Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  A barrel had been found by the ruins of the house, proof that the powder had been brought hastily from someplace—Holyrood? Men had walked the streets boldly that night, declaring themselves “friends of my Lord Bothwell’s,” so it was said. Black Ormiston, a henchman of Bothwell’s, had been seen close to the fateful house just after the explosion.

  Mary and her Council offered a reward of two thousand pounds for information about the perpetrators of the crime, although she knew none would be found. None except Darnley, and that must remain secret. She wished to protect his name, for his little son’s sake, and knew Bothwell would never reveal the truth. Besides him, who would know? Whoever had helped to place the powder there originally? Yes, those accomplices would know.… An investigation was opened the day after the explosion by a committee of lords meeting at the Tolbooth.

  * * *

  The choking closeness of the mourning chamber at Edinburgh Castle was oppressive to Mary. Black drapes shrouded the walls, and fat beeswax candles burned serenely on their stands. She felt as though she were entombed herself. The continual companionship of death, where the spectre seemed as real as the hunched figure of Madame Rallay or the veiled face of Mary Seton, kneeling on the prie-dieu, was intensely disturbing. She even had horrible dreams in which she and Bothwell were dead, clutching each other in skeletal forms.

  Bourgoing was alarmed at her agitated, morbid state of mind. He ordered her to leave the chamber as soon as Darnley’s funeral was over, and seek the healthful open air of a site near the sea. Time and again he had found that being near water could help restore distracted spirits.

  Mary Seton’s brother George offered his castle on the Forth, and on February sixteenth, Mary left the mourning chamber with relief, riding out slowly from Edinburgh in the mists and drawing her black hooded mantle around her.

  The day Mary left Edinburgh, a placard appeared, set up near the Tolbooth.

  The most foul murder of our King!

  Perpetrated by the Scurvy Sir James Balfour,

  the Filthy Earl Bothwell, and the Witch

  Janet Beaton. The Queen, knowing of it,

  in the power of the Witch, and assenting thereto.

  French Paris angrily ripped it down and carried it to Bothwell, but not before most of Edinburgh had seen it.

  Two days later, another appeared in the same spot.

  The Abominable Earl of Bothwell

  Hath Killed Our King.

  Underneath was a drawing of the baby Prince James, hands clasped in prayer, imploring:

  Judge and avenge my cause, O Lord.

  Again Paris took it down and destroyed it.

  * * *

  That night, a crier roamed the streets, his plaintive voice wailing, “The mighty Earl of Bothwell hath killed the King.”

  When good citizens looked out their windows in the dark dead of night, they could not see the crier. But they heard his voice echoing, “The Earl of Bothwell … the Earl of Bothwell is the murderer … murderer … murderer.…”

  * * *

  On March first appeared a placard with a drawing of Mary, stripped naked to the waist, with a mermaid’s tail, bearing the initials MR. Underneath her was the crest of the Earl of Bothwell, surrounded by a circle of bristling daggers.

  A mermaid was a siren, a Circe, a prostitute.

  The whore and her dagger-man were adulterous murderers, the placard said without using words.

  * * *

  Mary sat on a bench, looking out at the glittering water of the Forth. The day was surprisingly mild for March, the sun was shining and there was an odour of promise in the air: brisk and stirring, as green as the reeds standing like sentinels along the banks of the water. She was wrapped in her great mourning cloak, staring off into the distance.

  Lord George Seton, a gentle man, came up behind her. Gingerly he touched her shoulder, and she turned and looked at him.

  “A letter,” he said. “From Queen Elizabeth.”

  The messenger had brought it first to Edinburgh, then wearily come farther, to Seton House.

  “Is the bearer still here?” she asked, reluctant to break open the seal.

  “Even now he is taking refreshment.”

  “I would reward him for his pains.” She did not want to open the letter.

  “He will tarry here for a time, perhaps even sleep here.”

  “Good. Do not let him depart without my knowledge.”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  Discreetly he withdrew.

  She took the letter, heavily sealed. She dreaded to read it. Slowly she broke the stiff encrusted seal and began to read:

  Madam,

  My ears have been so astounded and my heart so frightened to hear of the horrible and abominable murder of your husband and my cousin, that I have scarcely spirit to write: yet I cannot conceal that I grieve more for you than for him. I should not do the office of a faithful cousin and friend, if I did not urge you to preserve your honour, rather than look through your fingers at revenge on those who have done you the pleasure, as most people say. I counsel you to take this matter to heart, that you may show the world what a noble princess and loyal woman you are. I write thus vehemently not that I doubt you, but for my affection toward you.

  Mary let the letter rest on her lap. It partially refolded itself of its own accord.

  How can I take revenge on the person who has perpetrated the crime? He has taken revenge on himself, she thought. And for my child’s sake, I cannot reveal it!

  The Virgin Queen could never, would never, understand such twisted and murky matters.

  Suddenly she grabbed the taunting, simplistic letter and crumpled it. She wished to comply; in any other country and in any other situation she could. But this place, this place that seemed nothing but a series of plots and secrets and killings … perhaps Darnley had been normal in England. He had seemed normal enough when he first came to Scotland. But something happened once he got here. What was it? If Elizabeth had known him when he was normal, then she could have no comprehension of what had really happened, what he had become. Nor could she grasp the magnitude of the crime.

