Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  Turning her head, she watched Bothwell sleeping. He had pillowed his head on his folded hands, as if he were praying. She could see the scar on his forehead so clearly; it remained white when the rest of his face was darkened by the sun and wind. They were bound together now, their fates one and the same. It was what she had wanted, and had even commissioned him to do. Why, then, was she so filled with foreboding?

  Silently she rose and made her way over to the window. The stone floor under her bare feet was cold and clammy. As she approached the window, she was surprised at the force of the sucking wind; it drew her hair out the window like a pennant. Down below, the sea was crashing on the dark, jagged rocks, sending spurts of spray up into the air, where they hung for a moment like the veil of an infidel dancer before falling away in the air. A flock of gulls dove and darted, and their cries were plaintive and raw.

  Bothwell touched her, pressed his naked front against her back. He had risen so silently she had not heard a single sound.

  “Good morning, my love,” he whispered against her ear. He encircled her with his arms. “How do you like my stronghold? You gave it to me.”

  “I had no idea what it would be used for when I did.” He was touching her neck. She could not decide whether she wished him to or not, just then. Then she could tell that he was becoming aroused. She turned to face him.

  “You are insatiable, my good Earl,” she finally said. “You are worse than the famous black ram of Yarrow.”

  “Is there a ballad to the ram? There should be. There is a Border ballad for everything, it seems.…” He delicately kissed her eyelids, shutting them. Then he knelt down and buried his face against her thighs, pressing himself up against the slender columns, revelling in the touch of them. Softly he kissed the seam between them, then the insides of them, and finally, when he could feel the muscles begin to quiver, he brought her back to the pallet.

  * * *

  “May I change my clothes?” asked Mary, later. “Or am I to remain without even my toiletries and underclothing?”

  Bothwell rolled over and propped his head on his elbow. He grinned. “Of course you may have your belongings brought up. I apologize. I also apologize for these quarters. I know they are somewhat … er … lacking. But I also knew what we most wanted was privacy. The newer portions of the castle are quite comfortable, but unfortunately open to all.”

  “Do you mean to keep the councillors prisoner here as well?”

  “No, they are free to go as soon as they have heard you consent to marry me, and can act as witnesses. That is part of our agreement.”

  Suddenly she had a chilling thought. They might acquiesce to the marriage just so she could be made to share Bothwell’s odium. And then be driven from the throne. And there is yet some notable enterprise against you. The Archbishop had written that a month ago.

  “But you are still married,” she pointed out.

  “Huntly has agreed to allow his sister to be divorced.”

  So that was why Huntly had looked so sullen. “And what of … of … Jean?”

  “She will cooperate.”

  “Does she not care?”

  “I know not,” he admitted.

  How could he know so little of his wife’s feelings? “I see.”

  “Mary.” He reached out his hand and touched her cheek gently. His intent greenish eyes looked directly into hers. “I have not been a good man to everyone in my life; some of it is not my fault, but I shoulder the blame for it all. Perhaps my marriage could have been better, had my bride wished to marry me. She did not; her brother sold her as he is selling her now. The man she wished to marry was promised to someone else. It was hard for her. But she made it hard for me, as well. Arranged marriages take a toll. Sometimes I think the hardest way to earn money is to marry it.”

  He looked so earnest. “But what of the Danish woman, or whatever she was?” she heard herself asking, hating herself for it.

  “What of her? She was boring. I could not bear to think of spending a lifetime listening to her bad poetry.” He laughed. “She was a Norwegian admiral’s daughter, and I met her in Copenhagen. She was dark, which is unusual for a Norwegian, and so she fancied herself to have a hot Latin temperament. She even had a Spanish costume which she affected to wear and thought herself most fetching, when in truth it was silly.”

  “Nonetheless you lived with her.”

  “Her father, who had seven daughters, was most anxious to marry them off, and promised a dowry of forty thousand silver talers.” He sighed. “I told you, it is the most difficult way to earn money. I know.”

  “So you took the money and then left her.”

  “No. There was no money, as it turned out. Now who was the deceiver, and who the deceived?”

  “Pray send for my clothes,” she suddenly said. “And I wish something to eat.” She pulled the fur cover up around her shoulders.

  “As you command,” he said, rising and going to the door. He hoisted the great bar that bolted it off its brackets, and pulled the door open. She was surprised to see that the door itself was at least five inches thick. He stuck his head out and muttered something; evidently there was a guard on the landing.

  Bothwell only had time to put on his breeches and pull his shirt on over his rumpled hair before three servitors entered the room, carrying trays of food and her bundles of clothes. They were finely dressed, their liveries new and embroidered with the Hepburn crest. Obsequiously they bowed and put their burdens down. Bothwell bolted the door after them. Then he began to hum as he uncovered the dishes and arranged them on the table. He was even smoothing out a white linen cloth.

  “I did not know what you would like,” he said. “But I have here herring and oysters and grouse and pigeon.” He whisked the covers off more platters and bowls. “And here are oatcakes and Ayrshire cheese, and rowan and apple jelly, and—”

  “Stop!” she said, laughing at his eager face. He would make a good father, becoming like a child himself at times. “Being kidnapped has made me hungry, but not that hungry.” She pulled up a bench and took one of the wooden platters and began to select food.

