“I left the armour behind in Edinburgh. How can I ride out with the troops without armour?” he was whining.
That was all he had enjoyed about the Chaseabout Raid: wearing his armour.
“Borrow some from Bothwell,” she replied.
Darnley threw back his head and laughed, a braying, high-pitched, unpleasant sound. It echoed in a peculiar way off the uneven stones in the chamber. “It wouldn’t fit. I’m taller,” he said disdainfully.
“I meant from the military stores here,” she said, equally disdainfully. “This is a royal arsenal and supplies of armour, artillery, and gunpowder are stored here.”
“Oh, yes.” He looked around vaguely. “Well, I shall see to it.”
She sat up. “Has anyone arrived yet?”
“Atholl is already here, with a thousand men. And some of Bothwell’s troopers—”
“Aye, the Scotts have arrived.” Bothwell stood in the doorway, his blocky form almost filling it up. “I came to tell you.”
“With how many men?” asked Mary. She arose from the bed.
“Several hundred. And they sent word that the Robsons and Taits are on their way, and with some of their best men: Crack-spear and Cleave-the-crune—you can guess how they got their names!”
Mary laughed. “They can cleave as many crowns as they wish, and with my blessings!”
“What a disgusting celebration of violence!” said Darnley.
“The names are very descriptive,” said Bothwell. “There’s Curst Eckie, Ill Will Armstrong, Buggerback Elliot, and Bangtail Armstrong. Perhaps if you went to the Borders, they’d find the proper name for you as well.”
Darnley turned and left the room, his back stiff.
“Yes,” said Mary. “They could call him Craven Henry.” She shuddered. Now that he had left the room, she felt as if an ugly spirit had departed.
“Are you rested?” Bothwell asked. “You should make sure that you are.”
“What will we do now?” she asked. She was ready to do whatever he said.
“We wait. And when enough men have come to Dunbar, then it is time for us to march upon those miscreants.”
* * *
Within three days, four thousand men had gathered at Dunbar, and the news of this travelled quickly back to Edinburgh. Bothwell and Mary decided that the time had come to leave Dunbar and march west; Bothwell led out his Borderers and Mary four companies of professional infantry. Altogether they enlisted the support of seven earls and four lords, and more joined them as they marched. Darnley managed to ride in front of the forces of Lord Seton as if he were commanding them.
As they neared Edinburgh the crowds thickened, cheering them. Just outside the city, Archbishop Hamilton, in the name of his clan, welcomed them. The people of Edinburgh streamed out, escorting them back into the city; Bothwell fired his field guns.
“Soldiers!” he cried. “You are to be billeted in the city!”
There was no resistance, no fighting. The field guns turned out to be merely a salute, not an opening salvo. The traitors had fled the city, and were even then on their way south to cross the border.
Mary entered the city, deserted by her enemies, to the ringing sound of cheers, at the head of eight thousand men-at-arms. The city was hers; the victory was hers.
* * *
By the next day she and her Council—excluding Darnley, who did not show any interest in attending—promptly attended to the work of punishing the offenders and setting the government on its feet again. All those who had not actually been present at the murder, but were indirectly involved, were ordered to keep away from court; this included Argyll, Boyd, Maitland, and Rothes and Kirkcaldy, still in England from the last rebellion. Morton, Lindsay, Ruthven, and the Douglases were all outlawed, both they and their partisans.
And what was to be done with Darnley? He had to be kept by Mary’s side, to vouch for the legitimacy of their child. A solution was found: He would swear his innocence before the Council, and this declaration, clearing him, would be published and posted. And so Darnley, his face shining and guileless, swore that he had had nothing to do with the conspiracy, and had “never counselled, commanded, consented, assisted, nor approved of the same.”
Afterwards he went out drinking at a tavern directly across from the Market Cross, where his signed declaration was posted.
“Good, good, good!” he kept muttering, lifting his mug in a salute to it.
