Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  The big canvas sails were furled and tied with their intricate pattern of ropes, awaiting a chance to open and fill with the wind. But for now, barrels of fresh water were being filled and brought aboard, and the men were out all over the main island, exercising themselves and trying to find food. Not that there was an abundance of it on this rocky, barren island; unlike the Orkneys, there was little land suitable for farming here, and the people lived mainly by fishing.

  If a man had a mind to wander, this empty, stark land would speak to him. Bothwell found its very harshness stirring, and for the first few days he had walked out under the sky, which seemed enormous, listening to the sea, watching the birds that nested in the rocky cliffs rearing up, ragged and black, from the sea. He liked the solitude, after being too much among men. Sometimes he would get a glimpse of a band of dark little wild ponies, but they always kept their distance, as if they, too, had had all they wished of man and his ways. The wind whistled about his ears, and Bothwell, who hated hats, understood why the Shetlanders wore those close-fitted wool caps.

  Bothwell glanced up at the sun. It must be nearly noon, and time for him to keep his appointment to take his midday meal with his cousin Sinclair in his manor house on shore. He enjoyed the man, enjoyed talking of their ancestral rascals, enjoyed hearing about the way life was lived in the islands. Every day his cousin would have a suggestion about a sight that might interest Bothwell: a peculiar, ancient, round stone dwelling; St. Ninian’s Isle, with the remains of the holy monk’s dwelling; a beach with basking seals.

  Today promised to be no different. As he settled himself down at table, ready enough to taste some wine, Sinclair, who delighted in offering rare imports, was smiling at him.

  “Good cousin,” he said, lifting the flagon to pour out some bright wine, “I have today some strong sweet wine from Cyprus.” He tasted it and nodded. “It has taken a long time to get here, but has not spoiled. The Venetians in their galleys can bring it quickly.”

  Bothwell sipped it and looked out across the water to his ships. Four were anchored here, and four in a harbour on the other side of the island. The sun had shone in cloudless splendour today, and its brilliance on the water was breathtaking. Each ship seemed etched against the intense blue of the sea and sky, a dark, rich blue that made the skies elsewhere seem weak or diluted.

  “Thinking of your captains and men?” asked Sinclair.

  “Aye. I was wondering what they were doing this morning. I hope they have not caused trouble in town. I have kept the sailors on board; they are generally the worst.”

  Sinclair laughed. “One can understand why the galley-rowers are kept chained.”

  “Aye.” He got a warm feeling, thinking of the Balfours having served in the galleys years ago. The double-dealing traitors. They were liars and betrayers from far back.

  The servants were just bringing out the mackerel and oysters when Bothwell suddenly caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye, moving on the water. Instantly he put down his knife and went to the window.

  Eight ships, moving fast toward his, lying at anchor. Quickly he jumped up and shaded his eyes for a clearer view.

  “Why, what is it?” asked Sinclair.

  “They have come,” Bothwell said. “My men!” He suddenly realized his horrible predicament. “The soldiers are all ashore! There is no one to fight!” Throwing down his napkin, he raced out of the house. Sinclair followed.

  They stopped at the top of a cliff overlooking the harbour. The ships of the Lords were closing in, when suddenly all four of Bothwell’s ships in the harbour hoisted sail, cut their cables, and fled.

  “They decided not to wait to be boarded,” said Bothwell, approvingly. “But the full complement of men is still ashore!”

  As they watched, the chase began. Bothwell could see the biggest ship of the Lords, the Unicorn, pursuing hotly. Clearly it felt itself to be the leader, the one meant to run him to ground. It had to be manned by Kirkcaldy and his archenemy, William Murray of Tullibardine—the man who had started the placard campaign against him. Grange, that lying, foul, false bastard! And Tullibardine, in the pay of the Lords to frame him for the murder!

  Would I were aboard, he thought, I’d welcome a grapple with you and make sure I cut your throats, no matter what.

  As it was, he had to watch helplessly from shore as the ships ran north out of Bressay Sound.

