“Your Majesty, you look weary,” said Erskine solicitously. “I trust I may speak freely to you, as a friend as well as a subject? We have known each other for so long, and I have seen you in so many conditions—even one hour after the birth of the Prince.”
“I feel weary,” she admitted. “But I hope to rest soon. If such a thing is permitted to rulers.”
Erskine was looking at her with deep concern. “The past two years have been so difficult, one cannot help but feel that they are part of a divine plan.”
Not that. “Knox is away,” she said with a smile. “Pray, let us rest from such speculations. I am content, as you know”—here was the difficult subject—“to have the Prince instructed in the Reformed Faith. To be ignorant of his subjects’ faith would be a great gap for him.”
“Then why do not you study it?” he asked bluntly.
“Those who would teach me have been vindictive,” she said. “Knox and his foul words and curses do not entice me to come closer.”
“That is a great pity,” admitted Erskine. “For he is a man of the country, and surely he has heard the common saying, ‘You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.’ He proclaims the sweetness of the Gospel, but he makes it sour.”
She smiled. “’Tis no matter. Oh, look, the Prince is trying to stand!”
Lady Erskine held up James’s arms and let him walk a few steps. “He pulls himself up and walks if he has support,” she said. “The next time you see him, he will be walking alone.”
“The next time you see him,” said Erskine, “he will be a right proper young Prince!”
* * *
The way back promised to give Mary and her accompanying party a pleasant ride in the countryside. Spring was now well advanced, and as Mary, Melville, Huntly, and Maitland made their way slowly along the soft path through meadows and woodland, she felt her spirits lifting. The breeze, turned warm since only the day before, was now lulling, and everywhere the birds were talking to each other, chattering, bickering, wooing, warning. Their active, energetic movements, hopping and jumping from limb to limb, stirred Mary’s sluggish mood.
“The birds are rejoicing,” she said, turning her head to speak to Maitland. “They are like little children let out of a lesson.”
Maitland gave a wan smile. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, with no joy at all in his voice.
Poor Flamina! thought Mary. He has only been married four months, and already he turns a deaf ear to spring? Perhaps he is too old for her, after all.
Behind him Huntly plodded along, his face equally glum. Usually Huntly had a smile and a rather lighthearted air about him; that was what made him a good companion, despite his limited mental powers. But he was clearly unhappy today.
The sun rose higher, shining through the mist of green on the tree limbs that had been bare only a week earlier. Back in the deeper parts of the woods, the green was barely discernible in the shade, but little spots of white from the earliest woodflowers were winking at them. And everywhere was the sound of the rushing, gurgling, and dripping of water released from the long lock of winter.
“Shall we stop and rest?” asked Mary.
“I do not see any suitable place,” said Maitland. “Everything here is muddy.”
And indeed their horses’ hooves made sucking noises as they trotted along the path.
“The first high spot we find, then,” said Mary, trying to keep her voice cheerful. In spite of her worry and suspense about her situation, she was enjoying the music of the songbirds—the robins, thrushes, and woodlarks—and even the deeper calls of the blackbirds and the raucous cries of the rooks. It was an exuberant chorus that spoke more loudly of life than anything composed for the organ in a church building. Overhead the silent hawks were soaring in the immense blue sky.
They began to climb up and away from the stream that flashed in its rocky channelled maze, swollen with spring water. A hillock, surrounded by hawthorn and sweetbriar hedges in white bloom, and carpeted with bright new grass, seemed to be waiting just for them.
“How magnificent!” said Mary, as she saw over the rim of the hill, and beheld the flowering meadow spread out before her. “It looks like a tapestry!”
Now Maitland allowed himself a smile. “Ah, now you are praising art! For you are saying that the artists do such a fine job that it seems nature copies them, rather than the other way around.”
They dismounted, and the rest of the party followed suit. On all sides of the hill there were blooming woodlands and tangled underbrush; as Mary looked in one direction, she caught a flash of white that meant a deer hidden in the shadows, watching them warily before bolting away.
