Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  “Is there something amiss?” Bothwell was speaking to her. “You are staring at me as if there were an insect crawling on me.”

  “There was one,” said Mary, horribly embarrassed, “but he flew away. He was on your—your—”

  Everyone laughed, and Mary blushed.

  “So that is why your eyes were riveted to his—his what?” said Darnley snidely.

  “Nothing,” snapped Mary.

  “Well, well,” said Sir John hastily, “what is your pleasure today? Shall we try to hunt in the Ettrick Forest, and hope the poachers have not been there first? I am mortified about what happened yesterday.”

  “I fear I must depart,” said Bothwell. “This is a pleasant interlude, but duty, in the form of the Elliots, is calling. They are by no means broken yet, and time grows short.” He stood up and took one last draught of the ale. “I mean to have them all at our mercy by October.”

  “Then shall we hunt together?” Darnley asked Mary. “That is, if you think you can sit a saddle after last night.”

  “She is a fine horsewoman; the ride yesterday did not even begin to test her limits,” said Bothwell.

  “No, I mean after our ride in the bed last night,” said Darnley, almost cackling with pride.

  Mary gasped in hideous embarrassment. Not at Darnley’s repulsive bragging, but—and this realization embarrassed her even more—in shame that Bothwell should know that she had given herself to Darnley, in this very hunting lodge, a few rooms away. She hated him knowing.

  “Come, perhaps you are with child!” yelled Darnley. “And, good people”—he winked lasciviously at Sir John and Bothwell—“ought we not to work a mare when she is in foal? Come, let us ride, and ride, and ride!” He laughed and reeled around and around, spilling out the contents of his tankard.

  “Drunk!” cried Mary, shocked at the revelation. “It’s true, then, what they told me, your drinking has become worse, your constant, foulmouthed drunkenness! It is only nine in the morning, and how many of these have you had?” She kicked the tankard and sent it rolling down the cobblestones and onto the grass. “You drunken, stupid fool! You’ll never touch me again!” She slapped him on the face so hard it sent him spinning around even faster. His legs tangled and he fell in a heap.

  The servitors, hovering near the steps, froze in position.

  Suddenly she felt strong, wide hands on her shoulders and a commanding voice in one ear. Bothwell was bent so close to her his lips almost touched her cheek. “Quiet. Let him lie there. Do not demean yourself.” He let her go and stepped back.

  “Sir John, I must take my leave.” He looked disdainfully at Darnley, sprawled out on the ground. “May I suggest fresh cider or perhaps milk with your future breakfasts, Your Majesty? Good day.” He turned and walked across the forecourt and into the house to collect his belongings and make a speedy retreat.

  Once he was gone, Mary threw her head in her lap and began to sob. She was more miserable than she had ever believed it possible to be. Then she wiped away her tears and commanded herself to cease crying.

  She left Darnley still lying in a huddle on the ground, shaking and whining.

  I will leave here, too, she thought. I will take the little Prince and bring him directly to Stirling and give him into the care of the Erskines.

  Within her chamber, she lifted the sleeping infant from his elaborately carved rocking cradle, a gift of her host. It was of dark wood, lined with padded velvet. The two-month-old baby, his face now filled out and his plump cheeks flushed, stirred and opened his deep blue eyes.

  A rush of fierce love and pride shook her as she looked down at him. It was all worth it, then, so that this child could have been created? Hearing his breathing, holding his warm body, the answer felt like yes.

  “Dress him for travelling,” she told Lady Reres. “And pack all his things.” She turned to Sir John, who had followed her. “It is necessary that he be transferred to the safety of Stirling Castle, as I once was,” she said. “It is customary for the heir to the throne. And it is almost the appointed time … what matter a few weeks one way or the other? Gather your men and make me an escort within the hour.”

  “Your Majesty, do not do this in haste or anger—”

  They could hear Darnley stumbling into the hall and then climbing the stairs toward them.

  “And lock him up!” she cried.

