Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  She put her head on his shoulder, feeling as if she had been drugged. Bothwell was here. She need have no fear. No fear, no fear … He stood between her and all misfortune.

  * * *

  Morning found them wide awake long before the sun was up. Gone was Bothwell’s calmness of the day before; he seemed in an agitated hurry to get dressed and begin receiving information about their resources. He quickly threw open the windows to let in the breeze and left her alone while he went into the outer chambers to confer with his people. She lay in bed, naked, feeling a prisoner inside the covers. During the time he was gone, she had time to think about the circumstances. The Lords—where were they now? Were they still surrounding Borthwick? Exactly who had joined them? And, more crucial, who could be counted on to support the royal side? Was there anyone left in Scotland whose loyalty to the crown was unalloyed? And again, the tearing thought: Why has it come to this? And its forbidden brother: What if we lose? What will become of us?

  I must think of this. To whom would I turn for help to be restored to the throne? For I would not meekly submit and go quietly into exile, retiring to a convent like—who was it? A deposed king of some sort, a discarded queen. Was it Joan of Valois? I cannot think … I would go to France. Yes, France. They would help restore me. They would send a force, an army. But then they would have to fight England—would they be willing to risk that? My family, the Guises, do not have the power they once did in the land, and Catherine de Médicis is cautious and self-seeking. The little King Charles IX, for all that he’s seventeen now, is completely ruled by his mother. He would have no say-so at all.

  Philip of Spain? He is even more calculating and slow-moving than Catherine de Médicis, and fancies himself the champion of the Church; now that the Pope has condemned me, he would never lift a finger or a sword or a harquebus to restore me. No, not Spain.

  The Scandinavian countries … Bothwell has connections there, he has performed naval services for Sweden. But they are Protestants and would never restore a Catholic monarch to a throne. Even a disgraced one!

  She started to laugh, nervously. The Catholics would take the Pope’s condemnation seriously and for that reason refuse to restore her, while the Protestants would consider it a family squabble and still regard her as a Catholic and therefore an enemy.

  There might be no help at all outside of Scotland. This might be final.

  England? There was always England, Scotland’s traditional enemy, but now things had changed. James was Elizabeth’s godson, and so far—although she might not formally admit it—heir to her throne. And Elizabeth was her own close kinswoman and one who took royal prerogatives seriously. She, who feared uprisings and rebels, could hardly countenance a group of traitorous Lords taking control in Scotland. And she had given Mary the ring, which meant—

  “I have clothes,” said Bothwell, stepping into the room, his arms full of material that was black and red. “I borrowed these from a tradesman’s wife.” He held them up. “They will doubtless be a little short, for there are few ladies in the land as tall as you.”

  “I do not care,” she said. “I am just grateful to stop being a boy for today.” Quickly she got out of bed and retreated behind a silk-embroidered screen by an alcove to dress. While she did so, she could hear Bothwell talking to himself and pacing.

  The petticoat and skirt, in black and red, came only just below her knees. There was a bodice, a white ruff for her neck, and some ribbons to tie up the sleeves. Cautiously she stepped out from behind the screen. The skirt, hitting against her knees, felt strange.

  Bothwell burst into laughter. “You look like a milkmaid.”

  “Wearing a skirt this short makes me feel halfway naked,” she said. “Will anyone follow a Queen who looks like this?”

  Bothwell gestured to the breakfast tray of ale, cheese, strawberries, and bread. He was eating standing up. “On horseback you will look regal enough.” He paused between bites. “I have sent French Paris south to Melrose to bring back my troopers, however many have gathered by now.”

  She sat down and poured herself some ale, then ate three of the little wild strawberries. “It is only June fourteenth, and barely has morning broken,” she said. “They were not required to be there until tomorrow.”

  “We can possibly wait. It depends on how many others we can count on to join us, and who has joined the Lords. Of course, the best thing we could hope for is that our forces come together before theirs.”

