* * *
On Christmas Day, Mary called together the remaining lords: Lord James, Maitland, Argyll, Huntly, and Erskine. She unrolled her pardon for the exiles and read it slowly.
“They are all to return, under my forgiveness,” she said. “You must welcome your brothers back, and let us pray that this is an end to all discord and strife.”
* * *
That night Darnley, mounted on his favourite white horse, slipped away from Stirling Castle and made straight for Glasgow and his father’s bailiwick.
XLIV
The sun was sinking on Twelfth Night when Mary stood to one side as Mary Fleming, her flamboyant Flamina, was wedded to Maitland. The ceremony did not take place in the Chapel Royal, as there were not enough guests to fill it, but in the Queen’s Privy Chamber. Maitland looked at her possessively. He had waited patiently for almost five years, had waded through the problems of the age difference, and weathered all the political upheavals that brought him now closer, now further, from the Queen he claimed to serve.
As for Flamina, Mary looked at her with tenderness. She hoped she would be happy with the Chameleon, as he had been called by his political enemies.
May he never change his feelings for her, as he seems to change his alliances, Mary thought. Let him find in his bride the one thing he can be loyal to.
* * *
“Now that Darnley is gone, we are free of him. Come to my inmost chamber tonight,” Mary whispered to Bothwell as she brushed past him during the dancing afterwards. She felt giddy with the sudden freedom.
Bothwell frowned and shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“Too dangerous,” he murmured later, when he could insert it into a brief gap between two innocuous sentences spoken in front of the beaming Maitland. Lady Jean stood beside her husband, looking at him with her wide, perceptive eyes. She was fingering her wedding ring.
Pointedly?
“We wish you all the joy possible,” she said in her low, drowsy voice. “Marriage is full of the unexpected, but it wears brighter and brighter as time goes on, like a gold ring.” She displayed her ring with obvious pride.
“Let us dance,” said Bothwell. “I learned this one in France.”
“Ah, France. You must take me sometime.…” Mary could not hear the rest of the sentence, as Bothwell led his wife away into the midst of the dancers, but she could see the Countess smiling and touching Bothwell’s shoulder, and could see him smile at her.
A pain pierced through her. How could it hurt so much, when she knew he loved her? And how could it be that she could not see him alone tonight?
She felt suffocated by the music, the torches, the celebrants, and wanted to run from the chamber and sit and wait for Bothwell to come to her later.
But instead she had to smile and dance and drink goblets of sweet wine, and kiss Mary Fleming and tease her about the wedding night.
“Your Stewart blood will see you through. Passion runs in your veins,” she assured her.
Was it a blessing or a curse, this passionate blood?
“At last I can turn it loose,” said Flamina. “And with the Church’s blessing!”
* * *
Bothwell later sent word to her, and while his wife was out hunting the next morning they made quick, impassioned love in his quarters. Afterwards he told her that it was time they, too, departed. His wife was questioning their long stay and was impatient to return to her own favourite castle of Crichton, which she was in the process of furnishing.
“And she seems anxious to write our wills,” said Bothwell, “and settle our inheritance.”
“But you don’t sleep with her!” cried Mary. “So how can an inheritance for her heirs be of concern to her?”
“Well, there are brothers, family—”
“You don’t sleep with her!”
“Mary, be reasonable—”
“No! You promised! You mustn’t—”
“I never promised that! I promised to love you always—”
“And sleep with your wife?” she shrieked.
“Quiet!” commanded Bothwell. “Do you want the entire castle to hear you? How can I not sleep with her? Do you think she would continue unsuspecting if I did not?”
“So, she craves your lovemaking and cannot be deprived of it! The proper Lady Jean Gordon—”
“Stop it! You sound like an ordinary, tiresome, demanding mistress, not like a Queen. I will not stand for it! I’ve had my fill of such women—whiny, jealous, clingy.…” He attempted to kiss her.
The thought of him naked with his wife was so repugnant to her she turned away.
“Do not be ordinary,” he said. “It is a Queen I want.”
“Must you go?”
“Yes. I must.”
“When?”
“After a week or so, when the weather turns. You know January fourteenth, St. Hilary’s Day, is by custom the coldest day of the year. The Ice Saint, they call Hilary. So I’ll wait for his day to pass. Then I shall go.”
* * *
But by the fourteenth of January, Mary had more anguish than just Bothwell’s departure. The word had come from Glasgow, where Darnley had returned to his father, that Darnley was very ill with syphilis. And she herself felt ill, but of a different cause: she was pregnant.
She must tell Bothwell before he departed! By making discreet inquiries as to his whereabouts, she ascertained that he was in the stables, overseeing the packing of his horses. He was to journey forty miles in the cold weather, and equipment was important. He would not think of setting out without horse blankets, tools, candles, and extra food, and he did not trust the stablehands to secure them properly.
Making an excuse that she wanted to see how her favourite white palfrey, Ladysmith, was faring after a bout with a mysterious swollen knee, Mary slipped out to the stables. She, with her love of horses, often went there, and so did not arouse any curiosity from the stablehands.
Bothwell was inspecting his horse’s hooves, his brow furrowed. He looked up and saw her, and an expression of displeasure came over his face. It changed quickly to anger.