XXX
The very sound of Darnley’s knife clinking against his platter grated on Mary’s nerves. She hated everything connected with him, any reminder that he even existed; the noises he made as he chewed his meat, as he swallowed his wine, all were repulsive to her. She forced herself to look at him, commanded herself to smile. He smiled back, the simpleton. Could he not tell how false her expression was?
Not much longer now, she thought. He must be flattered and mollified in order to acknowledge the child as his own and put the final lie to the Riccio slanders. Have I not done everything possible to placate him: issued a proclamation that he was entirely innocent of the killing, kept him by my side … everything except admit him to my bed, and in that I have had the excuse that the physicians forbid it—thank God!
Darnley was still smiling at her, cocking his head to one side like a dog. “Shall we walk upon the ramparts, my love?” he asked.
She willed herself to stand up and nod. She even took his hand and together they walked slowly from the chamber out into Edinburgh Castle yard.
The thin May sunshine had no power to warm them, and Mary sent a servitor to bring her a cloak. Fastening it about her shoulders gave her an excuse to let go Darnley’s hand. As they left the protection of the inner courtyard walls, the raw spring wind, fresh from the Forth, hit them. Darnley laughed with glee, like a child. He rushed over to the walls of the fortress, while Mary followed him at a more sedate pace.
“Look there! Look there!” he said, pointing to the patterns the wind was making on the surface of the Nor’Loch, at the foot of the castle rock. The long thin lake, where the bodies of plague victims were tossed, sparkled today in the sunshine, its blue-grey colour a reflection of the sky.
“Yes, yes,” she said, trying to keep the irritation from her voice.
What a child, she thought. And I thought him a man, and pledged fealty to him, and put him on a throne. This time last year … no, I’ll not think of that. It’s too painful.
The harsh sound of laughter carried across the courtyard, followed by the ring of nailed boots. Bothwell and his brother-in-law Huntly were deep in conversation as they headed down toward the Long Stairs and the gateway, their cloaks flying out behind them.
Wait! Mary almost called, and raised her hand to signal them. Then she dropped it. They had disappeared around the wall.
“As to the godparents, I think my father—” Darnley was saying.
“No!” said Mary. “No, not your father!” She distrusted him; she suspected he, too, had been involved with the Riccio murderers. “I had thought that we should ask rulers of other countries to be godparents. After all, this child will be monarch of Scotland, and possibly England as well. It is fitting that this be recognized from the start.”
Darnley sighed. “Who, then?” he said.
“I hoped to ask Charles IX of France, and the Duke of Savoy, and Queen Elizabeth.”
“Queen Elizabeth?” screamed Darnley, so loud that the soldiers keeping watch on the walls turned around. “What, when she forbade our marriage? No, no, no!”
“But this is the way to win her, don’t you see?” Mary tried to keep her voice low and reasonable. “Queen Elizabeth loves children, and if she has bound herself in vows to ours, she will look on it with favour later—”
“Never! The insult was too great! Never, never, never!”
“I intend to ask her, and I am the Queen,” said Mary firmly.
Darnley ignored her, in one of his sudden changes of mood. He turned and looked out at the loch again. Suddenly his v
oice was quiet. “Do you think it’s true what they say, that witches float? That’s how they tried them here, so I heard.”
Mary shuddered. “I hope never to see such a trial. The poor wretches are hauled out of the waters and then burnt at the stake.”
Witches, she thought, and all sorts of evil seem to surround me. My mother died within these walls, and I may follow her.
Her thoughts were so heavy she felt pulled downward toward the glistening surface of the loch.
“My love!” Darnley was holding her, with surprising strength. His face was pale and he looked alarmed. He turned her away from the height and led her back across the courtyard.
Why was he holding her protectively? She tried to shrug him off.
“You almost fell,” he said. “You swayed forward, and had I not caught you—” He was trembling.
Holy Virgin! She herself began to shake. Did I faint, then?
“You must lie down,” he was saying. “I shall see you to your chamber.”