  “I would have thought it was something else that had made you hungry,” he said, looking at her with a guarded tenderness.

  “All that hunger has been quenched,” she said, spearing a piece of smoked fish with a wooden skewer and tasting it. “But perhaps it is the sea air that has made me so hungry.”

  “Perhaps. When I am at sea, I do find myself oddly hungry.” He picked up the largest chunk of meat on the serving platter.

  “Tell me about your voyages,” she said.

  “I learned to sail as a child,” he said, chewing. “I think I was not more than eight or nine when I took my first little voyage. It was in the North Sea, off the coast of Spynie. I was living with my uncle, the Bishop—the one you met—and my cousins there, his bastards, were at home on the sea like a rider on a horse. I loved to sail out, to chart a course and see how near I could come to it. I sailed to the Orkneys when I was twelve.” He smiled at the memory of it.

  “What are the Orkneys like?” she asked, eating more of the oatcakes than she wanted to. She was very hungry after all. “I have always wanted to see them.”

  “I told you, marry me and I will take you there. They are cold, but clean, like an eagle. They seem almost to soar. They are incorruptible. My ancestor was Earl of Orkney. I assume it is in my blood to love it.” He poured a large amount of wine into his goblet and diluted it with water.

  “How long ago was that? Why is your family no longer there?”

  “Long, long ago. In 1397 my ancestor received the title. And then, later, my family was forced to sell the earldom to James III.”

  “I will make you Duke of Orkney and Lord of Shetland,” she said impulsively.

  “But not King,” he said.

  “No.”

  “It is better thus. I am content that my sons be princes; I am a field soldier and a sea captain first and foremost.”
<
br />   A flood of relief washed through her; the unspoken worry had been answered. This would be no repeat of Darnley. Ironically, this man, better suited to wear a crown, would not hanker after it.

  * * *

  Days passed in the tower, and they turned day into night and night into day, sleeping when they pleased, eating whenever they liked, making love, lying and talking. They created their own rhythm and fashioned the hours to their own desires, and the sun rising and setting had little to do with it. It seemed like a dream, and each did things that surprised the other. Mary astounded him with her knowledge of weaponry and ability in cards; he surprised her by his love of poetry and music.

  “I know you like to think I spent all my time fighting in the Borders or sailing off the coast, but the truth, which it pleases you to forget, is that I was educated in all the classics. I even brought some here to show you.” He pointed toward a small pile of books, proud like a boy. “I wanted you to see some of my library.”

  She went over to them and picked one up, turning its pages idly. “Virgil. And look—Aelian on The Order of Battle. A military book! I think I have more need of that than poetry.”

  “The ideal life supplies them both. Like life in the Borders. There is much poetry in the Borders, beautiful ballads that ring with fine phrases like ‘The wind doth blow today, my love, and a few small drops of rain; / I never had but one true love, in cold grave she was lain,’ and ‘You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips, but my breath smells earthy strong; / If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips your time will not be long.’ Then it goes on to say, ‘’Tis down in yonder garden green, Love, where we used to walk, / The finest flower that ere was seen is withered to a stalk.’”

  He reached for his lute. “I should have given it its music. It is missing half a life without its music.” He touched the strings and the rounded sweet notes came forth. “‘The stalk is withered dry, my love, so will our hearts decay; / So make yourself content, my love, till God calls you away.” His rich voice trailed off.

  She felt herself shivering. “Think you they will make a ballad about us?”

  “They already have,” he said, shaking his head. “These things spring into life before the events are even over.”

  “Sing it.” She both did and did not want to hear it.

  “As you command. It is not very flattering. It is about me.” He plucked the lute.

  “Woe worth thee, woe worth thee, false Scotland!

  For thou hast ever wrought by a slight;

  For the worthiest prince that ever was born,

  You hanged under a cloud by night.”

  “You notice how the Lord Darnley has now become ‘the worthiest prince that ever was born,’” he said. “Thus do ballads make their own truth.

  “The Queen of France a letter wrote,

  And sealed it with heart and ring,

  And bade him come Scotland within

  And she would marry him and crown him King.

  “There was an Italian in the place,

  Was as well beloved as ever was he,

  Lord David was his name,

  Chamberlain unto the Queen was he.

  “For if the King had risen forth of his place,

  He would have sat him down in the chair,

  And though it beseemed him not so well,

  Although the King had been present there.

  “Some lords in Scotland waxed wondrous wroth,

  And quarrelled with him for the nonce;

  I shall tell you how it befell;

  Twelve daggers were in him all at once.

  “When the Queen saw the chamberlain was slain,

  For him her cheeks she did wet,

  And made a vow for a twelvemonth and a day

  The King and she would not come in one sheet.

  “Then some of the lords of Scotland waxed wroth

  And made their vow vehemently,

  ‘For death of the Queen’s chamberlain

  The King himself shall die.’

  “They strewed his chamber over with gunpowder,

  And laid green rushes in his way

  For the traitors thought that night

  The worthy King for to betray.