“Do you want to expose us to unnecessary suspicion? We said our farewells. Now go!” He glanced at the stablehands, busy in the stalls. So far they had not looked up. “Yes, Your Majesty, I will see if there is any word from Moretta. The last message I received in Edinburgh was that he has only just left Paris.” He raised his voice slightly as he said this. “Pity he had to miss the ceremony itself.”
“Bothwell!” She clutched his sleeve. “I cannot commit this to writing!” She leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I fear I am with child. So I must go to Darnley in Glasgow.”
“No! He is diseased! You must not, must not—”
“I will not give myself to him, but what the world will see is that we have come together. What happens in our private moments cannot be proved—or disproved.”
“It is dangerous there!”
A nearby stablehand turned his head and gave them a sly smile.
“I told you, I shall not give myself to him,” she whispered.
“Glasgow itself is dangerous. It is filled with the Lennox Stewarts, and Lennox himself is lurking.”
“Lennox is ill.”
“He pretends to be ill. I cannot let you go there alone. I have—there are—rumours that both father and son are planning some monstrous action against you. Lennox signalled his intentions by absenting himself from the baptism. I have heard—”
“I have no choice!” Could he not see that?
“Rid yourself of it! Janet Beaton has remedies—”
“Your old mistress? That reputed witch? The remedy might prove worse than the condition itself!” Her voice was rising again.
“Keep your voice down!” he hissed. “I hear you well enough! Very well, then. But these remedies work.”
“I’ll not dabble in witchcraft.”
“’Tis not witchcraft, but simple country medicine.” He looked around quickly.
She did not answer.
“You must not go Glasgow! Mary, I beg you—”
“Unless you have some true information of which I am ignorant—which I now command you to tell me—then I must.”
He shrugged and shook his head. “Only rumours. But, Mary, there were similar rumours flying about before Riccio was murdered. Even Cecil heard them in London. Darnley wants the crown. He was promised it by the Riccio conspirators for his part in the plot. Now he knows you seek ways to be free of him. He must do something quickly, while he is still legally bound to you.”
“I distrust him. But I will be on my guard.” She reached out toward him, but stopped herself. She must not touch him. “I cannot believe that he would actually harm my person.”
“I pray you are right.”
“Farewell. I shall write you from Glasgow, reporting all his words, so that if anything happens, there will be proof—and he shall never come by the crown.”
“I shall await your letters. And—God be with you.”
XLV
A few days later Bothwell jounced along the rutted, icy path between Crichton Castle—where he had left his wife directing workmen to carve new oak panelling for the hall—and Whittingham, a Douglas stronghold fifteen miles away. January was a miserable time to travel even a short distance, but Mary’s situation made it imperative. Immediately after her visit and “reconciliation” with Darnley, Mary must be rendered a widow. It was as simple as that.
It was true, what he had told her. There were rumours about that Darnley and his father planned some sort of coup against Mary that would result in their seizing the crown—in the little Prince’s name, of course. But when it was planned, what exactly was to take place, and who were the conspirators, he did not know.
If only my spies were as well paid as Cecil’s, he lamented as he pulled his wrap more tightly around his neck. Then I would know everything.
But then it matters not what the weak, mewling fool has planned, if I act first.
He had a sinking feeling. Good clean outdoor fighting, that he relished. But this plotting, this underhanded, inherently cowardly way of dealing with enemies, sat ill on him.
My entanglement with the Queen has led me into this, he thought. It has transformed me into a masquer, as false as everyone else at court. I hate it. And now with this child, I cannot just end it.
The great stone tower of Whittingham poked out from above the dull brown branches of the sleeping forest at the foot of the Lammermuir Hills. Bothwell trotted into the courtyard and was relieved of his horse by a shivering attendant. Awaiting him inside were the Earl of Morton, Maitland, and Archibald Douglas, Morton’s all-purpose henchman: cutthroat, forger, and bully.
“Ah!” They turned to greet him, offer him a goblet of heated ale.
“Promptness is a virtue,” said Archibald Douglas. “Now the meeting may begin.”
Unlike a court ceremony, this was to have no niceties, no exchange of pleasantries, although Bothwell could not resist saying, “Well, Mr. Secretary Maitland, I see even a honeymoon does not keep you away from your necessary duties—like planning assassinations.”
“Close your mouth!” Morton stepped forward. “We will confer outside.”
Bothwell tapped the moist grey stones. “Even the walls have ears, eh?” He drank some more of the heated ale. He would have wished for a few more moments before the fire, so his numbed fingers and toes could at least begin to tingle.
“Your lack of originality disappoints me,” said Maitland.
“As does your lack of lust for your new bride. But duty calls.” Bothwell finished the ale and put the cup down. He pulled his hat lower on his ears.
Outside, the chill seemed to hover just above the ground.
“By the yew,” said Archibald, pointing to a gigantic tree standing alone about a hundred feet from the house, surrounded by bracken and lichen-covered boulders. Carefully they made their way across the field, feet slipping on the stones and getting snow inside their boots.
Under its sheltering, low-hanging limbs, the tree seemed like a tent shielding them from the wind.