* * *
She lay on the royal bed, resting her cheek against the tawny satin bedcovers, the ones she had embroidered with the Marys when they were all unmarried. They had laughed and sung and teased one another about their future mates, making wishes about the beds these satins would cover.
Now I lie on it and know all too well what my huband turned out to be, Mary thought. If I could never lie in this bed, or any other, with him—it would be all I would ask. Are Livingston and Beaton happy? Beaton married just a month ago, and seemed content with her fate. Flamina still writes to banished Maitland, even though she knows he was involved with the murder. Seton … she shows no interest in sweethearts.
“Ma Reine, they said you fainted up on the ramparts.” A small woman was suddenly standing beside her. A familiar smell of sweet lemon balm soothed Mary.
“Madame Rallay.” Her presence was more comforting than any satin bedcovers. “I fear I did. Yet it is most unlike me. And I am feeling much better now. And no, I do not need to partake of any of your calvados and frothed-cream concoctions!” That had been Madame Rallay’s cure-all for her since the days in France.
“I have already ordered it, and you must drink it!” said the Frenchwoman sternly.
Mary knew better than to argue. But she suddenly knew what she wanted, and it was not a posset. She clasped Madame Rallay’s hand. “I will drink it, I promise. But after I have had it, I pray you send for my confessor. I need to see him. It is time.”
* * *
Mary was sitting on a bench in the shuttered room, awaiting Father Roche Mamerot. She found herself shaking. Death: it was all around her, and lying on the bed she had suddenly felt its presence, waiting for her as it had for her mother. Childbirth was dangerous, and she could well die. Die … and go to Hell for her sins.
“My child.” The old Dominican, who had come with her from France and had grown elderly as her sins had progressed from refusing to share her toys with the other children in the royal playroom, to unsettling desires for vanity and luxury, to adult failings, greeted her kindly. He had always been a good confessor, stressing God’s mercy rather than His wrath.
“Bless me, Father, for I’ve sinned, sinned, sinned—” She grabbed his hand and covered it with kisses, closing her eyes to try to stop the tears.
“There, my child, the sacrament is meant to ease hearts too burdened.…” He tried to extricate his hand, but she clung to it, weeping. “What is it that troubles you so?”
“I have committed sins of commission, the sins of pride and anger! I have failed to practise charity! I have—”
“People do not weep over ‘failing to practise charity.’” His voice was gentle, almost teasing. “Such abstracts do not wound the soul, producing the pain of repentance that I see here. What is it you have done?”
“I hate him! I hate my husband! I hate him in my heart! Is that not evil? I wish he would die … I wish he were dead … I despise him!” She buried her face in her hands and wept stormily. “I cannot bear his presence! He feels repulsive to me! Father, what can I do?”
“You must, unfortunately, overcome this aversion. He is your husband, and in the eyes of God you are one flesh. You know it is your duty—”
“I cannot! I cannot!”
“Humanly you cannot, but with God’s help—”
“Nooo,” she moaned, holding her side and bending over. She looked as if she had been kicked.
“You say no because you cannot bear to submit yourself, not because you doubt that God has the power to help you.” He looked stricken himself. “And there can be no absolution without a sincere attempt to change, I fear to say.”
“I am afraid, Father, I am afraid that if I die, Darnley and his father will rule, and that they will kill the baby—such dreadful, nightmarish thoughts torment me! How can I go to the bed of a man I believe wants me dead?”
“Is there—do you have desire or lustful thoughts about any other man?” He had to ask.
“No. No, I never think of such a thing. I tell you, Father, you know that I came to this marriage a virgin, and that before that I had never even given much attention to that part of life … even though others seem to think about it, sing about it, and gossip about it endlessly. I was as much a Virgin Queen as my cousin. Would to God I were again! No, there are no such thoughts!”
