Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  “How much powder will it take?” Darnley’s eyes glittered.

  “Several thousand pounds, even for the long chamber,” said James. “But I have means of obtaining it quickly.”

  “Without suspicion?” asked Robert sarcastically.

  James smiled. “What do you take me for? Of course, without suspicion.”

  “Do it all tomorrow, then, and do your digging,” said Darnley. “Tomorrow is Thursday. On Friday night I shall beg the Queen to be so kind as to stay here again with her ailing, melancholy husband. Then, at about this time—no, about five o’clock—the powder can be lit. I will order my horses to be saddled and waiting for me at that hour. Then, as the powder train takes a long time to burn, tell me just as it is lighted.”

  “The Queen seems most kind to you, Sire,” said Robert.

  “Seems, Robert, seems. But things are not always as they seem. There is no doubt that both Scotland and all the court and her subjects would be better off without her. For Scotland cannot have a Papist for its ruler, since it has chosen to be under the Reformed faith. If she lives, she will surely raise the Prince to be a Papist as well. The baptism was proof of that. And my refusing to attend was my statement about it. As for the court, have not most of the nobles already rebelled against her at one time or another? All except Bothwell. And even her subjects, though they know it not, deserve more than a sovereign who rides about looking pretty but has not the will to administer justice, and is so concerned with her rights to the English throne that she values the one she occupies but scantily. Does not Scotland deserve a ruler who reveres its native throne, rather than belittling it?” He paused. The recital of reasons had taken away his breath. He hoped they were convincing.

  “Still,” Robert demurred, “to assassinate a ruler is a grievous sin.”

  “You assassinated a cardinal,” Darnley reminded him. “And now let me summon Anthony Standen, my attendant, whom I trust absolutely. He must aid us in these plans.”

  The Balfours murmured their grave misgivings about including anyone else. But Darnley insisted on rousing Anthony and informing him of the plot. Because he was still sleep-befuddled, he did not at first question the idea or its execution.

  “He has strong shoulders, and can help you dig and carry the powder,” Darnley insisted.

  “Begging your pardon, have you considered leaving clues to point to someone else?” Standen asked, waking up at last. “For, its being your own house, the finger of suspicion will surely point at you.”

  The lad was clever. “Hmmm—we might throw the blame on Lord James—or on Bothwell—with a few carefully arranged articles. An empty barrel. Or perhaps someone could impersonate them passing through the streets. I must think on it. Thank you, lad.” James nodded gravely.

  After they had slipped silently away in their velvet slippers, Darnley blew out his candle and lay back down. But his heart was pounding as if he had just run a race.

  It was to happen.

  He was so excited he was almost shaking.

  For an instant he thought of doing just what he had convinced his dupes he meant to do: blow up the Queen and escape himself.

  But no. If he made a miraculous, timely escape, everyone would know he had done it, and then he would be hounded and executed anyway. Better to die this way, by his own hand and in his own time. With her.

  He had broken out in a sweat. He imagined the force of the explosion, of being thrown from his bed, of vanishing in an incandescent flash.

  It was a death by fire, then, but as far removed from the slow, ugly death at the stake as a fiery Arabian stallion, trained to race, was from a hobbling old donkey. One was a marvel of nature, awe-inspiring in its power, the other a poor, paltry, failing thing.

  Death by fire. It was a fitting way for an adulteress to die—prescribed by law, even. And she was an adulteress. Any lingering doubts had been removed that afternoon when he saw her gazing on Bothwell. The look in her eyes had been unmistakable.

  And as for his own death—he felt a strange, almost erotic power in planning it and knowing he could achieve it in exactly the manner he wished. He felt like God. God might have planned for him to die of syphilis, or be murdered by the Lords like Riccio. But he had outwitted God. He would not settle for the donkey of God’s choosing, but mount the Arabian steed and ride to a thrilling death.

  * * *

  A certain Edinburgh merchant accepted sixty pounds from Sir James Balfour in exchange for enormous quantities of powder on Thursday, February sixth. He was told it was needed for the royal arsenal—which, strictly speaking, was true. Later that day the Balfour brothers and Standen transported it to Kirk O’Field. But there was so much of it that even by nightfall only half of it had reached the cellars of Robert’s house. In the dark they began digging the tunnel, but managed to complete only half of it by daybreak.

  They laboured all that morning bringing more powder, but the merchant ran out. He himself awaited further supplies on Saturday, he assured them.

  After the Queen had retired to her quarters that Friday night, they had to tell Darnley that all was not prepared. They were met with a string of curses.

  “It was a greater undertaking than we expected,” said James. “But by Saturday night—”

  “Damn your lying soul to the blackest depths of hell!” Darnley snarled.

  James Balfour felt anger rising in his tired body. They had laboured for a day and a half already, going without an entire night’s sleep. Suddenly he doubted Darnley’s promise of a reward. Darnley was ungrateful for all their efforts, and oblivious of the risks they were taking—for him. No wonder everyone hated him.

  “Sire, we have done our best and will fulfill the task as we promised,” he finally said. “It is only a day or two delay.”

