Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  Riccio sagged, and she felt his hands dragging at her skirt, almost ripping it from its fastenings at her waist. He made no sound but a dull, gurgling groan. She turned slightly and saw the dagger sticking out of his side, and just then Darnley grabbed her again and held her, whilst one of Ruthven’s men put a cocked pistol against her side and another held one to her breast.

  “Fire,” she said, “if you respect not the royal infant in my womb.” She spoke as one in a dream. She could feel the cold iron through her dress, and yet she was oddly unafraid, as also in a dream.

  Darnley deflected the pistol, but continued holding her fast as a prisoner.

  Around her Riccio was now crawling and rolling, and men were falling on him. Mary then suddenly felt a rapier thrust near her breast, but Anthony parried it aside using a torch as a weapon.

  They mean to kill me, too, she thought, but then Darnley pried Riccio’s fingers loose from her gown, and the assassins dragged Riccio out of the little room. The birdcage was knocked over, and the chaffinches escaped, swooping about the room like bats. Mary could see Riccio grab on to the bedpost in the bedroom, only to have his fingers clubbed with the stock of a harquebus. Then the mob fell on him and he disappeared like a hare beneath a pack of hounds howling with bloodlust. There was a frenzy of movement as the men swung and stabbed, their arms rising and falling in deadly thuds, and then screams: the men had cut each other in their ecstasy of killing.

  George Douglas grabbed Darnley’s dagger and ran after the mob, arm raised to strike, yelling, “This is the blow of the King!”

  There was more thudding and yelling, then cheering, and finally the voices were echoing from the great staircase, from whence came a mighty crash.

  A few minutes passed before one of Darnley’s valets came into the supper room from the outer chamber.

  “Where is Riccio?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse and her throat so dry she could hardly speak.

  “Madam, it is useless to speak of Riccio, for he is dead,” he sneered. Then he laughed a braying laugh.

  Mary Beaton came in, trembling. She had been in the bedroom the entire time, hiding beneath the bed. “I have seen him, I have seen him! He is mangled, dear lady, cut in collops! And—they kept saying it was all by the King’s orders!” She pointed at Darnley.

  “Ah, traitor, and son of a traitor!” said Mary softly, looking at Darnley’s arm around her. “Now do I know thee.”

  “No traitor!” he cried. “For it is you who betrayed me with Riccio, offering me the greatest outrage a wife can to a husband! You never have come to my chamber, nor given yourself to me as my wife, since he has crept so into your favour. You saw me only if he were present, you locked me out of your chamber—”

  “Because you were stinking, and drunk, and—repulsive to me!” she said.

  He let out a cry like a wounded animal.

  “I shall never be your wife nor lie with you nor rest content till I give you as wounded a heart as I have now!” She turned to Jean. “I beg you, go see what has happened, where they have taken him.”

  Jean ventured out and returned within a few minutes.

  “It is as they said, Madam. Riccio is indeed dead, stabbed all over, and with his”—she nodded to Darnley—“dagger left in him. They flung his corpse down the grand staircase, where it landed on his very own trunk, the trunk he himself brought from Italy. Then the night porter stripped him. He lies there, naked and bruised and covered in blood. The porter counted fifty-six wounds on his body.”

  Mary felt hot tears trickling down her cheeks, and a knot in her throat so she could scarcely breathe. “No more tears,” she whispered. “I will think upon revenge.”

  Ruthven suddenly appeared in the doorway, sagging and wheezing. He dragged himself to a chair and, with scrabbling fingers, hunted for a cup and a wine flagon among the scattered vessels. His sleeves were bloody, and his hands smeared with red.

  “So this is your infirmity,” said Mary coldly.

  A great noise arose in the courtyard, and the Earl of Morton came panting in. “There’s fighting out there between my men and the palace servants, led by Bothwell and Huntly.” He sounded mildly annoyed, like a man who has had an extra errand forced on him.

  “I’ll go!” said Darnley eagerly.

  “Nay, I’ll go. You stay here,” said Ruthven, rising to his feet.