  One of his ships was slow. They had nicknamed it Tortoise, for it always lagged behind and was incapable of matching the others in speed. Now the Unicorn marked it out for a victim and was following it closely, catching up with every second.

  The captain of the Tortoise managed to keep just ahead. Then, suddenly, it looked as if he had lost control; as Bothwell watched, the Tortoise was driven into an area where the waters became milky with foam from hidden rocks. It steered directly for the breakers, in a brave, seemingly suicidal gesture. Then the ship, which only grazed her keel on the rocks, shot up and out through the cresting foam into deeper waters.

  Too late to alter course, the bulky Unicorn followed in its wake, and from his lookout point Bothwell saw the vessel shudder and strike. She was stuck on the rocks, and lurched to one side. Dozens of sailors and soldiers were flung overboard, falling like little pieces of dust. A boat was let down, and quickly it was jammed with people. Someone jumped from the Unicorn’s deck into the boat, causing it to spin around and almost sink. Then, even while Bothwell and Sinclair were watching, the Unicorn sank in the roiling waters. Bothwell gave a hoot of delight.

  “He did it on purpose,” said Sinclair. “The captain of that ungainly ship knew her draught and knew the water around the rocks, down to an inch, I’ll warrant.” He laughed. “What a feat of seamanship!”

  The rest of the pursuing fleet had to stop and rescue their fellows, and Bothwell’s ships disappeared from sight over the horizon.

  “They will anchor at Unst,” said Sinclair, “and wait for you there. That is the northernmost island. Gather your men and head north. Here, I will give you horses.” He clapped Bothwell on the back. “Pity our meal was interrupted. I see you won’t have time to see the seals today.”

  Bothwell mounted hurriedly and clattered down into the town. He knew where to find the most part of his men, and they would have to borrow horses to get across the island in time. Already the Unicorn’s boat was making its way to shore, and Kirkcaldy would start searching. He must have realized that Bothwell had not been aboard the Tortoise.

  Bothwell found some hundred men in the town, and as he was supreme lord of the isle and had the authority, he commandeered nearly all the horses in the town. They were brought out, sturdy, woolly beasts, and even a number of pet ponies. Anything that had four legs and could carry a man would do, even mules and donkeys.

  “To the north!” cried Bothwell, rallying the men, and hastily they set out, making for the interior of the island. They rode as fast as they could on the uneven terrain, passing over the wrinkled green landscape strewn with boulders. They rode hard for twenty miles under that strange, huge, cloudless sky until they ran out of mainland. Then, abruptly, the land ended, and they found themselves staring out across two miles of open water separating them from the next island, Yell.

  Where were the boats Sinclair had promised? Bothwell dismounted and clambered down to the shore. He saw fishing boats, and gestured to them. Slowly—agonizingly slowly—they rowed closer.

  “We need to cross!” he yelled, indicating his party. The fishing boats just sat there. Then one of them rowed away, around a headland.

  Bothwell felt his pulse racing. How would they manage to cross? The sea was too turbulent even to think of swimming in it, and the distance was too great, even if the water had not been numbingly cold. Neither the horses nor the men could survive it. He felt oddly concerned about the borrowed horses.

  Damn! Were they to be caught here, like the fish in the nets being hauled aboard the boats? Kirkcaldy must be hot on their trail.

  The fi
shing boat reappeared, and with it six larger boats. As they slowly came nearer, Bothwell gave silent thanks.

  “We’ll take you for a fee,” the captain of one of the boats said. He named an outrageous one. Bothwell argued a moment, hoping to strike a better deal, or at least not leave the impression here that he was an absolute fool, but he kept glancing over his shoulder. Kirkcaldy might come up over the rise at any moment.

  “Done,” said Bothwell. “Now let’s load!”

  The men were herded onto one kind of boat, and the flatter, heavier boats agreed to take the horses. But only a few could be ferried across at a time. It took three crossings to get everyone onto the shore of Yell.