“Come, walk with me!” she said to her three councillors, but Maitland and Huntly had already drawn apart and were beyond reach of anything but a shout. Only Melville heard her and obeyed.
Melville, too, looked unhappy. All of them unhappy beneath this smiling, tender April sun! Surely God must think His creatures deaf, blind, and ungrateful, thought Mary. Just then she saw a family of hedgehogs scurrying for safety at their approach, and she laughed out loud.
“The hedgehog needn’t be so timid,” she said. “Although I suppose he hasn’t the defences of his more formidable cousin, the porcupine. Have you ever seen a porcupine? I am minded to do an embroidery—”
“Your Majesty,” said Melville, “I think—again, forgive me, I am only doing my duty—that you have weightier matters to concern yourself with than porcupine embroideries.” He stopped walking and looked at her forlornly.
“Dear Melville,” she finally said. “You have been with me through so much. So, once again, you see fit to warn me? My behaviour is giving offence?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. It is Bothwell. You must divorce yourself from him.”
No, she thought. It is not divorce I need, but a marriage. “I am not married to him,” she said.
“No, nor must you ever be. He is not worthy, and it would compromise you to take such a man. When he forced the Lords to sign that pitiful petition, it showed just how desperate his case is. It was laughable, pathetic.”
“But they signed it.”
“Only by force. Your Majesty, has he … attempted to act on it? The strange thing about it was, it was a licence to woo! He was saying ‘if I should convince her to accept me.’ But heaven must put that thought far from your mind! You must be deaf to his entreaties, like Ulysses to the sirens. Put wax in your ears and lash yourself to the mast, if necessary!”
“Ah, Melville. You have my good at heart,” she finally said.
All the while she was thinking, What is he going to plan? What can he possibly plan to overcome such opposition? Trust me, he had said. But how?
* * *
She rode along, a sprig of lily-of-the-valley from the meadow tucked in her bodice, its sweet scent keeping her company. Her party seemed to be in slightly better spirits after their stop. Perhaps they had needed a rest, or perhaps it was only that the scurrying of life and busyness, like the hedgehogs, was proving impossible to resist.
Suddenly there was a crashing in the brush ahead, round the bend where the bridge over the little Almond River awaited them. A great company of horsemen were there—hundreds of them.
“Why, what is this?” cried Mary, reining her horse back. Soldiers. She could see the glint of the sun on their metal helmets. No! Not another Scottish attack or rebellion. Even as she fought to master her reeling horse, she felt her heart begin to pound and that familiar extraordinary energy flooding into her veins. It was the same as that which had come to her when she pursued Lord James in the Chaseabout Raid, as that when she fled through the graveyard with Darnley; it was beginning to feel like a friend she could count on to appear in times of danger.
“What is this?” she cried. “Who blocks our way?” Now filled with courage, she spurred her horse and galloped forward, around the bend. Before her was an army. And at its head, Bothwell.
He sat his horse like a wooden effigy, huge a
nd immobile. His visor was down and she could not see his eyes; there was only a long, thin slit like a corpse’s mouth, rounded at the corners.
“What is this?” she repeated. She stopped just before Bothwell, this odd Bothwell whose face was invisible.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “there is danger in Edinburgh. I and my men, my loyal Border troops, are here to escort you to safety. We will go to Dunbar Castle.” He reached out with a quick, darting movement and grabbed her horse’s bridle. “I pray you, do not resist.”
“Who is in arms against us?” she demanded. Was it Morton, or the Lennox Stewarts, or some Knoxians?
“I cannot say at this moment. It is all confusion. Come.” He turned his horse and began to lead hers away. “You as well,” he told the three courtiers.