  Just then Geordie Dalgleish, Bothwell’s personal servant and tailor, entered the room. “You wish to speak to me?” he asked. He was an ungraceful, large-featured fellow. But he spoke with a delicate voice, all at odds with his appearance.

  “Yes. I need to know what has become of Huntly and the force of Hamiltons. They were supposedly coming from the north and west with their army. But they do not arrive. At the same time, Atholl and Glencairn were on the march with their Highlanders for the Lords, coming in the same direction. Have they met on their way? Why this delay?”

  “Aye. I will go to Edinburgh,” he said.

  “When you go, tell Balfour I command him to fire on the rebels if they try to take refuge in Edinburgh,” said Mary suddenly. “We must retain Edinburgh for ourselves, and Balfour must carry out his duty as captain of the castle.”

  After he was gone, Mary said, “It will be all right.”

  He shot her a look of gratitude. “You have a stout and kingly courage,” he said. “Let it not fail in the hours before us.” He motioned to the tray of food. “Eat. We may not get another meal before battle.”

  She felt alarm. “So soon? It might be so soon?”

  “That depends on the reports we receive.”

  * * *

  French Paris returned with a force of about a thousand Borderers, far below the number Bothwell had expected. Geordie Dalgleish came soon after with a confusing report: Huntly and the Hamiltons had indeed reached Edinburgh, but they had stopped there and were arguing with each other about which route to take to Dunbar. Another servant, William Powrie, reported that on the road between Dunbar and Edinburgh, Lord Seton and Lord Borthwick were preparing to join them. While Bothwell was going over these reports, there was a knock. Edmund Hay, Bothwell’s attorney in Edinburgh, stood waiting just outside the door.

  “Why, what is it?” asked Bothwell. “Surely you do not have papers for me to sign about property and suchlike? You lawyers are a devoted lot—always business as usual. Even funerals provide much of it.”

  Hay, who was sweating profusely, began to fan himself. “Forgive me. It is hot, unseasonably hot.”

  Indeed it was, Mary suddenly noticed. Until then, she had not even been aware of the hot puffs of air coming in the windows.

  “Yes, what is it? You have worked up a sweat in coming,” said Bothwell.

  “I bring an important, private message from Balfour in Edinburgh Castle. It is this: The rebels will not stand their ground in Edinburgh, where they are now starting to mass, if they know the Castle will open fire on them. But they are pouring in so rapidly, and soon their numbers will be so great, that if the royal army lingers longer at Dunbar, Lord Balfour will be forced to come to terms with them. Therefore he begs you to delay no longer, but to strike out immediately and attack them forthwith, before they grow stronger.”

  “Is this even so? Have the Highlanders arrived yet for the Lords?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “Ah!” He turned to Mary. “Then indeed we must strike. The fates have delivered them into our hands!”

  * * *

  Balfour sat on the ramparts of Edinburgh Castle, enjoying the wind. Usually it was uncomfortable to stand there, as the wind was always cool, as if it had been chilled against ice and then released. But today it felt refreshing; the heat was oppressive down in the city. Beside him, Morton sat sweating in his heavy black clothes, the ones he always wore because he imagined they gave his bulk dignity and made him look sombre and pious.

  “Do you think
it will work?” Morton was saying. “Do you think Hay will convince them?”

  “I imagine so. Bothwell will trust his own lawyer. After all—why would he lie?”

  Both men burst into laughter.

  “They will be lured away from Dunbar and brought back here. We, our forces, will stand between them and any from the west and north who might wish, belatedly, to join them. Before the battle, Atholl and Glencairn will have arrived with their Highlanders for us. In the meantime, let us call all good citizens to be ready to march out at three hours’ notice to give battle,” said Morton.

  “Let me word it,” said Balfour. “I do enjoy composing things.”

  A notice calling “all who would not be esteemed parties to the aforesaid crimes and treasons to join the Lords in taking up arms” was read out at Mercat Cross. It stated that “all who will not take part in this righteous and loyal enterprise must quit Edinburgh within four hours.”

