“I grant it,” said Mary, in a small voice.
“It is mine,” said Bothwell.
“All properties are ultimately mine,” Mary insisted.
“You are wrong,” he said. “It is in my purview. Yes, I will grant it. I will pay any price! Oh, what a hardheaded woman of business—this is the second time I have had to pay a fine over Bessie. The first, when she learned of it, was that I give her the lands of Nether Hailes and its castle. Now Crichton. I have paid such a high price for her favours, Bessie might as well have been Salome.” He sounded angry. “Well, what else? Has that churchman cried the banns?”
“No,” said Maitland. “He refuses to.”
“What? Bring him here!”
“And Morton, Argyll, and Atholl have met at Stirling. Others were summoned.”
“Who?” Bothwell slammed his fist down on the table and yelled. “Who?”
“My Lord, I know not, I swear it. I only know that after the meeting Atholl galloped north, and Argyll west, and Morton to Fife.”
“To gather an army,” muttered Bothwell. “So soon. Get that preacher in here!”
* * *
The Reverend John Craig stood before Bothwell and the Queen. They had at least changed into fresh clothes, and Mary had taken her place upon her throne under the canopy of state, to lend weight and authority to the proceedings.
Craig was a thin, balding man with sharp features. He looked remarkably like Knox, or what Knox would have looked like had he been clean-shaven. Fleetingly Mary wondered if it was a requirement for all Reformed ministers to have that look: lean, small-eyed, pale, straight-spined.
“Why have you not announced our forthcoming marriage?” Mary asked in her gentlest tone. “We requested you to do so straightway.”
Craig shot looks back and forth between Bothwell and Mary. He shifted on his feet. Finally he said, “So it is true! I did not believe it!” and the disdain in his voice could not have been greater had he beheld the Witches’ Sabbat in full orgy. “Will you sign a paper to that effect, releasing me from responsibility in looking away from sin?”
“Yes,” snapped Bothwell.
“What sin?” inquired Mary. She could see Bothwell glowering at her for pursuing it.
“What sin? You dare to ask what sin?” The preacher was incredulous. “The kidnapping and ravishing of the Queen, not to mention common adultery, collusion between yourself and your wife, and suspicion of murder of the King.”
“Do you mean me? Suspicion of murder?” inquired Bothwell.
“‘You are the man!’ as Nathan said to King David. But you are worse than King David. He only committed adultery with Bathsheba and killed her husband—only!—whereas you have kidnapped, raped, and degraded your own sovereign, in addition to killing her husband and committing adultery with a maidservant.”
Bothwell gave out a roar and reached for his sword.
Mary rose from her chair and grabbed his arm. “Never! Do not strike him!” She turned to Craig. “Doubtless your master, Mr. Knox, will rejoice at all this. Truly there has been sorrow in Scotland, but I mean for there to be a new beginning. It is my royal request that the marriage be performed. And I will appear at a meeting of Parliament to give all the reasons for it, and I pray the people will be content.”
“Never!” said Craig. “It has gone too far. They cannot stomach any more! As God is my witness, they will abhor and detest this approaching marriage as much as I do!”
* * *
Mary stood in the Tolbooth, in the same spot where Bothwell had stood only a month earlier. All the eyes gazing down at her were either hostile or blank. The Lord Chancellor, Huntly, was both. All the Lords of Session who were still in Edinburgh were there, but a suspiciously large number of seats were empty. Various Kirk dignitaries, in sad-coloured clothes, lined the walls.
“I am minded,” she said, “to make you privy to my thoughts concerning the Lord Bothwell. I was very angry when he interrupted my journey, and took me to Dunbar against my will. But when, in spite of my sending for aid, none was forthcoming, and his behaviour toward me gentle and good, by and by I came to listen to his words and to entertain his suit. His proposal of marriage was an honest one, and one that had been already approved by the Lords and barons. He showed me the signatures. And so, keeping also in mind his former loyal services toward the crown, I agreed to become his wife.”
