Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  * * *

  On the evening of November twenty-fourth, the gales were tearing at the house. Knox was lying in bed, motionless, attended by his wife, his physician, and the friends to whom he had entrusted his family. Evening prayers were recited, and Knox stirred.

  “Do you hear the prayers?” asked his physician.

  “I would to God that you and all men heard them as I have heard them, and I praise God for that heavenly sound.” Knox smiled, and died.

  * * *

  Morton led the Lords in mourning at the funeral two days later. Knox was buried in the new-built coffin in the yard of St. Giles, and as the coffin was being lowered, Morton said, “Here lies one who neither feared nor flattered any flesh.”

  * * *

  In his will, Knox addressed the “Papists and the unthankful world,” telling them that “because they will not admit me for an admonisher, I give them over to the judgement of Him who knows the hearts of all.” The rest of his worldly goods were distributed to his family.

  * * *

  In February 1573, Morton was able to negotiate with Huntly and the Hamiltons one at a time, and they at last agreed to recognize James VI as King and Morton as Regent. Argyll followed suit. Only Maitland and Kirkcaldy, barricaded up in Edinburgh Castle, held out for Mary. It was six years since the death of Darnley, and one by one her supporters had fled, died, or gone over to the other side.

  The Lords attacked the castle, but were beaten back. In April, English help arrived: ships anchored in Leith, and troops and ordnance under the command of Sir William Drury, Marshal of Berwick, trundled ashore. Among the cannon was one of the celebrated Seven Sisters captured by the English long ago in the Battle of Flodden, and now returned to Scotland in the hands of the enemy.

  After an unsuccessful attempt at mining operations, the castle was bombarded from five positions night and day. The weakness of the castle was in its water supply, and the besiegers succeeded in blocking one with lime and wheat. But not until a massive assault on the David’s Tower, with a resulting collapse of its wall, was the second well stopped. Still the castle fought on, until the English captured the outworks defending the gentler eastern approach to the castle.

  Standing on the outworks, Drury shouted, “Surrender! If you do, all the defenders are free to depart in peace, except the leaders, Maitland and Kirkcaldy. I would speak with them!”

  Kirkcaldy appeared on the rubble rimming the ramparts. “What terms do you offer?” he shouted.

  “An honourable surrender. Give yourself up, and there will be no harm to your persons.”

  After several hours of shouting back and forth, Kirkcaldy agreed and tried to meet Drury, but was unable to pass through the castle gate because of the rubble from the bombardment. He was therefore let down over the wall by a rope.

  “Knox prophesied that he would be spewed forth, not at the gate, but by the wall,” whispered the onlookers.

  Inside the castle, Maitland dragged himself over to the window and saw what was happening. Drury’s men had seized Kirkcaldy and were roughly dragging him off, in spite of their promises.

  “Liars to the end,” he whispered. “There is no truth in them, in these ‘men of God.’” He would have laughed, but he had no strength. The truth was that he had been smitten for the past few months with a creeping paralysis and had almost lost the use of his legs.

  “May twenty-ninth. I must then say farewell to thee, world.” He had prepared for this, and laboriously extracted a vial from his cabinet. “Forgive me, dearest wife.” The fair Fleming! Their marriage had been little but a test of her forbearance and fidelity; it was a far cry from the life he had hoped to give her.

  In the world that used to be, when it was all young, when there was singing and dancing, he thought, it was there I thought to take you and keep you. Not to this one—of murders and fleeing, and bodily failure.

  Slowly he poured the contents of the vial out into a glass. He held his hand as steady as he could, fearful of spilling a precious drop. The liquid venin de crapaud, derived from the distilled body fluids of toads killed with arsenic, would bring death in a few hours.

  He held out the glass, studying the contents. Death in a cup. The opposite of the ambrosia that mortals could drink on Mount Olympus and become immortal.

  Why is it, he thought, that we can make ourselves a cup of death but not a cup of life?