  Sir John looked in genuine pain. “Your Majesty, I am not allowed to lay hands on him. He is the King … have you forgotten?”

  “Yea, wife, have you forgotten?” Darnley’s slurred voice sounded from the doorway.

  Mary clutched the baby more tightly.

  “I have not forgotten that I granted you the title of King. But you have not been anointed or crowned, or recognized by Parliament. Nor will you ever be! Now”—she raised her voice and called for the chamber guards—“I give orders, as the only anointed sovereign in the realm, that you restrain the Earl of Ross and Duke of Albany here. Confine him to his chambers until he recovers from his temper-fit. Should he become violent, bind him.”

  The guards looked to Sir John, to Darnley, and then back again to Mary, then reluctantly stepped forward and grabbed Darnley’s arms. He attempted to throw them off, but could not.

  “I go to convey the baby Prince to his nursery in Stirling, where he will be raised in safety. When you recover, you may follow,” she said to Darnley. “Take him away,” she ordered the guards.

  “You will pay for this!” snarled Darnley. “You will go to join your beloved Riccio, and there will not be anything left to bury! No need for you any longer—you’ve produced the Prince! No need—no need—your life is worth nothing.…” His voice died away as he was dragged down the hall.

  “The feeble, unimaginative threats of a coward,” said Mary, pretending to a disregard she did not feel.

  “I beg you, be vigilant. A coward is the deadliest enemy there can be,” said Sir John, alarmed.

  Mary hugged the baby one more time before handing him to the nurse. “A coward is dangerous only if he has accomplices,” she said. “And there is no one now who would intrigue with him, after he once betrayed them all.” She sighed and smoothed her skirts nervously. “And if I were removed, before he had title to the Crown Matrimonial, he would no longer be husband to a Queen, but just a—a male dowager!” She began to laugh in jerky little gasps. “He would have to go about in a white veil!”

  Just then she heard a clatter of hoofbeats in the courtyard, and leaned out of the window to see Bothwell astride his chestnut horse. His reddish hair glinted in the sun, and he wheeled his horse about, looking up at her window.

  “Fare thee well,” he said. “I shall see thee in Jedburgh.” He stared at her, as if he had watched everything that had just happened.

  “God keep thee,” she said, feeling her strength departing with him. Slowly she waved at him, and he saluted her and turned away.

  I used thee, she suddenly realized. I have not used thee except to my mother and my child and my once-husband.

  And he used it to me.

  * * *

  “You have my heart,” Mary said to Lord and Lady Erskine, handing them the bundled baby that was the surety for Scotland’s independence. As he left her hands, she felt a pain almost as great as when he was born.

  Poor women do not have to leave their bairns, she thought. Nor does John Knox have to surrender his sons into the keeping of another family.

  “We will guard him as our own,” said Erskine. He nodded to the formally dressed chamber attendants, and a plump matron stepped forward and took the baby. James cooed and reached out a hand to her face.

  “She will replace Lady Reres after a fortnight or so,” said Erskine.

  No, no, I cannot bear it! screamed Mary to herself.

  Now you know how your own mother felt, she thought.

  “Come, you must know that he will always be yours,” said Erskine. “You may come here and spend as much time with him as you wish. You will select hi
s tutors and consult with them about his readings and schoolwork.”

  But I will not be here to see him struggle with his lessons and learn his games. I will only be shown them after they are practised and perfect. I will not comfort him the first time someone hurts him with words, or answer his odd, unexpected questions.…

  “Socrates’ gaoler said, ‘Try to bear lightly what needs must be,’” said Erskine.

  XXXIII

  Mary returned to Edinburgh after a few days spent with the Erskines at Stirling, seeing Prince James settled. Then she rode slowly back to her capital. She tried to think of the baptism, to plan for it. It would be glorious, and throw Scotland open to the world. For a few brief days the French would come, and see what had become of their erstwhile Queen, after leaving their realm. She would take pride in welcoming them. And Elizabeth? Would Elizabeth actually come?