  “To bed the worthy King made him bound,

  To take his rest, that was his desire;

  He was no sooner cast on sleep,

  But his chamber was on blazing fire.

  “Up he leaped, and a glass window broke,

  He had thirty feet for to fall.

  Lord Bothwell kept a privy watch

  Underneath his castle wall.

  ‘What have we here?’ said Lord Bothwell,

  ‘Answer me, now I do call.’

  “‘King Henry the Eighth my uncle was,

  Some pity show for his sweet sake!

  Ah, Lord Bothwell, I know thee well;

  Some pity on me I pray thee take!’

  “‘I’ll pity thee as much,’ he said,

  ‘And as much favour I’ll show to thee

  As thou had on the Queen’s chamberlain

  That day thou deemest him to die.’

  “Through halls and towers this King they led,

  Through castles and towers that were high,

  Through an arbour into an orchard

  And there hanged him in a pear tree.”

  “That’s a lie! It’s all lies!” she cried.

  “Of course it’s lies, and mixed up ones at that. First the King is worthy, then the lords want to kill him for killing the Italian, then he’s worthy again, then the lords want to blow him up … some imagination. Darnley changes character every other verse.”

  “But you are made to be the murderer,” she said slowly. “And they knew I banished Darnley from my bed. Truth twists itself round lies and makes a braid. It is not all lies after all.” She found herself shaken. “Do you think all this is finished yet, or will there be more twists and additions to the story?”

  “Once we are married, we will be stronger than all their plots and lies.”

  She looked down at her finger, gleaming with an enamelled ring. Slowly she pulled it off and handed it to Bothwell. “This is your betrothal ring,” she said.

  He took it and looked at it, puzzled. “This is covered with bones and tears,” he said. “Black enamel and gold. Is it a fitting betrothal ring?”

  “It is what I have with me now. In taking it, you pledge to share my fortunes as they come, unexpected and perhaps woeful.”

  He kissed her and slid the ring on his smallest finger.

  LIII

  They rode slowly back toward Edinburgh, torn from their secret life in the tower—only ten precious days!—ready to face whatever lay ahead. Huntly, Maitland, and Melville had been released days earlier, and the divorce had already been set in motion. There were to be two divorces, a Protestant one and a Catholic one, just to cover any future objections from any camp. The Protestant one was to be based on Bothwell’s adultery with Bessie Crawford, and the Catholic one on the blood relationship between Jean and her husband; four generations earlier an Earl of Bothwell had married the daughter of an Earl of Huntly. The banns were to be cried as soon as possible by the pastor of Giles High Kirk; luckily Knox was still in England and they would have to deal only with his substitute.

  As they passed through the little villages, curious people lined the paths, but they stared silently. No one cried, “God bless that sweet face!”

  They are inspecting me to see if my clothes are torn or if I look anguished, Mary thought. If I were covered with bruises, that would content them.

  But her defiance grew more and more shaky as she rode nearer Edinburgh. The eyes of the people were not cruel, just puzzled … and betrayed. They could not understand what was happening. She felt as if she had indeed betrayed them, for they were obviously frightened and insecure.

  Ahead of her, Bothwell was riding placidly along. She could see Edinburgh on the horizon, could spot Arthur’s Seat rising up, dazzlingly green with the
new May grass. Now Bothwell was slowing, waiting for her to catch up.

  He looked down the road. “I do not see anyone,” he said. “But I think it best that we do not enter the city by the Netherbow Port. Let us come in as close to the Castle as possible, and make for it straightway.” His voice did not sound very confident.

  “So we should stay in the Castle?” she asked.

  “Aye. I have appointed Balfour its captain, to secure it for us.”

  “Balfour? Whatever for?” She distrusted that skull’s face.

  “For past services he has rendered,” said Bothwell. “Come.”

  * * *

  They could see the ruins of the buildings at Kirk O’Field as they skirted the southern side of the town walls. Nothing had been cleaned up, and stones lay in heaps, with single ones flung far outside the wall. On their right was the orchard where Darnley’s body had been discovered. Mary turned her head away as they passed.

  Once inside, by way of the West Port, they found the streets oddly empty. Although a few people were there to stare at them, they hurriedly made their way up to the castle gates and scurried to safety behind its walls.

  In the royal apartments, they found Maitland waiting for them. He was sunk in agitated melancholy, leaning crossed arms on a table and staring at nothing. He jumped up when they entered the room.

  Bothwell threw his gloves on the table with no ceremony. Mary asked Maitland how he was.

  “All is confusion and disarray,” he said glumly. He looked at her as if he hated her for putting him through this, for demeaning himself so on such a task. Poor bridegroom!

  “The divorce hearings?” asked Bothwell, without giving Mary a chance to say anything.

  Maitland rolled his eyes. “Shameful. They have dragged out every detail about your … doings with Mistress Crawford. Your wife questioned the man you had posted as a lookout. He even told about the time you…” He stopped, embarrassed. Mary turned away.

  “Has it been granted?” asked Bothwell. “That’s all I care to know.”

  “Your wife—”

  “So she is still my wife!”

  “No, your former wife, she demands that you grant her Crichton Castle, or she will not free you.”