  He sat down in his chair and took deep breaths. Below he could hear yelling and marching. They would soon be breaking in. He had to do it.

  He gripped the glass and shut his eyes.

  You are delaying, he told himself. If you would be master of your fate, then drink it. If you wish them to be master of your fate, then do not.

  He brought the glass to his lips and swallowed the bitter, viscous liquid. It burned all the way down his throat.

  “Farewell, you men of God,” he muttered. “Spare me from your gentle mercy. I prefer the kindness of poison—it is more trustworthy. Poison always keeps its promises.”

  * * *

  Kirkcaldy was hanged by the market cross in the High Street. He had stood facing toward Holyrood, and his last sight was of the conical towers of that palace. But as he died, his body swung round, toward the afternoon sun behind the castle.

  “As Knox foretold,” the people murmured, “he was hanged in the face of the sun.” They were hushed with fear.

  * * *

  There were no more Queen’s Men in Scotland.

  X

  Bothwell watched as the sun threw longer and longer slants of light on the floor of his chamber. Soon it would be going down, leaving the sky, and a semblance of darkness would prevail. This time of year, it was never entirely dark, even at midnight. But the heavens would deepen into a rich plum-sapphire color, and would serve to cloak his activity.

  Tonight he would escape.

  The tides were right. The light would be right. And the guard would be almost nonexistent, for tonight was their beloved Midsummer Night festivity, when people caroused all night, lovers met in the woods, and the governor of the castle always gave a boisterous celebration, with unlimited wine and blaring trumpet music. Bothwell had now witnessed this annual activity for five years; this would be the sixth.

  And there will not be a seventh! he vowed.

  Every year he had noticed how lax the security became, and every year the celebrations seemed to grow more and more lavish. Bonfires blazed all along the shore, and the sound of the drunken townsfolk running in the narrow streets carried up into the castle. The entire town of Malmö went on a spree, and normality was suspended. For the next few days they were equally befuddled with the aftereffects of the wine.

  They claim Midsummer Night is a night of enchantment, of magic, he thought. Let it make me invisible! The lovers go out to gather fernseed on this night to confer invisibility on themselves; no one needs it more than I.

  He had come to know his guards well: the thickset Sven, the lecherous Tor, and the conscientious Bjorn. Over the years he had learned Danish, and had been a pleasant and cooperative prisoner, until he had gained their confidence. Hours of listening to them discuss their women, religion, and ailments had made him well acquainted with their strengths and weaknesses.

  The governor of the castle, Captain Kaas, was a bluff, plain fellow who did everything by the book. He kept the rooms for King Frederick always at the ready, with fresh linens and potpourris, but the King never came. Bothwell had never had his audience with him, and he knew now he never would. The King had forgotten him, as completely as if he were dead. As far as Frederick was concerned, he was dead; he was of absolutely no political value any longer. But being a thrifty sort, Frederick never relinquished anything, just in case. And so he kept Bothwell tight in his castle of Malmö.

  In the beginning, Bothwell had had visitors and been kept informed of what was happening beyond the Øresund. But over the years the visits had ceased; he had had to rely on whatever the guards happened to hear in town, and so he only
knew of the most striking events. He knew that Mary was still a prisoner, and that, just as he had never been granted audience with Frederick, she had never succeeded in seeing Elizabeth. He knew that Knox had died, and that the Queen’s party in Scotland was a spent force. He knew that Elizabeth had been excommunicated, and the Lord James assassinated. He had heard of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew’s. But the motives behind these things, the fine shadings of them, the diplomatic outcome of them, he did not know. King Charles IX not only never helped him, but never acknowledged his letter. The letters from Mary, few and far between, still came through once in a great while. In them she always beseeched him to be of good courage and know she was loyal.