  “There’s almost two hundred of us,” said Morton. “And the gates are locked. But if the townspeople—”

  “We’ll placate them,” said the pistol-wielding henchmen of Ruthven, who had reappeared at the door, like cats returning from a kill licking their whiskers. One of them, Andrew Kerr of Fawdonside, waved his gun like a bouquet of flowers.

  Morton—the Lord Chancellor of Scotland—a common murderer. Mary glared at him, at his smug face and neat black attire. One of the original Lords of the Congregation. One of Knox’s men.

  “Why have you done this?” she asked. “Did you mean to kill me, too? To what end? Who would rule instead? Elizabeth? My Lord Darnley? No one kills for an empty throne.”

  “Be silent, Madam!” said Morton. Why was this woman interrogating him? She was supposed to be in shock, miscarrying, or reduced to quivering silence. He clapped his hand on his sword and rushed outside to command his forces.

  Mary went to the window and watched as the Douglas men, expert fighters, gave no quarter to the small band of Bothwell’s retainers and those of the new Earl of Huntly, allied with her serving men and kitchen workers armed with spits, cleavers, and mallets. They were driven back, as the Earl of Morton joined the Douglases and gave them heart. His bright red hair peeked out from under his helmet, making him easily visible.

  “So,” she finally said to Darnley, “you win. What is it you want? You must want it badly, to murder and cause such mayhem.”

  “The Crown Matrimonial,” he said without hesitation.

  “Do you not realize that such an insurrection weakens the crown? It gives nobles the idea that they can threaten kings and queens with death and make and unmake them at will.”

  “You would not have given it to me otherwise.”

  “So you turn her subjects against your own wife? And you wonder that I do not love you.”

  I hate him, she thought. He has betrayed me and was even willing to have me murdered. He wants the Crown Matrimonial. Perhaps that is all he ever wanted, perhaps that is the only reason he sought me, married me—

  The pain was so great it felt like a labour pain.

  No more of that, no grieving, not for something that never was, she told herself. They mean to depose me in some manner, rule for me. Darnley will be their figurehead. He is weak, and they can use him. After my child is born, they will set him up as King and depose Darnley in turn. I must escape from them. I must escape.

  Darnley still loves me. They mean to use his weakness, but I can use it better.

  “Ah, if only we could be happy again,” she said as if to herself.

  He heard it and leaned over to her, gingerly putting his hands on her shoulders. She did not flinch or pull away, but seemed to lean toward him. Or was it his imagination?

  “I would give anything,” he said, “if—”

  Just then a mob of Edinburgh citizens, led by the Provost, stormed the palace gates, yelling and threatening to invade the palace itself. Flaring torches indicated the size of the crowd: it was at least five hundred. They had heard of a tumult, they shouted, an attack on the Queen’s person. Let her show herself and tell them the truth.

  The alarm bell of the city was ringing loudly.

  Rescue! Mary jumped up and flung open the window, but Kerr pulled her forcibly back and, caresssing his dagger, said, “If you utter one word, I shall cut you in little pieces and feed you to the carrion crows.”

  Darnley looked on helplessly as Kerr nodded to him and shoved him toward the open window. “Get rid of them!”

  The pitiful coward! Was he made of blancmange? No wonder his complexion was so creamy! She hated t
he cheeks she once had marvelled over.

  “Good citizens!” he cried. “Thank you for your loyalty and concern! But there is no need for alarm! The Queen is quite well, safe, and resting. The Italian secretary is dead, punished for having been discovered to be a Papist spy in an intrigue with the King of Spain. Thus perish all the Queen’s, and Scotland’s, enemies!” His voice rose gleefully.

  The people, reassured, turned away and began trudging back up the Canongate, their staves and pitchforks and pikes lowered.

  “Well spoken,” said Kerr. “Of course they would believe their King. They will learn to trust and obey you, Your Majesty.”

  With Kerr here I can do nothing, Mary thought. She turned a beseeching and submissive look toward Darnley.

  I can do nothing until we are alone, she thought. I must get him alone!

  She sank back into the chair and allowed herself to slump. Kerr turned and looked at her.

  Even my slightest movement is noticed, she thought.