Morton settled himself on one of the flatter boulders, spreading his cloak underneath him. “You laugh,” he said sternly to Bothwell. “But there are spies everywhere. And it is imperative we not be overheard.”
Maitland the bridegroom spoke first. “The problem is simple, gentlemen. The Queen regrets her marriage with Lord Darnley. We regret her marriage. There is no one who does not regret the marriage, except Darnley himself and his proud father. It is time that the marriage is ended in the time-honoured way: till death us do part. Having just heard that vow myself, it inspired me.”
“Yes,” Bothwell said. “Divorce, annulments … they leave too many unsettled questions.”
“And they don’t punish the offender!” Morton snarled. “He betrayed us over the Riccio affair—turned on his own clan, the Douglases! It is not to be borne! I had many months to brood upon it while I was exiled, first to England, then Flanders, then back again to England.” His dark eyes were glistening.
“So you’ll strike the first blow?” said Archibald. “Keep up the family tradition, and use Bell-the-Cat’s great sword. It’s been in your keeping for a reason.”
Morton fingered his bushy red beard. “I dare not,” he finally said.
“What?” Bothwell was incredulous. “What did we bring you back for, then?”
“That is just it,” he said gruffly. “I have just received a royal pardon for one murder. I dare not commit another so soon.”
The wind rose and rattled the tree branches against each other. Everyone glared at Morton, until he finally cried, “I despise him, and I would gladly strike not only the first blow but all the rest—if the Queen would commission me.”
“She has commissioned you. She has commissioned all of us,” said Maitland. “At Craigmillar, we discussed it and her only condition was that it must not blot her honour.”
“But ‘it’ was left undefined,” admitted Bothwell. “She stated she wanted her freedom; when she said ‘it,’ that was what she meant.”
“Do it, and she’ll thank you for it afterwards,” said Archibald.
“Not without her express command,” said Morton stubbornly. “In writing.”
“She’ll give it,” said Archibald.
“Then you procure it,” said Morton.
“That I will,” Archibald said indignantly. “And right speedily.”
“But how will we do it?” persisted Maitland. “We should settle on a plan right now, since”—he nodded mockingly toward Archibald—“we are protected so effectively against eavesdroppers.”
“Stab him in the fields,” said Bothwell. “He is a fool for hawking, even in foul weather. It would be easy to lure him out into the wilds. And then—”
“We would have to murder his attendants—Standen, Taylor.…”
“You have overlooked the fact that the Lord Darnley knows you hate him and would therefore be suspicious of invitations from you to go riding far afield,” said Maitland smoothly.
Morton’s face fell. “True. But murder within a palace is difficult. Too many people about. Look what happened with Riccio.”
“We can ambush him as he passes from one palace to another,” Archibald suggested. “Then it could be blamed on outlaws and brigands.”
“Hmmm … yes,” said Maitland. “But it would depend on how large a party he was travelling with.”
“We could ambush him on the way to his eternal hawking,” said Bothwell. “That would have the advantage of a smaller party and a remote location.”
“Someone would have to inform us of his movements. That means someone very close to him would have to be brought into the conspiracy,” said Maitland.
“Sir James Balfour is known to keep company with him,” said Archibald. “And he’s corruptible.”
“But he might betray us to him,” Bothwell objected.
“Poison?” asked Maitland. “There is
always that old standby.”
“Again, there is the problem of needing someone close to him to administer it,” Morton pointed out.
“Not if it is given at a public affair, a banquet.”
“Perhaps the simplest way is best,” Maitland said briskly. “Arrest him for treason in the name of the Queen, and when he resists, kill him. In self-defence, of course.”
“Get the commission,” said Morton to Archibald. “For I will be sorely disappointed if I cannot avenge my own betrayal.”
XLVI
Mary stood looking at Archibald Douglas, the swarthy murderer who should have belonged to the Black Douglases instead of the Red ones. He had requested a private interview with her, and she had granted it on the eve of her departure to Glasgow. But when he whispered his request in her ear, she could scarcely believe it.
“No!” she cried. “No! I will not even listen to such a wicked suggestion! Get you from my sight!”
Permission to kill Darnley? She, of all people, wanted Darnley kept alive. Dead men beget no children.
She had even hurriedly dispatched Bourgoing to Glasgow to treat him, lest he might succumb to his disease before she could reach him and spend one night behind closed doors with him.
* * *
Evidently agitated, Bothwell had rushed to Edinburgh and now was insisting that he and Huntly would accompany her partway to Glasgow. Delighted to see him on any excuse, she was touched that he was so concerned. She arranged to spend the one night en route at Callendar House, the home of Mary Livingston’s family. That way she was assured of safety and also of an opportunity to see Lusty again. Although Lusty came back to court regularly, bringing her little son, they had had few private moments together in the past two years.
The late-January day was comparatively mild as they set off, leaving Edinburgh behind. Even so, the route was mired and blocked with fallen trees and mounds of ice, so their pace was slow. Bothwell led the way, riding out proudly, his alert eyes searching the road on either side for anything amiss. She loved to watch him ride. His reddish hair gleamed sleekly in the low-slanting sunlight.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 62