Concerned for them, Mary turned to assure them. But Maitland and Huntly did not look worried or even surprised; only Melville did. Shocked, she realized that once again there had been a plot to which she was not privy. They had already known about it. That was why Maitland paid no attention to the blooming countryside; his attention was on the blooming plot. And Huntly—it was not to his liking, so he wore a frown, but he had agreed to it nonetheless. Dear God! Was this Bothwell’s solution to their dilemma?
“If there is indeed an uprising, then send one of your men back to Edinburgh to raise the alarm,” said Mary.
“As you like,” said Bothwell, jerking his head toward Lord Borthwick in his party. “Go, my good man. In the meantime, we must hurry.”
They passed by Edinburgh, where a cannon volley was fired at them, but missed. They skirted the city and continued heading due east, toward Dunbar and the sea. Suddenly the blooming hedges, green glades, and foaming spring waters became invisible, and Mary saw nothing but the swarms of soldiers ahead of her. Bothwell did not speak again, but led her ever onward, like an emissary from some dreadful undiscovered region charged with bringing back a captive.
Why did he not speak to her? She swallowed hard as the first rush of excitement drained away, deserted her veins, and left her uneasy and confused.
The sun set behind them, and torches were lit as they passed through the little Lothian villages of Dalkeith and Haddington—Knox’s home town—and skirted the estate of Maitland. Had he wished, he surely could have bolted at that point. But no—he was paid to continue on the journey; no clearer proof was needed of his complicity.
She began to smell the sea, and by midnight they came to Dunbar Castle. For an instant, as she rode into the courtyard and heard the cries of the gulls just beyond, hovering over the sea, she felt a leaping joy, for it was just so that she had ridden to safety after the Riccio murder. But only for an instant. This time was entirely different.
Bothwell rode out into the middle of his milling soldiers. “I have eight hundred men here, all loyal to my command,” he shouted. “Do not attempt to test my word, for I assure you they will obey me and slay anyone who tries to escape, regardless of who he is.”
There were murmurs and shouts, but only amongst the small train of Mary’s retainers.
“Do not attempt to fight,” Mary told them. “You can see that he has hundreds of men, and you are less than thirty. We must submit.” She did not want any show of bravery that would result in bloodshed. They were hopelessly outnumbered.
Bothwell rose in his stirrups and cried in ringing tones, “The Lords of Scotland have signed a bond allowing me to marry the Queen, and to account anyone who attempts to prevent it as a faithless traitor.” He waved a piece of paper in the air. It was barely visible in the red flaring torchlight. “But I know there are those who will attempt to prevent it! Now I will marry the Queen, no matter who objects—yea, whether she herself agrees or not!”
There was a shocked silence. Bothwell jumped down off his horse and came over to Mary and pulled her down into his arms. He held her so tightly she could scarcely breathe.
“I have her, and I will make it so that she is mine, indisputably mine. Seek not to interfere, or I will make a corpse of you!”
He picked her up and carried her through the yawning entranceway to the inner fortress. She was trembling and stunned. He marched through the courtyard and into the keep, then, still not halting his pace, up the stairs to the uppermost floor. Releasing her, he slammed the thick wooden door behind him and bolted it with a beam as big as a gangplank. Outside she could hear a tumult rising.
“No one can break in here,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “We are safe.”
Inside the square room, its ancient walls made only of irregular, unfinished stone, three torches flickered from their wall sockets. One of the three windows was open, on the sea side, and a loud wind was rushing in, almost drowning out his words.
“Safe?” She stared at him, at the rough, leather-clad warrior standing before her. She had thought she knew him. Now he looked like one of the Northmen carved on old stones she had seen depicting the Viking invasions. “You must be mad. Why have you done this?”
“So that I have a thousand witnesses that I kidnapped the Queen and lay with her against her will. I could have done with a bit more protesting on your part, for the sake of convincing skeptics.” He was smiling as if he had just done an ordinary thing.
“How do we dare do this? No one will believe us!” His sheer audacity was astounding.