  A soft shuffling of feet behind her. She turned to see the messenger. Yes, she had asked him to wait. But she could hardly tell him what she had been thinking. Quickly she hid the wadded letter and hoped he had not seen it.

  “I thank my good sister and cousin for her kindness and honest advice,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “She is wise and counsels well. I am fortunate to have such a friend in this time of misfortune.” She lifted her hand and displayed the “Elizabeth ring” which she still wore. “I intend to do all that she suggests, and more besides.”

  The messenger bowed. “Is there any special message you wish me to deliver into Her Majesty’s ear?”

  “Only that I hope and pray she will continue my good sister and friend,” said Mary.

  * * *

  She returned to Edinburgh, to the placards and the restive people. Darnley had not quieted with his entombment, but seemed to have taken on a new and stronger presence than before. The citizens of the city seemed to wait eagerly until nightfall, when they could be entertained by the placards and the ghostly crier, who eluded all attempts to capture him. Mary could hear his wails, “Bothwell … Bothwell … Bothwell killed the King!” echoing on the Canongate.

  Suddenly an underling of James Balfour’s was captured and killed, and Balfour himself fled the city.

  “It was rumoured that he was murdered because he knew too much about the first murder,” said Lord James to Mary. He had just returned from St. Andrews. “Now the question is, who murdered him? Balfour? Why did you not arrest him?”

  “Why should I have arrested him?” asked Mary. “On what grounds?”

  “On suspicion of murder! The placards name him!”

  “Oh, the placards,” she said with disdain. “Shall we now conduct justice by allowing anyone too cowardly to accuse in daylight to accuse anonymously under cover of darkness?
That would be shameful! Above all, we must try to act according to law. It is time the sun of civilization began to shine here and dispel the mists where assassins lurk.”

  “The placard was introduced from France,” said Lord James. “It is one of those new fashions you seem to like well enough in clothes and music.” He paused. “And what of Bothwell?”

  “What of him?”

  Lord James made a disparaging sound. He fingered his smooth beard and looked right into her eyes. “You know what of him.” Again he waited. “He is named in the placards. The crier calls his name. There are witnesses that he was about the night of the murder, seen with his men, carrying barrels of powder right through the city—”

  “The placards! The crier! If they called ‘Lord James Stewart, Earl of Moray,’ would you be so eager to believe them?”

  “It would never be possible to name me in any such manner.”

  “No, you are much too proper ever to put your hand directly to any deed! But you look through your fingers at the deeds of others, which may be worse. Is that not what you agreed to do at Craigmillar Castle, ‘look through your fingers’?”

  “I know not whereof you speak.”

  His words chilled her. He was not to be held accountable for his previous promises or commitments, then; indeed, he disavowed them. And how could anyone prove otherwise? He was a liar, for all his religious cant. And dangerous—more dangerous than any hot-blooded dagger-wielder.

  She needed to sit down. She felt weaker and more drained than after childbirth, or even after the Jedburgh illness. “Do you not, then?” she said wearily.

  “And there is the most damaging thing of all on the placards,” he continued, sticking his face up in hers. “I note that you do not even allude to it. The allegation that you and the Earl of Bothwell are lovers.”

  A bolt of fear went through her. So it was to be pursued, after all, not dismissed as calumny.

  “I found the drawing of you half-naked to be an insult to the royal honour,” he said. “Strange that you did not protest it or seem offended.”

  “I did not see it,” she said weakly.

  “Would you like to? I have it with me.”

  He was merciless. He was daring her to look at it, hoping to break her.

  “If you wish. I prefer not to look at obscene drawings.”

  Triumphantly he ducked out the door of the little chamber and reemerged carrying the placard. In spite of herself, she gasped.

  It was large, covering almost a yard square. The colours were loud and the drawing flagrantly bold. On the top portion of the placard was a mermaid, naked to the waist, as James had said. She had long hair and wore a crown. In her right hand was what appeared to be a long-stemmed flower of some sort; in her left, a scroll. Lest anyone miss the point, the mermaid was flanked with the letters MR.

  Beneath her was a hare—the family crest of the Hepburns, with the letters of JH—for James Hepburn—surrounded by a bristling circle of swords.

  “Isn’t it pretty?” said James.

  “What is that thing in her hand?” Mary asked.

  “Is that all you have to say?” James stepped back and held up the placard. “‘What is that thing in her hand?’ Good God! A better question might be, ‘Is this man in your bed?’”

  “How dare you?” she cried. “You are questioning me as if I were a criminal or a suspect!”

  “Evidently you are,” he said dryly. “Or this placard would not have appeared. Now tell me, if you hope to have any help in clearing this matter—is it true? Is the Earl of Bothwell your lover? Did he kill the King?”

  “No!”

  “No to both questions, or only to one? Which one?”

  “The Earl did not kill the King. And he is not my lover!”