  But planning for a fête, no matter how magnificent, could not still her anxious heart. The happenings at Traquair had shattered the platform upon which all else was erected: the finality of her marriage to Darnley, her need to honour it, to forgive and endure him, to consider herself dead to anything else. Her sudden preoccupation with Bothwell so profoundly disturbed her that she thought about it continually, as a problem to be solved. She analyzed it constantly, seeking some explanation for it. The logical ones she found were that in her detestation of her husband she had imagined qualities in Bothwell to distract her from the dreadful truth that she was afraid to confront about Darnley. Or that he simply appealed to her memory of her uncle François, Duc de Guise, the great warrior Le Balafre, complete to the scar on the face. As a child she had thought him the ideal man; now she saw his shadow in Bothwell. Or that, because he had rescued her from Holyrood after Riccio’s murder, she had confused gratitude with attraction. There was a simple explanation for it, she was sure, one that, in explaining it, would nullify it, render it harmless.

  As soon as she returned to Holyrood, Darnley fled from Traquair House into the countryside to go hawking. She was relieved that she did not have to see him, but knew that eventually he would have to be fetched back. Oh, would this never end? What was the answer?

  It was time to call back the lords who had been punished by being sent away from court, particularly Maitland. All must be tranquil for the great public ceremony; when the noble foreign guests arrived, they must not find half the court in banishment. Maitland returned, along with Argyll. Lord James and they were all reconciled with Mary.

  Things are back as they were, she thought. At least on the surface.

  John Knox had taken refuge in Ayrshire in western Scotland, and was not present to plague her with sermons or threaten her about the baptism, which she hoped would be according to Catholic rites. She needed to settle that with the Lords of the Congregation.

  Accordingly, at one small Privy Council meeting, Mary brought it up to Lord James, when he inquired as to who would officiate at the ceremony.

  “I had thought … Archbishop Hamilton,” she said quietly.

  There was a moment of deep silence. Then Lord James said, “A Catholic?”

  “Yes.”

  “The people will not permit—” began Maitland.

  “The people must have expected it! The Prince’s mother is Catholic, and his father”—painful subject—“comes of a Catholic family!” she said.

  “But he is the heir to the throne of a Protestant country,” said Lord James.

  “Do you expect me to have John Knox perform the baptism?” she cried. “I realize his country will be Protestant. Why do you think I am content to have Lord Erskine train him—Lord Erskine, a good Protestant? I want my son to understand that faith. But for his baptism—nay, it cannot hurt him either way, and it will help my conscience. A Catholic baptism is no bar to becoming a Protestant later—as every one of you can attest, as well as John Knox!”

  “So you are willing to entertain the idea that he may choose freely to be Protestant, once he reaches the age of reason?” asked Lord James cautiously.

  “Yes, of course. None of us can have our faith chosen for us by our parents; if our faith means anything, we must choose it for ourselves. But no one can choose from ignorance. One must know something in order to be free to choose or reject it.”

  Maitland smiled. “She makes perfect sense, and a good case. I say let the ceremony be Catholic if the Queen wishes.”

  “Very well,” said Lord James grudgingly. “Now, as to the costs—what is your plan? I know nothing of such ceremonies; we never have them in Scotland now.”

  “Since the Prince has godparents from three countries, each will send an ambassade of at least fifty persons; and then there will be the banquets, the fireworks—I cannot reckon now exactly how much. But I will look at the books kept in the Exchequer House and see how much the treasury can allow. I will do this immediately, so that if a tax is necessary—”

  “Oh, the people won’t stand for a tax,” said Lord James quickly.

  “If a tax is necessary,” she continued evenly, “I am prepared to make concessions that the people may find acceptable. Or even welcome.”

  * * *

  Within the week she moved to the Exchequer House, a dwelling on the Cowgate—the street that ran parallel to High Street—ostensibly to avail herself of the account books at all times, in reality to do both that and have privacy. She found that she could think best in small rooms without the protocol of palace life, not to mention the watchful eyes of the court.