Not a single smile, nor even a hint of one, lightened any face. They sat in judgement of her, looking down smugly.
“And thus, I am content and forgive him, and all others with him for his actions during those ten days. I ask that you do likewise, my good people.” She lifted her hands in supplication, although the law was that only her royal pardon was required.
* * *
Her steps were heavy as she made her way back to the royal apartments. She had heard the derisive comment, “So the laws of Scotland, which pardon rape if the woman later acquiesces, is now used to blanket over murder as well? She perverts even the law for her lusts!” It was a Reformed minister, naturally. He looked away, embarrassed, when he realized she had heard him.
But even in her own apartment she found no security. Her dear French confessor, the Dominican friar that Lord James had scowled at, was waiting.
“Your Grace,” he said, “I must ask leave to return to France. I can no longer stay.”
“Oh, good Father Mamerot! You have been with me always, do not leave me now!” she cried.
“I must. My superior has so ordered me. I cannot stay.” He looked genuinely pained, as if he were about to cry. He held out his arms and encircled her shoulders.
“Your superior? But I am the Queen.” Her voice was small and muffled.
“The Pope, Madam. The Pope,” he said. “The Holy Father … the Holy Father orders me to separate myself from you until such time as you amend your life. He himself says that he will have no further communication with you until then. He says that you are damned!”
Mary gave a cry and fell to the floor.
* * *
So early in the morning it was still night, about four o’clock, Bothwell took her hand and led her to the old chapel at Holyrood, where they were married by a Protestant minister. No priest would have anything to do with the rites, nor would any upstanding minister of the Kirk, so Bothwell had prevailed upon the Bishop of Orkney, a man known to turn his coat to line his purse, to conduct it.
The pliable Earl of Huntly was there, as well as the faithful lords Livingston and Fleming, and a few other lower-ranking noblemen. There was no procession, no music, no beautiful costumes. Mary was forced to endure a sermon about Bothwell’s repentance of his earlier evil life. When she said the vows, she kept feeling that they were not real.
This man is not a true priest; he has no authority. These rites are not binding.
“Will you take this man, the Duke of Orkney and Lord of Shetland, to be your husband? Will you love him, honour him, keep him, in sickness and in health, keeping yourself only unto him, as long as ye both shall live?” the Bishop intoned.
“Yes, I will,” she said, but her voice was faint; only Bothwell and the clergyman could hear it.
It was so dark in the chapel she could not even see Bothwell’s face. All this seemed like some mysterious rite, as if she were entering the underworld. She half expected to see Cerberus, the three-headed dog that guarded Hades, bark beside her. And Bothwell turn into Pluto, the god of the shades, of death.…
He was taking her hand, slipping a ring onto it. His fingers were cool.
“I now pronounce that they are man and wife together,” the Bishop was saying. Bothwell squeezed her hand. Still she could not see his face.
“What God has joined together, let no man put asunder,” the Bishop warned. Bothwell turned to her.
Do not touch me, else I can never leave your side, can never come up to the green earth again, but must wander forever in the silent darkness and flickering firelakes of Hades.… Her heart was pounding in fear.
>
He bent down and kissed her, sealing her as his.
LIV
Mary ran her hands over the glistening gold font. She loved the feel of gold, its lustre, its glow that was unlike any other metal. It never felt as cold as steel or iron; there was some warmth stored away in the heart of gold, she could swear it. Perhaps that was the true source of its magic.
The jewels—sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and pearls—winked on its rim. They formed a pattern like a vine, a vine that grew only precious stones. The workmanship was exquisite. Had it been made in England? Or had it come from Italy or France?
Sighing, she poured some perfumed water into it and then dropped a few petals from the blooming branch of apple tree that Madame Rallay had brought in. Pear had once been her favourite, but no, not pear, never pear again.…
She swirled her fingers in the water, watching the petals bob and circle. This font, the gift of Queen Elizabeth for the baptism … was it only five months ago? She had been shocked by Elizabeth’s generosity, touched. It meant that Elizabeth felt herself to be truly the prince’s godmother.