  * * *

  By noon, the royal forces left Dunbar and began marching westward. In addition to the Borderers, they had two hundred harquebusiers and sixty cavalrymen. Bothwell had ordered the three brass field guns from Dunbar to be taken with them. Along the way, attracted by the fluttering red and yellow royal standard, six hundred more horsemen joined, along with villagers and peasants armed only with farm implements. By the time they reached Haddington, they had a following of almost two thousand. Just beyond Haddington, at Gladsmuir, Mary halted and had a proclamation read.

  “A number of conspirators, under pretext of preserving the Prince, although he is in their keeping, have shown their latent malice. With intent to dethrone the Queen, that they might rule all things at their pleasure, they have taken up arms against their anointed ruler. Therefore very necessity compels the Queen to likewise take up arms, and place her hopes in the help of all faithful subjects, who will be rewarded with the lands and possessions of the rebels according to the merit of each man.”

  The crowds grew larger and the ranks of the royal army swelled, but not with professional fighters. As they approached Edinburgh, the sun was setting and the mob, hungry and dusty, needed to stop.

  Bothwell looked at their ranks. “I am satisfied,” he said. “We can halt here. Seton House is not far away. Let us overnight there. Then, before it even grows light, we will march on to Edinburgh and overwhelm them by surprise.”

  * * *

  Kirkcaldy of Grange, who fancied himself a handsome knight, in spite of his balding head and lined face, was enjoying drawing plans for the coming battle. Should his cavalry flank and then charge into the centre of the royal forces, killing and trampling and causing a stampede? Or should he aim directly for Bothwell, ignoring the lesser men, as warriors of old did? Which would demoralize the Queen more? Humming, he drew another plan. If he divided the cavalry …

  Someone drew aside the curtain. Annoyed, Grange looked up, already scowling. It was a nephew of one of the Setons.

  “Yes?” he barked. He hid the wooden soldiers he had been maneuvering and covered up the plans.

  “They are at Seton House. Lord Seton has joined them, giving them forces of almost three thousand. The body of the army is camped around Seton. They plan to move out early tomorrow morning, by five if possible, to take Edinburgh by surprise,” he said.

  “How do I know this is true?” Grange asked. “You could be lying to mislead us.”

  “I cannot prove it. But Ruthven will vouch for my loyalty to the Congregation. And Lindsay.”

  “Very well. I will send for them.”

  Grange did, and they identified the man as Peter Simmons, who had never trafficked with the royalists and had joined the Congregation years earlier, but who lived near Seton.

  So Bothwell thought to surprise them. Well, he would be the one to be surprised. Grange gave the orders for the army of the Lords to march from Edinburgh at two in the morning and meet the enemy while it was still dark and before they could even group themselves in the confusion.

  * * *

  In the room set aside for Mary, since she was a frequent visitor to Seton House over the past six years, Bothwell and Mary took their rest. It had been a relief to join forces with Lord Seton, and to see Mary Seton once more. She had not been with Mary in weeks. The other Marys had long since scattered, but Mary Seton was still a faithful attendant.

  She had gasped when she first saw Mary. “Oh, Your Majesty, you are so changed!” she blurted out.

  “Much has happened to change me,” Mary answered. Ordinarily she would have probed to know exactly what Seton had meant, but now she was beyond caring. She was hot, dirty, and hungry. They had not eaten since that morning, and Bothwell was concerned because he had no provisions for his troops.

  “That is why we must fight tomorrow. I cannot sustain them in the field, and a hungry army cannot fight,” he said wearily. He flopped into bed, barely able to move.

  Mary climbed in next to him. He was lying on his side, with his back turned to her. She attempted to lay her head on his shoulder and rub his neck, which was gritty with road dirt. He sighed, with a sigh that had a note of despair in it.

  “Sleep,” she said, kissing his cheek gently. “This time tomorrow night, it will all be decided.”

  He did not respond. Was he asleep? She tried to see his face. His eyes were closed.

  “It will all be over, and our life can truly begin,” she said.

  Still no response.