  “Let us go!” cried Bothwell, touching spurs to his horse, and they set off north again, across land so forlorn it looked as if even God had forgotten it. Black rocks, brown bare soil, a sheen of green from moss and bracken—and the wind, like a creature itself: a howling, whistling, tearing wind that had ice in its mouth. Now, in the late afternoon, white, puffy clouds appeared and raced across the sky, demonstrating the speed of that wind.

  They rode twelve miles along that cold, rocky desert, and then they came to another strait, Bluemull Sound. This one was much less wide than Yell Sound, and although Bothwell thought of risking a swim across, five boats were nearby and willing to ferry them across—again for a high fee.

  They stepped ashore on the rock-strewn beach of Unst. Night was falling, but they did not dare to light fires for fear of betraying their whereabouts to Kirkcaldy. They huddled on the beach and tried to sleep, covering themselves with their cloaks. The wind was so fierce that it tore right through the material, and the crashing of the sea on the rocks kept them awake. When dawn came up, they shook the sand and pebbles off their cloaks and prepared to scour the island.

  By midmorning they had found the ships, anchored in a sheltered bay. Bothwell signalled by flapping a cloak, and soon a boat was on its way.

  “Thank God!” said both Bothwell and the men in the boat.

  “Quick thinking,” said Bothwell to the captain of the Tortoise, once he was safely aboard. “As fine a display of seamanship as ever I’ve seen. I watched from shore.”

  “When I saw that fat ship, I said to myself, ‘She deserves to be wrecked,’” said the captain. “That bishop they had aboard, the one who’s supposed to try you and pronounce sentence—it was he who jumped and almost missed the boat. I wish he’d sunk like his ship.”

  “I wish it as much as you—nay, more, for that turncoat churchman is the very one who married me to the Queen. What a vile betrayer,” said Bothwell. “The rest of the ships stayed behind; they were hard put to rescue all the men and try to regroup.”

  “They’ll be here before long,” said the captain. “I would say we have only a few hours’ head start. What do you aim to do?”

  “Why, fight, of course,” said Bothwell. “What else?”

  “They have more men and more ships.”

  “Then they will be cocky. If you think I mean to flee without a fight, or if that is what you wish, I release you now. I will not have the fainthearted on my side; and you have already struck a mighty blow for us. You may in all good conscience be excused.”

  “Nay. I’ll stay,” he said. “But we have only a few hours to prepare.”

  “So be it.”

  Bothwell counted the men and realized a large contingent was still on the mainland. He dispatched his treasure vessel, the one carrying his plate, jewels, armour, and personal belongings, to sail back to the western side of the island, to Scalloway, to collect the men left behind.

  * * *

  It was early the next morning when the first of the enemy ships came over the horizon. There was so much mist that they had come fairly close before Bothwell or his captains were able to spot them.

  “Enemy! Enemy! Alarm!” cried the sailors. The cannon were loaded, and the soldiers manned the decks, standing shoulder to shoulder with their harquebuses. Torches soaked in pitch to set aflame and throw onto the ships in close fighting were at the ready, as were longbows and grappling hooks if it came to boarding and hand-to-hand fighting.

  They cut the anchor cables and started out of the bay, to avoid being bottled up or run aground. The whistling wind filled the sails the second they were unfurled, and the captains steered for open water.

  The seven ships of the Lords followed, and began firing their long-range brass cannon. But they were still at too great a distance, and the cannonballs fell harmlessly into the water.

  The Tortoise, true to its name, fell behind its fellows, and soon was boarded by Kirkcaldy’s men. Bothwell was down to two ships now, and he wished the captain of the Tortoise had elected not to fight. He hoped that Kirkcaldy would be merciful, but mercy did not seem to be a leading trait of the Lords.

  Cannon fire was hitting their ships, tearing through the sails and riddling them with holes, and thudding into the wooden sides. Bothwell gave the orders to reply, and the guns of the Pelican roared in answer, striking the sides and deck of the Primrose, the James, and the Robert, raining down on the heads of the hands on deck. The four smaller ships hung back out of range, like reticent maidens.