  Silence had fallen in the courtyard outside. Silence reigned in her quarters. Where had everyone gone?

  “Mary? Mary Beaton?” she called.

  “All gone.” George Douglas stood in the doorway, his thick arms braced against each doorpost, as if he would tumble them down, like Samson in the temple. His hands were dark with blood. “They are—how shall I put it?—dismissed, Your Majesty.” He managed to make the title sound like an insult. “And we”—he nodded to Darnley and Kerr—“think it best you should retire now. After all, it is late.”

  “Not so late, to have accomplished so much,” said Mary. “It was seven o’clock when we sat down at the supper table. And it is now—”

  “Half past nine,” said Darnley.

  “Only two and a half hours. And half past nine is yet early.”

  “For you, yes!” said Darnley. “For you are—were—wont to stay up until two with Signor Davie!”

  “Riccio is already abed, fast asleep,” sneered Douglas. “His slumbers cannot be interrupted. And now we deem it proper that you should retire also.”

  “Where are my women? I must needs have attendants.”

  “They are—detained.”

  “Is there no one to keep me company on this foul night?” she cried. “My husband—”

  “Nay, not your husband,” said Douglas firmly. “We have need of him. There is much to discuss.”

  “Pray do not leave me alone in this chamber, here—” She stood up and pointed to the places on the floor where blackening globs of blood lay like scabs. “Have mercy!” She commanded her voice to tremble piteously, and it obeyed, when all the while anger was raging in her veins.

  “There is one, perhaps, available,” ventured Darnley. “Old lady Huntly, dowager of the Earl.”

  Douglas raised his eyebrows. “Clever. Very clever. Yes, the old lady, made a widow by the Queen. She can be trusted. Go find her.”

  He orders the “King” about like a servant. And indeed, he will soon be their servant, thought Mary.

  She waited, while Darnley left the chambers. She became aware of a dull pain that came and went within her abdomen.

  O Blessed Mother, do not let me lose the child! It is too early yet; he cannot survive.

  The pains rose and then subsided by the time Darnley returned with Lady Huntly.

  “Your servant, Your Majesty,” she said, bowing. She looked nervously about the room, smoothing her skirts. The disarray, the blood, was everywhere.

  “Put the Queen to bed,” Douglas ordered. “Permit no one to enter or leave. If anything untoward happens, I shall be stationed just outside, on the landing of the great staircase. Come!” he motioned to Darnley. They left the chamber, Darnley casting one backward look.

  As soon as the doors were closed and a moment or two of silence had followed, Lady Huntly whispered, “What has happened?”

  “My secretary Riccio has been slain, and in my presence, by an armed faction of lords. But there is more to it than that. It has to do with the exiled lords, with the coming censure of them in Parliament, with the King’s ambition, with even a threat to the throne and my own life. I do not understand all the threads of it yet, but in time the pattern will emerge and clarify itself. I only know that they threatened my very life, and only God saved me tonight.”

  “Holy Mother of God,” said Lady Huntly, crossing herself.

  Mary’s pain stirred itself again.

  “I must rest,” said Mary. “Perhaps it is best that I lie down.” She started to stand up, but felt dizzy.

  “Stay seated, Your Majesty,” said Lady Huntly. She knelt and removed Mary’s shoes, then came behind her and unbuttoned her gown. “Raise your arms,” she said, and slid the dress off. As she took it to the little wardrobe room, Mary saw the spray of blood across the yellow satin.

  Lady Huntly found the chest where the sleeping attire was stored, and brought out a pearl grey woollen garment. Mary stood up, suddenly feeling tremulous, and retired behind the screen, where with clumsy fingers and heavy hands she removed her underclothes and put on the gown.

  Lady Huntly was waiting for her on the other side, and with a gentle touch she guided Mary toward the bed. She had already turned the covers back.

  “You—an earl’s wife, a great lady—how do you know how to perform these duties?”

  “I am a woman, Your Majesty, and you are a woman in distress and with child. One does not need training. Now, where is your rosary?”

  Mary pointed in the direction of her chest, and the little box of ivory atop it. Lady Huntly brought it to her and put it in her hands. As if Mary were a child, she folded her fingers over it.