  “Who did kill the King, then?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Aren’t you at least curious? If you did not—and I believe you—then you would not want a person running free who has no hesitation to commit regicide. He could strike again.”

  “It may not have been ‘regicide,’ but only an accident. The King left the house—”

  “Mary, for all the love that has been between us, for the love of our father, I beg you to pursue the murderer. Do not make the mistake of assuming this will be like the murder of Riccio—dropped and forgotten. It will not. This time everything must be brought to light.” He dropped the placard on the floor.

  He looked tortured, and his demeanour, she could see now, was tired and strained. There had been love between them, once, before Darnley had come along. And James had been right about Darnley; he was most likely right in this matter also.

  “The Earl of Lennox is demanding an investigation as well,” she admitted. “But where can I begin in an investigation? No one will be truthful!”

  “You will have to rely on the advice of Secretary Maitland,” said James. “Do not rely on Bothwell. He is an angry man, full of spleen. His only answer to the placards has been to surround himself with fifty cutthroats and swagger about the streets saying he will wash his hands in the blood of anyone who dares accuse him to his face. Do not allow him to direct anything. Maitland—”

  “What about you? Can you not help me?”

  “Certainly, but one reason I wished to see you today was to ask a passport to travel on the Continent for a few weeks.”

  “Now?”

  “I have business—”

  “Evidently your wife is quickly recovered!”

  So Lord James meant to absent himself again. That meant he foresaw some impending nasty event. He would absent himself, then return after-wards. To what?

  “I refuse the passport,” she said. Let him stay here; she needed him. If he truly cared so much about Scotland—

  “Now you sound as arbitrary and petty as your cousin Elizabeth. Remember how she refused you a passport?”

  “This is not the same!”

  “Perhaps not. But I could serve Scotland better abroad. I would be glad to undertake a mission to France, to speak directly with them there. I will not be gone long.”

  He was wheedling like a pedlar. Next he would offer to bring her some sewing silks and patterns from Paris.

  “I know you love the gold threads which are not available here, and the covered buttons—”

  She burst out laughing.

  “I beg your pardon!” he said, stiffly.

  He wanted badly to be gone. He knew something. Perhaps it would be better if he were gone. She and Bothwell could be freer to act. The thought of James watching them, analyzing every glance between them, was frightening.

  “Very well,” she said. “You may go. But I wish you to stop and confer with Queen Elizabeth on the way. And,” she said with a smile, “I would love it if you could procure some garnet buttons for me!” They were notoriously expensive and hard to find.

  * * *

  Mary was desperate to see Bothwell. But he had deliberately stayed away from her; all eyes were on her as she went through the motions of mourning. Until March twenty-second, the fortieth day after Darnley’s death, she was required to keep to the mourning chamber as much as possible.

  But, with the tumult outside in the streets, with the flood of diplomatic correspondence, with the need to attend to the urgent requests of the Earl of Lennox, she was at least able to meet with her councillors, of which, of course, Bothwell was one of the leaders.

  When, on an evening in early March, he at last stood before her without either Maitland, Argyll, or his brother-in-law Huntly, she felt it had been a long time, almost another lifetime, since he had come to her bedroom at Holyrood. His reddish hair stood out startlingly against the black of the draped walls, a jolt of life in a chamber of death. He stood awkwardly, looking at her.

  Wordlessly she put her arms around him and kissed him. Now just to touch him seemed shocking. They had forbidden themselves even to look in each other’s eyes while others were present; and others had been continuously present.

  “Bothwell
, Bothwell…” she was murmuring. She felt his body next to hers, and it was the first time she had felt any strength sustaining her during this whole ordeal. She had been standing completely alone.

  Gently he pulled her arms off his neck. “We cannot. Not tonight.”

  But she must have him, or she would die! She wanted to be held by him, to touch his body, his naked flesh, to lie with him and take him into herself until she ceased to feel anything but raw pleasure. She clasped him to her and kissed him. He must change his mind. She would make him.

  “No.” He failed to respond, and she had no choice but to release him. “Have you not seen the placards, heard the accusations? They know.”

  “They do not.”

  “Yes, they do. Our only hope is to behave so openly and properly that the idea will wither of its own accord. And my wife has been ill—”

  “Your wife? What has her illness to do with the matter?” Suddenly she had an ugly suspicion. “She is not pregnant?”

  “No. But, Mary, my love, at this moment we need all the support and sympathy we can muster. You must be the grieving widow and I the solicitous husband. We cannot afford to alienate the Earl of Huntly, your Chancellor and my wife’s brother.”

  “Nor I the Earl of Lennox, my husband’s father,” she said dully. She sat down on the padded bench. “He demands an inquiry, and a trial.”

  “And so he should.” Bothwell carefully pulled up a chair and sat on it, keeping a good ten feet between them. Someone might “accidentally” intrude at any moment.

  “I wrote him and asked how I could bring anyone to trial, so many were named in the placards. There was Janet Beaton, your old lover…”

  He laughed, a soft, sweet laugh.

  “—Black John Spens, whoever he is.”

  “A henchman of Balfour’s.”

  “Balfour himself, several French members of my household. But do you know who he said he wanted tried?”