She did not want to give it up.
Bothwell had told her of the desperate need for funds to pay their soldiers, who must protect them against any uprisings. The treasury was empty. Her money from France had quit coming, dried up, for all that it had been promised her in perpetuity. There were ways of getting around that. Delays. Papers. Lawyers. Exchanges of property.
“And you gave away so many crown lands,” he had said. “You were so generous. The Lord James owns tracts half the size of the Highlands.”
“You benefited from my generosity,” she had reminded him.
“Aye. But now, I fear, comes the hard part. You will have to pawn your jewels. And that font—it’s precious gold!”
“I cannot,” she had said. “It means so much. It is more than just a font, it is a bond between Elizabeth and me.”
He had looked sadly at her. “Mary, all it can be to us now is thirty-three ounces of gold, which we desperately need.”
She could hear his voice again in her mind. But she tilted the font and drained the water out into a basin, then wiped it dry with a linen cloth. She touched the font again, lovingly.
No. She would not give it up. Once it was gone, it was gone forever. And later, when all was calm, she would bitterly regret it. She folded its velvet covering back over it, and was returning it to its box when Bothwell flung open the door without knocking first.
“Where is it? You promised to have it delivered to the goldsmith this morning. He has had his fire at full smelting heat for two hours!”
“I have changed my mind. I will pay the smith for his coal, but I wish to keep the font.”
“Pay him with what? That is the point, you cannot even pay for a goldsmith’s coals! Now, give me that!” He wrenched it out of her hands.
“Return it to me! I command you!”
“Ha!” he laughed, tucking it under his arm.
“I am the Queen!” she screamed.
“Not without soldiers, you are not,” he answered. “And there will be no soldiers without the gold to pay them. Now … is this bauble worth your throne?”
“Bothwell…” She could see beyond him, beyond the five thousand gold pieces the font was expected to yield. “Can a throne be retained for five thousand gold coins?”
“It is a lot more than thirty pieces of silver, and look what they bought.”
* * *
Never had the capital looked lovelier, thought Knox, as he approached it on horseback. June was always the time when no city on earth—excepting possibly Geneva—was more appealing; more delicately hued, more vibrant. It had been March when he had left, the month in which the city was at its annual worst, and so it had been easy to leave behind. But now … ah, he was glad to be home. And glad to answer the call. His country needed him once again; at last the wheel had turned and it seemed that the Lord would prevail against the wicked Jezebel who had tormented them too long.
When I called her that, everyone thought I was cruel. The Lords said, “Oh, Master Knox, you are so unkind. What harm a few dances? What harm a private mass or two? What harm the cards and the music?” But I saw what they did not. It was my privilege and sorrow as a prophet. They act as though I liked what I saw! I said I saw dolour and sorrow and heaviness—and I did grieve at the vision, not rejoice.
But human weakness is God’s opportunity. I know that out of this will be born something according to His will. If only we have the courage to reach out and seize it!
Out of chaos can come order. And chaos is here in Scotland once again, as I foretold. The strongman Bothwell is being crowned with honours for his evil ways. Even now the Queen has made him Lord of Shetland! Yet the Psalmist says, “Arise, thou Judge of the World, and reward the proud after their deserving. Lord, how long shall the ungodly, how long shall the ungodly triumph? Wilt thou have any thing to do with the throne of wickedness, which imagineth mischief as a law?” And the faithful Lords of the Congregation are even now gathering, ready to throw off the oppression of the evil pair!
* * *
His house was waiting, swept clean and tidied by one of the faithful Lords, one of the few remaining in the city. It felt good to reenter it, like putting on a favourite shirt that has been cleaned and made ready. There was much work to do. He would, of course, have to consult with John Craig—that brave man!—and gird his loins for the coming battle. There were sermons to be preached, hearts to be strengthened—swords to be sharpened. The hour had come.