  When the guards went out to the adjoining courtyard to watch the lighting of the bonfire, that was when he would do it. His rooms were on the ground floor, and he had carefully loosened the back of the wooden “closet” on the sea-wall of his quarters. This gave out directly on the sea, and had been strengthened to prevent just what Bothwell now hoped to achieve. But he had had six years to work at it. He believed that he had adequate strength to force the boards now if he had only ten minutes or so. Then, to squeeze out, land safely near the ocean, and slip away over the rocks. Even that would be favourable tonight: it would be low tide, exposing them like stepping-stones for him to dash across. There would be small boats tied near the harbour, and they would not be guarded; a simple matter to take one.

  And then what? Row out beyond the harbour, hide himself in a fishing village, then hire himself out as a hand on one of the larger merchant ships crossing the Baltic Sea to Germany. Thank God he knew Danish now, and could concoct a reasonable story about himself.

  My ancestors had a Viking or two amongst them, he thought, up in the Shetlands. Pray I look enough like them to blend in with the Danes.

  The sun duly went down, and as Bothwell’s windows faced south, it remained light in his rooms a long time. He could hear the three sentry guards making impatient noises as they waited to be relieved. They looked forward eagerly to this night all year long. At last—it seemed four hours—the young soldier who was assigned to forgo his revelry that night arrived to relieve them. He had already done his drinking, as if in defiance of his superiors. Bothwell heard him sit down heavily, and then a few minutes later unmistakable snores came from the guardroom.

  Swiftly, Bothwell went to the door of the closet. He had nothing to take with him; he had never been permitted to retain any weapons or money, and so there was nothing to gather up. He would survive on this flight only by his nerves and wits.

  He loosened the nails—which he had pried out over many months, always being careful to replace them so they looked secure—opened the door partway, and slipped behind it. Now he would have to move as fast as humanly possible, lest the guard peek in the room and see no one there. The back boards, thick ones, had been nailed with heavy studs, but had loosened somewhat due to the salty air and sea spray. He threw his shoulder against them and prayed they would give way without making a loud noise.

  His prayer was answered; one of the boards splintered quietly. He hit it again, and it and its nearest neighbour broke open. A gush of fresh air hit him. He kicked a third board and was elated to hear it give way. Now! The opening was wide enough. He wiggled through and found himself hanging about ten feet over mossy rocks. He cautiously climbed through and hung by his hands to drop down as silently as possible.

  The rock underneath was as slick as if it had been covered in grease. Immediately his feet flew out from under him and he landed heavily on his back. Pain tore through him, and for a horrible instant he thought he could not move his legs. But feeling flooded back into them and he rolled over and made his way carefully, shaken, on all fours across the expanse of rocks. Fifteen feet or so farther out, the ocean was nibbling at the rocks, which were covered in long strands of seaweed.

  The area he had to traverse was much longer than he had thought. But he had never had a view of it and had had to imagine it. He could never get to the harbour this way; it would take all night. Nervously he looked back up at the bulk of the castle, its bastions reflected in its moat. He thought he could see a red reflection of bonfire flames coming from the courtyard, but as yet there was no noise of alarm.

  He would have to pass through the town in order to reach the main harbour. But in this twilit night of revelry, he would appear as just one more tippler. He saw the city wall on his right, just ahead; the gate was gaping open on this night, and people were gathered around it, listening to a fiddler who sang of trolls and witches. He edged toward them, slowing his pace.

  They looked at him and smiled, and did not show that they saw anything unusual in him. He passed quickly through the gate, then walked along the old Västergatan. This was the heart of the old town; its streets were very narrow and dark, and that suited Bothwell’s purpose. To his right he could hear loud shouting and music, and guessed that a bonfire might be there, in a main square, along with its crowds. Best to stay away from it; he had the Västergatan almost to himself, with only an occasional youth running down it in a hurry to get somewhere.

  I’m in a hurry, too, Bothwell thought. But the last thing I can do is to show it.

  He continued until he found a street that appeared to go down to the harbour, or where he guessed the harbour should be. He ran along it lightly, trying to imitate the way the others were running, carefree and happy. His spirits had risen so that his heart was pounding with exhilaration, and he had to exert all his willpower to keep his head and not dissolve in triumphant excitement. He had escaped! He had outsmarted them! Their escape-proof prison had been bested.