  “When I draw the curtains, then you should pray to Our Lady. She will help you. She understands.” Lady Huntly’s plump face was as calm as a July evening that promised only stillness and rest.

  Could this woman be truly so kind? Was this a trick? Would she stab her in the night?

  “Your lord perished because of me,” Mary said.

  “He perished of an apoplexy,” Lady Huntly said. “I think in that way God was signalling His displeasure with those who rebel against their sovereign.”

  “Your son, John—”

  “Love was never meant to lead to treason, Your Majesty. Saint Paul says, ‘Love is long suffering and kind,’ and Saint John says, ‘He who says he loves God and hates his brother is a liar.’ No, it was not for love that my son perished, but for lust and rebellion.”

  Could she truly feel this way? Was it safe to trust her?

  “You are good, Queen Mary. You have showered my eldest son George with honours, and restored him to the Huntly estates. We are entirely loyal.”

  So this remarkable woman was so able to bend her natural affection to God’s commands that she had become an ally?

  “I believe I can serve you. I can perhaps carry messages from the chamber. They do not suspect me. The Earl of Bothwell and my son, the young Earl, await your command. They managed to escape from Holyrood after the clash in the courtyard with the Douglases, and can be counted on to be at the ready with horsemen and troops should you so desire.” She laughed. “They had to escape through Bothwell’s window and out through the den of wild animals Your Majesty keeps here. Lord Bothwell got a nip in his breeches from the lioness.”

  Mary giggled.

  “Now rest, Your Majesty, and talk to our Blessed Mother. She awaits you.” She closed the curtains resolutely.

  Mary lay in the darkness. She heard the soft rustle of Lady Huntly’s gown as she crossed the room. Then she heard her find the little truckle bed and pull it out, and lie down upon it. In a few minutes she heard the gentle snoring.

  Assassins do not snore, she thought. So she means what she said. She is loyal, in spite of my having bereaved her of her husband and a son.… How strange are the ways of God. How demanding, and how heavy …

  Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us, now and at the hour of our death …

  Is my death nigh?

  Only if I allow
it.

  Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed art thou—

  What are their plans?

  —amongst women and blessed—

  Will they imprison me? Who is the leader of this insurrection? Morton? It is not Darnley or Douglas. They have not the brains. Maitland? Knox? Surely a clergyman would not … Lord James? He was not here. But messengers …

  I must escape. It is all very well that Bothwell and Huntly stand ready on the outside. But it is a long way to the outside. I must make my way there. Those hundred yards to the outskirts of the palace are as long as the distance to Muscovy. Darnley, my husband. I must win him to my side. I must. He alone can act as surety for me.

  He still loves me. It was his vanity that was betrayed, not his love. I can win him to my will.

  A sudden picture, so vivid it seemed to have come from Hell, flashed across her mind: Riccio, his blood settling, his open eyes staring, his limbs stiff and cold. Where did he lie, even now? Abed, fast asleep, the evil Douglas had said.

  Let him at least be laid in a grave, she prayed. They are not above feeding him to beasts.

  But if the beasts had been satisfied, they would not have nipped at Bothwell.…

  Her head spun suddenly, and she was carried off in sleep. The rosary fell from her fingers.

  * * *

  She dreamed of her rubies in the Great Harry turning to globules of blood and oozing out and soaking into her bodice. She dreamed of being locked in a turret and seeing a knight outside waiting to rescue her, but his visor was down and she could not see him—as Henri IPs visor had been down during the fatal tournament. She dreamed of Riccio, playing for her on his ebony lute, and his voice was so sweet she sat upright and awoke.

  “I must have him play that again,” she murmured, drawing aside her bed curtains and seeing a dull grey light coming into her chamber.

  Then she saw the blood on the floor.

  “No!” she cried. He had been so alive, so alive and singing, only just now.…

  She lay back down in her bed.

  Riccio is dead and I am a prisoner, she thought. I even have a turret here. But there is no knight outside. Only Darnley to rescue me, and first I must convince him. It is not the same as the dream.