  A fireball landed on the deck, expanding up into a sphere of pure flame. The soldiers fled, but some had their clothing set afire, and had to roll on the deck or be doused with water. In the confusion they left off firing, and the Primrose, with Tullibardine aboard—Bothwell could see him manning the deck—was able to approach closer and let loose with the close-range guns. A rain of gunshot fell on them, scattering Bothwell’s men and once again disrupting their defence.

  Bothwell rushed to one of the cannon and loaded and fired it himself. He aimed right at the waterline of Tullibardine’s ship, hoping to sink it, but the hole that appeared in the side was above the water.

  The fight continued, all the time working its way farther and farther out to sea. The shoreline grew hazy and disappeared. The ships fought on, volleys of cannonballs landing on deck, blasting holes in the vessels. The sails were aflame on the Robert, and it lost control of its steering and revolved around and around like a wheel in the water.

  Then there was a gruesome splintering sound as a cannonball hit the Pelican’s mainmast and tore it away. Like a stately tree being felled, the tall timber toppled slowly, majestically to the deck, tangled in its stays and rigging. Only one mast remained now.

  Tullibardine started closing in. His sailors were standing by with grappling hooks.

  “Surrender!” Tullibardine yelled. “Surrender, Bothwell, you pirate, you murderer!”

  “I’ll see you in Hell first!” he answered, firing on Tullibardine with a harquebus. The ball ripped through Tullibardine’s hat and sent it flying.

  “Damn!” screamed Bothwell. Another three inches and it would have been Tullibardine’s brains flying instead.

  A chorus of gunfire sounded, and eight of Bothwell’s men fell.

  Bothwell fired again. “Don’t give up the cannon!” he yelled, but the men were falling back under the rain of fire.

  “I’ve got you!” yelled Tullibardine, aiming at Bothwell, but he was so excited he missed widely.

  The sky darkened, as if a squid had suddenly released a huge cloud of ink. The sun disappeared, and in its place came a howling wind from the southwest. The blast was so strong that the Pelican heeled over and several sailors fell overboard. So did the Primrose, and the fact that the enemy ship had its full complement of sails intact actually hindered it, as the wind took control of its sails. It almost capsized, and heeled so far over that water rushed into the hole Bothwell had shot in its side. Rain poured down from above as if a giant’s cauldron had been tipped over on them.

  The ships began to run before the wind, Bothwell’s vessel, lighter and more maneuverable, outdistancing Tullibardine’s. Bothwell’s second ship was not far behind, and the ships raced northward. Tullibardine pursued for sixty miles into the open sea before he turned back.

  Bothwell could
hardly keep his footing on the slippery deck of the lurching boat, and the waves on either side looked like hills. He clung to the railing and watched as tons of water washed over the deck. The hills rose and fell. They were ominous, dark, pulling him into them. They looked horribly familiar; they were the hills of Hell where the Demon Lover was pulled to his doom in the Border song he knew so well and had sung to Mary. Those are the hills of Hell, my love, where thou and I must go. They were taking him home. Still he grasped the rail and told the captain, “Steer on!” and they shot in and out of the hungry waves all night long.

  In the dark, the roaring of the sea and the pitching of the ship—sometimes her decks were almost perpendicular—made them feel that they were indeed being tipped down into the maws of hell. The sailors, fighting to control the sails on the one mast left, could believe the stories of the giant kraken that old Norwegian seamen swore infested these waters—a huge, tentacled beast that would suddenly rear up and devour a ship, masts and all. The icy arms of the sea that flung themselves over the deck, lashing them in the face, felt like the slimy arms of the monster.

  The one remaining mast creaked and groaned, straining at its base. The helmsman and his assistant fought the rudder, which bucked like a mule and could barely be controlled. Rudders often broke—and they had no spare on board. The men wept and prayed, remembering all their sins and begging for another chance. There was no sight of the second ship, and no way to tell whether it was following or had been blown off course, or even sunk … or perhaps had been devoured by the kraken.

  The storm raged all night and half the next day, gradually abating by sunset. As the giant waves fell, and they could once again see over the troughs, night fell again, so that they were unable to get their bearings. Judging from the stars, they had been steering—or had been blown—north-northeast.