  She turned over on her back and lay looking up at the ceiling that she had seen so many times before. Seton House had always been a refuge for her, a place where she could act as young as she truly was, where no hateful spy lurked to twist every natural action of hers into something sinister and menacing. Here she had played golf and archery and walked along the sea wall, had sung and talked to Mary Seton and her brother, had been convalescent and stunned after the murder of Darnley. The Setons had let her sit for hours in a chair staring out to sea and not intruded on her private thoughts, but always let her know they would not be betrayed if she chose to share them.

  I have had good friends here in Scotland, she thought. But they have been like an alternating pattern making up the fabric of life: friend, traitor, friend, traitor … it does not make a material one wraps around oneself for comfort. The traitors and their daggers prick the skin.

  Bothwell gave a strange cry and turned over violently. He was muttering to himself. A flood of feeling beyond gratitude or even love washed over her. He was her life, a gift by which all others could be measured.

  He was thrashing around, and swung his arm down on the covers.

  “Hush,” she said, taking him in her arms. “You are troubled with bad dreams.” She kissed his forehead, which was sweaty. He groaned and shook himself partially awake.

  “Banish these night ghosts,” she said. “You are not a man to be affrighted by spirits.”

  “Nei, vi kom i fjor,” he said in a clear voice.

  “What is this? What language is this?” she said, shaking him.

  “Jeg venter penger fra—” he muttered, but he opened his eyes. “I dreamed of Norway—or possibly it was Denmark, I know not. I was a pirate, only I was becalmed, my vessel was in a harbour and I could not get free, could not sail away.”

  “How do you know it was Norway, or Denmark?”

  “The way the houses looked, on a steep mountain. And the smell, a smell of the sea that is peculiar to that coast.” He shuddered.

  “It is good that you could be so far away in your mind. And as for the sea—it is the smell that is coming in this window.”

  “Yes.” His voice was trailing off again, and he drifted away in sleep.

  * * *

  In the intense darkness later on, when the true dividing line between day and night was drawn, he stirred and took her in his arms. The wind had fallen, and even the sea seemed to be holding its breath between tides. She woke up to feel him holding her, feel his private need of her before the hour of reckoning. Never had his touch felt more immedia
te, more pressing. Gladly she turned to him in the secrecy of the darkness, exulting in his hands and body and soul.

  * * *

  Dawn came up. It stole into the room, lighting it gradually and relentlessly. Bothwell groaned and sat up. “It is late.” He swung his feet over the side of the bed and shook his head groggily. “Pray it is not too late!”

  She got out of bed, and strained her eyes to see the little watch she had left on the table. In the smudgy light it was hard to read. “Nay,” she said. “It is but four o’clock.”

  “Late, late,” he was muttering. He pulled on his clothes and kept on shaking his head to clear it.

  * * *

  By five, they were on the march toward Edinburgh, the thirty-five hundred men tramping along the path, with the few mounted riders and the field artillery bumping on their wheeled carriers alongside. With Mary rode Mary Seton, who had insisted on accompanying her. Bothwell rode with his troops, who seemed tired even after the night’s rest. They had eaten little and had no prospects of finding food en route.

  Bothwell planned to march directly into Edinburgh and fight the rebels there, with Balfour firing on them from above to drive them out. The castle, in royal hands, was the bulwark that assured the royal success, as it had after the Riccio murder.

  But as they approached the city, he suddenly saw, to his horror, that the rebels had taken command of a hill outside the walls and were already waiting for them there. They were positioned on the slope, so that any soldier charging uphill would be a ready target.

  “Betrayed!” he said. “Someone has betrayed our plans to them, so they anticipated our early march.” He reined his horse and spurred over to Mary. “They knew our plans,” he said. “Someone told them our movements, and now they have dug in and are blocking our way.”

  She felt a stab of surprise, followed by anger and disgust. “Is there no one we can trust?” Who could it have been? There were no other commanders in their ranks, only Bothwell. It must have been a regular soldier, one of the common people who had hitherto always been loyal.