  “You don’t understand, you thick-skulled ape! This is the last night the Queen stays here! My course of treatment is over! We are to move to Holyrood tomorrow. I am cured,” he said sarcastically.

  “Then have a relapse,” said James with equal sarcasm. “Surely you can manage that in order to extend your stay until Monday.”

  “The Queen will go to the wedding at Holyrood on Sunday. There will be festivities in the evening—”

  “Bull piddle. You can prevail on her to return to Kirk O’Field afterward. After all, her life depends on it.” He chuckled with a grating sound.

  “This is all your fault.…” Darnley continued.

  James Balfour stood there as Darnley called him every insulting name he had heard in France and England as well as Scotland. The abuse bounced off him, for he had long been inured to the power of name-calling. He even smiled at the foolish boy, blathering away, totally unaware that the illusory power of words was no match for the true power of information.

  Surely Scotland would prove more grateful for the efforts, and knowledge, of Sir James Balfour. Scotland was aweary of Darnley.

  He kept smiling until Darnley ran out of breath.

  * * *

  Bothwell put his feet up on a footstool and warmed them before the hearty fire in the quarters he had been assigned at Holyrood. He liked the room; it was on the south side and looked out over the palace gardens and park toward Arthur’s Seat. He also liked the status the room assignment implied.

  Now he had a little leisure to read Sextus Julius’s Stratagems and Subtleties of War and escape into the military campaigns of ancient Rome. How different they were from the swooping attacks in the Border hills.

  How would I have fared in these campaigns? he asked himself. Marching, with rows of men, forming the testudo, making a tortoise shell of shields when approaching enemy fire—

  There was a soft knock at the door.

  Bothwell heaved himself up to answer it; French Paris was out searching the merchants’ stalls for Bothwell’s costume for the coming masque, and he was alone.

  James Balfour stood on the threshold, an expectant grin on his face. “May I?” he asked, stepping inside without waiting for an answer.


  “Evidently,” said Bothwell.

  Immediately he sensed this was no ordinary visit. Balfour looked eerily excited.

  “What is it?” asked Bothwell.

  Balfour peeled off his mantle and gloves and threw them arrogantly on the little table where Bothwell’s military book rested.

  “I have information that may be the most valuable you have ever purchased,” he said grandly.

  “Oh?” Bothwell tried to sound calm, but he knew it was the missing part of the Darnley plot he had been seeking. Balfour had sniffed it out; like the vermin he was, he had managed to listen from holes and obscure vantage points. “How does a hundred pounds sound?”

  Balfour laughed. “Absurdly low. Where is your much-vaunted sense of chivalry? Is that all the Queen’s life is worth to you? Ah, there are others who will pay more to ensure it succeeds.” He made a patently false move to retrieve his mantle. Bothwell grabbed him so hard the two bones in his lower arm grated against each other.

  “Tell me,” he breathed.

  “Let go of my arm.”

  Bothwell dropped it. “Name your price, then. I haven’t time to bargain like a fishwife.”

  “Or a soldier of fortune?” Balfour shook his arm. Suddenly he was suspicious. “Why do you care?” This was more than a soldier’s or an adventurer’s eye to the main chance.

  “I have always been loyal to the crown,” Bothwell replied smoothly. “Now tell me your price, and your information.”

  “A thousand pounds,” said Balfour. “In French crowns, so as not to reveal its source.”

  “Done.” He would get the money.

  “May I have your signature on this?” Balfour produced a piece of paper to serve as a promissory note, and Bothwell hastily signed it.

  After Balfour had slowly, deliberately folded the paper and concealed it on his person, he insisted on pouring himself some wine and sipping it before saying, “The King intends to murder the Queen.”

  He had paid a thousand pounds for a rumour? A rumour he already knew? Bothwell flushed with anger. “The King could not manage to do so. No one will trust him or serve as his sword arm. The Queen’s servants are all loyal,” he said.

  “Gunpowder is loyal to whoever lights it, and it lies obedient and waiting.”

  “Where?” Bothwell felt jolted.

  “In the vaults beneath the house at Kirk O’Field. The plot is that the Queen will spend the night there on Sunday and be killed in an explosion.”

  “And the King?”

  “He will light the powder and escape.”

  “How do you know this?”

  He laughed a dry little laugh. “I have put the powder there myself. It took a day and a half.”

  “So you were paid to put it there, and now you’ll be paid to take it away?”

  “Indeed. My hourly labour fee is impressive, is it not?”

  “You mined your own brother’s house?” Bothwell was stunned.

  “With his permission.”

  “So he is party to the plot. Who else is?”

  “No one. As everyone knows, the King is so unpopular no one would plot with him.”

  Relief flooded Bothwell. The rumours had hinted at a widespread plot.

  Balfour was smiling. “In truth, I have run out of powder. I bought all there was in Edinburgh, but it is not tightly packed enough yet. Another five hundred or thousand pounds is required.”

  “Leave me to remove it,” said Bothwell. “I can dispose of it easily in the royal stores at Dunbar. Then no one can trace it. And doubtless your good brother Robert will be pleased to have his building spared.” He attempted to smile at Balfour. “And the King will not know his plan has been discovered and dismantled?”