He studied her tear-stained face. “I believe you. You should be thankful that the Devil has not seen fit to torture you in that respect. It would only compound the suffering you now experience.” He sighed. “I do not wish you to face childbirth with any sins on your soul. Your feelings are understandable. But do you have the strength to try to overcome them? All God asks is the willingness. He requires no promises beyond that, and He certainly does not require actual success.”
“Yes. If you say I must. And you have been the guardian of my soul for many years,” she said in a whisper.
“Then make an Act of Contrition, so that I may absolve you,” he said.
Mary bowed her head. “O my God! I am heartily sorry for all my sins; and I detest them above all things because they displease Thee, who are infinitely good and amiable, and subject me to the rigours of Thy justice; and I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to do penance for them, and never more to offend Thee. Amen.”
“Then I forgive you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” said Father Mamerot. “And for your penance, you must set this matter straight as soon as you are able.” He glanced at her stomach. “And may God grant you a safe childbed.”
* * *
The labour pains began a month later, on a June evening. Until then, Mary had anxiously asked the matrons, “How will I know if it is truly labour?” and they had all answered, “You will know. You will know.” And now she understood why they had all been so certain.
It hurt. It hurt from the very beginning. She had been told that it could start gently, but the very first pain was like a thin-bladed knife going through her, passing sideways from her back to her belly. Neither had they paused, once they had truly begun. Women had told her of being able to do needlework, of enjoying music-making in the early stages, but Mary could not stand up. She felt as though she were fighting an enemy inside herself, one that could best her and overpower her at any moment.
Lying in the great bed in Edinburgh Castle, clinging to knotted bedsheets, she tried hard not to scream. Everything the midwife told her to do, she did—lie this way, grasp this thing, smell this handkerchief soaked in water of wallflower—for the woman must be privy to secrets that would help. But nothing helped, and the pains grew more and more intense, until she felt that if she had a dagger to hand she would have killed herself at that moment.
“Take my hand!” commanded Lady Atholl. “Squeeze it hard!”
Mary obeyed, although she did not have the strength to squeeze it as hard as she would have liked.
“My sister lies in childbed herself at this very hour,” the woman whispered. “Yes, within this castle. No
w that I have your handclasp, I can go to her and take your pain with me. She will bear the pain!” The woman—almost as heavy as the pregnant ones herself—heaved herself up from the bedside.
“No!” cried Mary. “No, I do not wish that.” She reached out to try to restrain her.
“Hush.” The midwife gently pushed Mary back down. “Let the witch go. Do not keep her by your bedside.”
Witch? Was the woman a witch? “Lady Atholl—” she began, but a ripping pain cut her words off. Her abdomen felt as if it were being torn with searing irons, yet the huge mass within it—it had ceased to feel like a baby—did not move. What were all these pains accomplishing? They seemed to dash and writhe around the immobile creature like waves beating against a stone.
“Help me! Help me!” she cried, but she knew no one would. They could not reach up inside her and pull the child out. “Ooooh!”
Suddenly the pains seemed to break open, like sunlight streaming through a break in the clouds, parting to show an instant without feeling. Then they returned, full force.
“Push! Push! It is time!”
And now the pains were something to bear down upon, something that had a beginning, a core, and an end. And in the sheet of pain that was her belly, she felt a movement.
“Make ready! Make ready!” the midwife cried. Her assistant rushed over to the foot of the bed with a wrapping sheet and heated water.
The midwife was panting and sweating as if she were working in front of an oven. She bent and her sinewy arms strained.
“It’s here! It’s here! Oh!” she cried. “He is here! He! It’s a prince, a prince!”
“A prince!” all the attendants murmured, stopping to stare.
“The work is not over!” bellowed the midwife.
Mary heard the cry, “a prince,” and felt infinite relief. But—was he whole?
There was scurrying and movement where she could not see, then the midwife held up a slippery, gleaming blue baby. A caul covered his head, and was stripped away by the midwife; it was gossamer-thin. Mucus dripped off him. A slap on his wet buttocks, then a wail, mewling, tremulous.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 50