* * *
“And tell me, when you refused to announce the banns, what did they say?” Knox asked John Craig. They were strolling in the little garden in back of Knox’s house. It had not been kept up or planted this spring and so its little paths were overgrown with weeds. But the irises and poppies were springing up anyway, poking their slender heads up above the weeds.
“Bothwell threatened me,” he said. “He grabbed his sword, but she stopped him. He is a blustering, loud-voiced thug.”
“I know,” said Knox. “But he was not always that way. Strange to say, I have known him since his boyhood; in fact, my family were vassals of the Hepburns. It is his father, that traitor, who abandoned him and taught him the meaning of perfidy and made him into the hard man you see today. As a boy, he was kind and spirited and imaginative. He did not deserve the father he had.” Knox sniffed. “Nor the wife he is getting!”
“I tried to stop that,” said Craig. “But of course they found someone else to marry them.”
Knox stopped walking and grabbed Craig’s collar. “Think you that the people are ready? Can they be toppled?”
“I have no doubt of it, sir.”
“Ah. Then I am indeed come home.”
* * *
That Sunday, at St. Giles, Knox walked stiffly to the pulpit. He had felt old, weakened, lately. His joints had developed rheumatism, his eyes were rheumy, and he had even noticed a disconcerting inability to distinguish certain sounds. He hated to keep asking people to repeat themselves, so he had begun guessing what they were saying, filling in the missing word for himself. He was, after all, fifty-two years old. But now, with a task to do, God had renewed his strength. It was just as Isaiah said, “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary.” With a feeling of physical well-being which he had not experienced in years, he mounted the steep steps to the pulpit; he felt as if he could almost take them two at a time.
The cathedral was filled, with crowds in every corner, and standing behind every pillar. They stood in the niches where lately saints’ statues had stood, and turned their faces to him. He looked out at them and gave silent thanks. Now, Lord, empower my tongue! he prayed.
Gripping the sides of the pulpit, he began. “Dear brothers and sisters, it is with great thanksgiving that I stand here again before you. Since I have last stood here, on that grievous Sunday in March a few days
before the slaying of the Queen’s wicked servant, that Riccio, there has been more blood spilled in heinous crime. At last the Lord has called me back, even at the peril of my own life. But so must it be. I take as my text today the first book of Samuel, chapter fifteen, verse thirty-five, and chapter sixteen, verse one:
“And the Lord repented that he had made Saul king of Israel. And the Lord said unto Samuel, How long wilt thou mourn for Saul, seeing I have rejected him from reigning over Israel? fill thine horn with oil, and go, I will send thee to Jesse the Bethlehemite: for I have provided me a king among his sons.”
Knox cleared his throat. Oh, it was so glorious to be restored to power, if only to preach this sermon.
“Now this very thing has happened in our land. God has utterly rejected and cast down the woman on the throne, because she has sinned and turned to abomination. God has provided us with another king, the Prince James. In His goodness he has done this, allowing the harlot Queen to live long enough to provide an heir for the throne. In His mercy, he will not abandon us to the horror of civil war and fighting for the throne, but has given us his blessing in this Prince, who is a goodly child, for all his Romish baptism, and is being brought up and instructed by the Lord Erskine, a faithful member of the Elect.”
He sighed and looked over at the hourglass: it was the one that the hateful Darnley had replaced after stealing the one from Calvin.
I should have taken it back before he died, thought Knox. Now no one will ever know where it has gone. A sense of loss pervaded him.
There was still plenty of sand left in it. Perhaps he would not even use up all his allotted time. He felt that he had already said what he came to say. He could harangue the crowd about Mary and Bothwell, but the important thing was to move ahead to the coronation of James. Still, it would not hurt to remind the people of why this was indeed necessary.
“I remember the day she came to Scotland—do you? There was foul mist everywhere, a warning from Heaven—it wrapped her up like one of her French cloaks, clung on her like one of her French poets, kissed her cheeks freely like one of her courtiers and foreign spies.…” He was warming up now.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 74