“Seeing is believing,” he said. “That’s what they claim. Now a thousand people have seen. And I will keep you locked up here long enough to make it credible.”
“That you … dishonoured me?” Her voice was shaky. He was asking her to endure that shame, just for him.
“Yes. You know that in Scottish law there is only one way to repair that particular dishonour. Marriage.”
Shame flooded her, but at the same time, his daring and straightforwardness were compelling. “But they will hate you for doing this! You’ve degraded yourself, and there’s no repair for that. Oh, Bothwell! How could you resort to this? I cannot bear it for you to have hurt yourself so!”
“I love you, and in order to have you, I have sacrificed my—”
“Your honour!”
“No, my reputation. It is not the same thing. Sometimes you must sacrifice your reputation to maintain a deeper form of honour.”
“Oh, Bothwell!” She threw herself in his arms, anguished over what he had done to himself.
He bent down to kiss her. She touched his lips hesitantly, so shaken and confused that she scarcely knew how to respond. She wanted to protect him, save him. She was touched at his immense sacrifice, stunned by his sheer audacity. Once she touched him, she wanted never to stop. Outside the noises were rising; she could hear shouting and the beginnings of a fight.
“They are coming for us,” she whispered.
“No one can break in here,” he repeated.
They clung together while they heard more shouting, and footsteps climbing inside the tower. Then something metal—a sword? a shield?—struck the door with a resounding thud.
“Are you in there?” said a thick voice. “Surrender the Queen’s person!”
“’Tis only Borthwick,” said Bothwell. “He does not mean it.” He was kissing her shoulders, and pressing her body against his as they stood trembling together in the middle of the chamber.
“Surrender the Queen’s person!” Borthwick was yelling again—so loudly that it would surely carry far out into the courtyard where Melville, Maitland, and Huntly could testify that they had heard it.
“Never!” Bothwell roared back, making sure it would carry just as far out of the window. “Even now, if you could rescue her, it would be too late!”
He picked Mary up and carried her across the room to a pallet that lay against the outer wall, and laid her down gently. He sat back on his heels and began slowly, carefully, unfastening her gown. He took his time, as if they were alone together in a secluded glen.
Outside the door, Borthwick kept on banging. Pulling the fur covers over them, Bothwell held Mary tightly against him.
Mary felt Bothwell’s strong body on hers, and they made surprisingly prolonged, tender love as Borthwick’s shouts and hangings reverberated through the door, punctuating their pleasure.
* * *
It was quiet. Borthwick had left, and evidently the courtyard had emptied out. There was no sound at all but the sea far beneath them, echoing up into the chamber. They lay naked together under the furs, their shoulders cold where they were exposed to the air. Bothwell was sleeping, a heavy, still sleep.
Mary saw the shadows jumping on the walls. The torches had almost burned out. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. But she was oddly excited.
Now we are truly married, she thought.
And she realized that until now she had never been truly married, for neither of her husbands had ever had to sacrifice anything for her. That was marriage’s true consummation.
So this is my bridal bed. A pallet with wolf-fur covering, in a windy tower room in a castle keep. And it is more a bridal bed than the one in the King’s quarters at Stirling, or the one in Paris where—O saints! Where nine years ago today I was married to François! She thought tenderly of that childish bedtime with François, while Bothwell lay heavily by her side. Childhood is past and now at last I am full grown.
* * *
There was no sleep for her that night. The torches burned out, and slowly a purplish blue light crept into the room. She lay still and watched as it grew brighter and brighter, and she knew when the sun came over the horizon, for it reflected in shimmering light on the ceiling from the restless sea below.
She could see the room better now. It was perfectly square, and the walls were of crude, large blocks of roughly dressed stone. This was the very earliest part of the castle, built hundreds of years ago. The furniture was simple: a table made of a plank, wooden benches, stools, and two studded trunks. There was no bed, only this pallet. Swords and shields hung on the walls.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 72