis.

  “Did you play in your shirt yesterday, David?” she asked Riccio, who today was wearing heavy velvet.

  “Indeed. It was warm enough,” he replied. “And Lord Darnley took off his shirt.”

  Was she mistaken, or did he shudder slightly?

  “But he soon began to shiver,” he said. His face was turned away, and she could not see his expression.

  “Tonight it is back to winter pastimes,” she sighed. “We will have a small supper here in my apartments. But there will be meat for all my guests; that should be a treat. Anthony Standen to sing with you. Perhaps even a fortuneteller, for fun.”

  “Damiot the fortune-teller came to me yesterday,” he said suddenly. “He told me to ‘beware the Bastard.’ But the Bastard is in England.”

  “Do you mean Elizabeth?” she asked with a laugh.

  “No. Lord James.”

  “England is full of bastards. See how we thought of different ones? But Scotland is also full of bastards. Two of them shall dine with us tonight: my sister Jean and brother Robert. Need you beware of them?”

  “I suppose one cannot be too careful.”

  “I shall make them lay their weapons down, then, before entering the chamber!” She laughed.

  The little birds Darnley had given her twittered in their cage.

  * * *

  Twilight fell, and in Mary’s chambers the three remaining Marys lighted the candles and helped Riccio and Bourgoing the physician and John Beaton, a relative of Mary Beaton’s who served in the household, to lay the little table in the tiny supper room. It was warmer than the main bedroom and the curtains could effectively shut out more drafts. As Mary Fleming sang and Riccio played on his lute, it seemed to Mary that there was an inordinate amount of noise out in the courtyard—low rumbling sounds and muffled voices. But when she looked out the window, her eyes could discern nothing, as twilight is the most difficult light to see in. Some moving shapes were down below, but not in any great numbers.

  Her sister and brother, Jean and Robert, came in, their arms full of oranges and figs.

  “A special treat!” they said. “All the way from the south of France. A merchant on Murray’s Close had just received them!” They put the basket down and selected some for the platters. “Very un-Lenten!”

  “There’s meat,” said Bourgoing, with a wink. “As her physician, I prescribed it.”

  “What of the rest of us?” Jean teased. “Do we all have bodily infirmities calling for meat?”

  “I would vouch for it, Madam,” he said solemnly.

  “Ah, let us sit—here comes Arthur Erskine, my captain of the guard!” said Mary. “That is our full company for tonight. And Standen, a page of my husband’s.”

  “Eight people in this rabbit-sized room,” said Jean, shaking her head. “You have need of a large private dining room, dear Queen.”

  “We can squeeze in here,” Mary insisted.

  They wiggled and pushed their way in, and were eventually all seated, although as they ate they continually bumped elbows and jostled. Still, the wine lightened their spirits and made it all seem a joyful game, like an indoor picnic.

  “To the end of Lent,” said Arthur, raising his cup. “May it come soon.”

  They laughed and drank.

  “Is it my fancy, or does this Lent already seem to have gone on long past forty days?” asked John Beaton. “Never have I felt one drag as this one. And March is such a loooong month.”

  “I hate March,” said Lord Robert. “It is my most unfavourite—”

  There was a rustle at the door, and Mary looked over to see Darnley standing there. He said nothing, he just stared.

  “My Lord,” she said, trying to keep the surprise out of her voice, “have you supped already? Pray join us.” Darnley never came to her chamber anymore, and never dined with her. The private spiral staircase linking their rooms went unused.

  “I have eaten,” he said. “But I will join you.” He slid in and put his arm around her waist, bending down to kiss her.

  “Riccio, slide over and make space for my Lord,” said Mary.

  But she saw the shock on Riccio’s face and turned to see what he saw: standing in the doorway was Lord Ruthven, his face the colour of old bedsheets and his eyes as red as Hell.

  A ghost! She gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. Ruthven had been reported on his deathbed several days before, wasting away from an unknown disease; now, in death, he had come here. The flickering fire played over his bloodless features and rimmed his bony eye sockets. It rippled and reflected on metal glimmering beneath his white nightshirt. Armour. Did a ghost wear armour? As he moved slightly, it clanked.

  “How now, my good Lord Ruthven, how come you here? Are you quite recovered?” she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. He was reputed a warlock—perhaps this whole apparition was straight from Hell.

  “I have, indeed, been very ill, but I find myself well enough to come here for your good.” His eyes stared, their amber-coloured irises almost blending into the jaundiced whites.

  “What good can you do me?” she asked, her voice shaking in spite of herself. “You come not in the fashion of one who means well.”

  “I am come for that poltroon, Riccio,” he said with slow, rasping words. He raised his arm, slowly and stiffly, then pointed right at him. “Come forth from the Queen’s privy chamber, where you have tarried overlong!” His voice grew louder.

  “Why, what wrong has he done?” Mary saw Ruthven reach for his dagger. “If he has done anything amiss, let him answer before Parliament!” She rose to shield him, but sudden
ly Ruthven nodded to Darnley.

  “Take your wife to you! Hold her!” he barked, and Darnley, still standing behind her, grabbed her shoulders and pinned her into her chair.

  “What do you know of this?” she cried.

  Riccio jumped up and sought a way out of the chamber. But Ruthven blocked the way. Frantically, Riccio pressed himself against the window recess, the farthest possible from Ruthven, but still only ten feet away. Ruthven lunged forward, but Anthony Standen and Arthur Erskine held him back.

  “Lay not hands on me, for I will not be handled!” Ruthven cried, brandishing his dagger. He kicked the table and it upended, hitting Mary’s pregnant belly; the platters and food went flying, and the one candelabrum fell to the floor and broke, while Jean grabbed the other one and held it aloft, providing eerie lighting for the melee.

  More men appeared at the doorway, followers of Ruthven, tumbling from out of the private staircase—they had come from Darnley’s quarters, then—yelling and crying for blood. Then, from the outer quarters, up the main staircase, came the cry, “A Douglas! A Douglas!” and eighty of the Earl of Morton’s men poured in, overpowering the royal guards and stampeding through the presence chamber and then into the bedchamber.

  One of them swung a rope, yelling, “Hang him! Hang the little spy!”

  “Traitors and villains!” screamed Mary, recognizing the telltale bright orange hair of the Earl of Morton and, at his side, Lord Lindsay of the Byres.

  Riccio crawled across the floor and hid behind Mary’s skirts, clutching and crying, “Justice, justice! Save my life, Madam! Save my life, for God’s dear sake!”

  Then the great barrel-shaped form of George Douglas “the Postulate,” Darnley’s bastard uncle, was upon Mary, and, swiftly and savagely, he swung his fighting arm over her shoulder in a wide arc and stabbed Riccio. The dagger made a dull thwunk! as it sank in up to its hilt, and blood splattered out all over the back of Mary’s dress.