  She took her secretary, Claud Nau, who was so good with figures and had a working knowledge of the expenses of such a celebration, and Madame Rallay, and in a few days Lady Reres joined her, having been replaced at Stirling. She brought news of Prince James and all his nursery arrangements.

  Mary soon discovered that she enjoyed going over the books of both the government and her household. She found the old ones, going back to her mother’s reign, and delighted when she saw the first entry for herself—“white taffeta for the princess’s baptism.” Sometimes she would call Lord James or Maitland to consult over an entry, to explain notations in abbreviation, but mostly she liked to puzzle over them herself, leaving the books open to the area in question. She would thus be able to work on them continually as she pleased, without worrying about losing her place in them.

  Her initial understanding, however, was correct: the crown had very little money, not enough to finance the celebrations on the scale she wished. Very well, then, there must be a tax.

  “We are a poor realm, sister,” said Lord James. “You have only to compare your coronation with that of Queen Elizabeth’s to understand that. So the only way is a tax.” Clearly he thought the baptism an extravagance, and a foolish one.

  “It will not help us if the world perceives us as a poor realm,” she said. “If we hide it and make a goodly show, it will stand us in good stead later.”

  “What of—the King?” asked Lord James. “Will he behave himself and attend? There is no point in borrowing money, and putting on a show, only to betray to the world what we have as a King. I know he objected to asking Queen Elizabeth.”

  “He’ll come, he’ll come,” said Mary, with an assurance she did not feel.

  * * *

  The weather turned nasty—cold, rainy, and dark. Mary was loath to leave the Exchequer House, which had become her retreat from the world, and now she was trapped inside it. She retired to her private chamber and read in a comfortable chair before a fire, revelling in the few hours of complete privacy and lack of outside demands. The rain dashed against the windows.

  She looked out and saw women hurriedly taking in bedding that they had been airing in the adjoining courtyard. When the house servant brought up more logs for the fire, she pointed out the dwelling attached to the courtyard and asked, “Whose house is that?”

  “David Chalmers, Madam,” he said. “Lord Bothwell’s servant.”

  “A fine house for a servant!” she said, surprised.

  “Oh, he’s more th
an just a servant—he’s a companion, a friend who serves him. Yes, Chalmers lives here most of the year.”

  Mary stood gazing down at the house. Had Bothwell bought it for him? How generous he was with his friends, then! The house was four storeys. She saw lights being lit, and that enabled her to see into the rooms, which seemed to be well furnished.

  Bothwell. She had had no further news of him than that he was busy in the Borders, as she had ordered him to be.

  Sighing, she returned to her book. The candle was guttering in the strong wind that managed to create a draft in the room. She would go to bed soon. One of the happy things about her stay here was that she made her own hours, in deference to nothing but herself.

  She yawned. Perhaps it was time for bed now. Yes, she would call Madame Rallay, put on her night attire—

  There was a soft knock on the door.

  “Enter,” she said.

  Bothwell stepped in.

  She was too surprised to act surprised. It was impossible that he be here. He was here. She stared at him. “This is not Jedburgh,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  “No.”

  Only then did she look around. There was no one with him. No one had showed him to her room. “How did you—”

  “I came to Edinburgh on the sly, I fear. No one knows I’m here. I am staying next door, at Chalmers’s. Lady Reres kindly allowed me in, through the back door. The courtyards are adjoining.”

  “Lady Reres?” she said. “Why—yes, of course, you are old friends.…” Just so she must have let Bothwell in to see her sister Janet many times. Suddenly she was not glad to see him, she wished he would go away, back where he belonged, the Borders, or confine himself to her dreams. “What do you wish?”

  “To talk to you,” he said. “May I sit down?”

  Only then did she see that he was splattered with rain. “Of course. What did you wish to see me about? Do you have a particular problem with the prisoners, or the date we had set for the justice court?”

  “No. No, all is well there. But—”