  The harbour opened up before him, dark and inviting. The large boats of the Hansa merchants were tied up, everything in order as was their wont. It was tempting to stow away on one. He could perhaps hide down in the hold and wait. But all these ships would be searched, and even if he escaped notice the first time, the ship might not sail for days. No, he had best get as far away as possible before his escape was discovered.

  On the far side of the harbour were the smaller boats: fishing craft, rowboats, coal transports. He would steal one of them and row out to sea, searching for a place to put in along the coast. He made his way over to them, wondering how they were secured and which would be the best to take. It would have to be large enough to afford him some protection; he could not hug the coast too closely, since he was unfamiliar with the shoals and rocks. But it should be the smallest possible to do the job, so he would not call attention to himself.

  There was a small boat like a fishing craft beached on the far side of the harbour. In the purple, hazy light it looked to be in good repair and fairly new. He could smell the freshly oiled planks.

  He made his way over to it and looked. It was barely tied up, and he was able to untie the knot easily. Throwing the line into the boat, he shoved off and leapt into it. Grabbing the oars, he began to row furiously. The boat rocked and began to move across the gentle waves.

  “Thank God and all the saints!” he exploded. He felt the wood of the oars biting into his palms, and nothing had ever felt so good. It was real; he had done it.

  Suddenly there was a movement in the boat, a scuffling. Rats! He shivered. He hated them, and any second now they would start scampering and racing with their horrid little feet all over his legs.

  I should have whacked that canvas to get them out before I set out, he thought. But there was no time.

  And now it was too late. Harbour rats were vicious; he hoped they would not attack him.

  “What the hell?” A huge form rose up out of the canvas like a ghost. “God damn you!”

  It was a man, an immense naked man. More stirring, and a woman sat up beside him, also naked. She screamed.

  Lovers! He had interrupted their tryst. Why hadn’t he seen their movement under the canvas? Because there wasn’t any. They had lain still in hopes he would go away.

  “I—I—” Bothwell stuttered, still grasping the oars.
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  “You dirty thief!” screamed the man. “It isn’t your brother, Astrid! It’s just a filthy thief!” He lunged at Bothwell, hands outstretched to grab his neck.

  Bothwell dropped the oars and fought to get the man’s hands off his neck. He had the strength of the devil, and he was furious, with all the outraged morality of a disturbed lover. “Please—stop—no—”

  The woman, her long blond hair covering her shoulders and breasts, was beating on him, too, screaming at the top of her lungs. Together they toppled over, and then the man raised a wooden bucket to bash Bothwell’s head. But he was struggling so fiercely in the midst of all the slippery naked flesh that the man was unable to hit him. Bothwell had a glimpse of a face that seemed to be all yellow beard and snarling teeth. The smell of human arousal was stronger than the smell of the sea as the couple tumbled over themselves, entwining Bothwell.

  “Please—” Bothwell said, trying to pull himself free. “I meant no harm, I will pay for the boat—” Even as he said it, he realized he was doomed, as he had not a penny on him.

  “This boat isn’t ours. Do you think we’ll be thieves with you?” cried the woman.

  The huge man had taken the oars and was rowing back to the harbour. Obviously the most important thing to them was to return the boat and cover up their activity, and nothing would dissuade them. One of them was probably married, or else the woman was supposed to be a virgin.

  “Wait—please. Can you help me find another boat?” Bothwell pleaded.

  “What for? What honest man would want a boat to row out to sea on Midsummer Night?”

  “I—wish to meet my lover, too,” he said quickly. “Her father keeps her so strictly. But I know that tonight she will be allowed out. I am poor; her father does not approve of me. But I am saving to start a smithy—”

  The man stared at him. “Where is this girl?”

  “In the next village. In”—oh, God, a name!—“Klagshamn.”