  “No.”

  Balfour’s promises were more worthless than lies. The only way to secure his cooperation was to deceive him.

  “Leave it for now. You need rest after your exertions,” said Bothwell. “You did right to come to me. Doubtless there will be further rewards, high offices granted from the crown.…” He ushered Balfour toward the door. “I will need house keys in order to remove the powder,” he said.

  “Here.” Balfour dropped them in his hand: a thick iron ring with massive long keys. They weighed like a stone.

  “Good evening,” said Balfour. “Do not exhaust yourself. It is heavy work.” He laughed again.

  After he left, Bothwell sank down on a bench. He could hardly think, he could only feel. He had to sit and let his blood calm down.

  Darnley had provided his own death warrant. All he, Bothwell, had to do was blow Darnley up before he knew what was happening.

  I will bring the extra powder from Dunbar. French Paris and my kinsmen will help carry it and place it. Sunday night as he sleeps, we will light it and blow him up. People will think he blew himself up by mistake. The crime will punish the criminal, and that will be the end of it.

  Mary will be free. And we can marry.

  Instead of exultation, the word “marry” seemed like a manacle, dragging him to some unknown doom.

  He reached for his military book and held it like a talisman.

  I am a soldier, not a statesman. I only wanted to possess her body, not her crown. And there is something else besides.…

  Those who love her seem to die untimely or unnatural deaths. François. Chastelard. John Gordon. Riccio. Now Darnley.

  He shook his head. Womanish speculations and tremblings. He had a task before him, and if he did not carry it out, Mary would die.

  Against his will he admired Darnley’s ingenuity in harnessing alchemy to do his work when no man would set his hand to it.

  “But to prevail requires more than ingenuity,” he said softly. “It also requires courage, timing, and luck.”

  Be lucky, Bothwell, he thought fiercely. Be lucky now, just this once in your life, and you need never be lucky again.

  * * *

  Mary was confused. Bothwell had not come to the reception chamber to pay court to Darnley in the past two days, and had sent her no private messages. French Paris was curiously absent too, and although Mary tried to involve herself in the spirit of the coming wedding festivity for Bastian and Margaret, the feeling of evil that seemed to be holding its breath did not abate when the bride and groom both chose black as the colour of their wedding attire.

  Only two more days until Darnley would leave Kirk O’Field. He had obstinately refused to move until after the wedding, and had declined to attend the ceremony.

  He does it to annoy me, she thought. But he cannot imagine how precious even an extra day of freedom from him is!

  For on Monday he would move back to Holyrood, expecting to be received back into her bed. She felt a rush of revulsion in even thinking of it.

  And Bothwell—how can I see him privately? Will I ever be able to see him, have the luxury of an evening alone with him, a quiet supper, a night in bed in which we make love and sleep and wake to make love again in the dark? It must be possible—it has to be.

  Why could my father have his mistresses and enjoy them openly, and I am compelled to hide myself, like any serving wench?

  In a gush of resentment she hated her father.

  And my grandfather! she thought bitterly. He took Bothwell’s grandmother to his bed; ’twas no secret. And we, the grandchildren, cannot do likewise because I am a Queen and not a King. What James IV could do, I cannot.

  He could not have burned as I do!

  Her desire for Bothwell, her love for him, made her sway on her feet. Hold me, kiss me, touch me—

  “Your Grace, pray sit down. You are unsteady.”

  In acute embarrassment, Mary turned to see Lord James standing behind her.

  The proper Lord James, representation and embodiment of her father’s kingly prerogative, whisked a stool toward her. Averting her eyes, acutely aware of the blood throbbing in her cheeks, she sat down.

  “I must beg your pardon for intruding, but I wished to obtain leave to absent myself from Edinburgh.
” He seemed so deferential, as if he never had done anything without her approval and permission. “My wife needs me at St. Andrews.”

  Too preoccupied with covering her tumultuous thoughts, she merely said, “I prefer that you remain another day to attend the marriage festivities. Then you may go.”

  “No, I must not tarry!” He sounded alarmed. “My wife has had a miscarriage, and the physicians fear the onset of childbed fever. It is imperative I go immediately!”

  “Very well. When will you return?”

  “When it is safe to do so.”

  * * *

  Bothwell patted the last of the wall of powder tenderly. It was done. What a backbreaking task. He stank with sweat, and the exertion had shown him that his injuries had not completely healed. His belly in particular pained him whenever he contracted the muscles.

  But it was done.

  And just in time. Lord James, as was his wont, had scurried away from Edinburgh. If anyone wanted the sure sign of an impending political murder, all they had to do was note the whereabouts of the Lord James. He was never on the scene.

  To throw the stone without seeming to move the hand: that was his motto.

  For Lord James and all the rest wanted Darnley removed. But in the end only Bothwell would stand to the task.

  It is fitting, he thought. It is I who am the Queen’s lover, and it is my child within her. My responsibility is personal, theirs merely political.

  Now everything had moved into that most difficult of phases, waiting. Waiting for the long Sunday to pass; waiting for the wedding ceremony, the banquet, Mary’s farewell to Darnley, her departure for Holyrood.