Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  “Come on,” said his grandfather, ready to close the door and go.

  “No!” said Sten. “He does not move.”

  His grandfather grunted and took the pole. He maneuvered it so it could touch the man, but got no response. The man felt hard, like the post.

  “I will have to go down. Get another guard,” he told Sten.

  When the guard arrived with a ladder, they carefully descended, armed with swords, staves, and guns. Gingerly they circled the man, then poked him again. He did not move. The two men stood for a moment. Sten could see neither of them wanted to come close, in case the man suddenly sprang up. Finally his grandfather sighed, and took the few steps over to him. He reached out his arm slowly, and at last touched the man’s overgrown cheek.

  “Dead,” he said, snatching his hand away, as the man toppled over. “Dead, quite dead!”

  “Why?” asked the other guard.

  Sten’s grandfather looked around the room and back at the post with its chain. “Of confinement,” he finally said. “He lasted longer than anyone else has in here. But even the Earl of Bothwell could not survive forever.”

  * * *

  Dead, the Earl of Bothwell was suddenly elevated to revered status befitting his rank. His ulcerated, hairy leg was unchained from its iron, and his stiff body was hoisted aloft, where he was bathed, shaved, his hair cut, and he was attired in the clothes of a gentleman, hastily purchased.

  He was placed in a wide oak coffin, lying on a white satin pillow, wrapped in a fine linen cloth lined with green silk. His hands were neatly folded, and Sten’s grandfather partook of the honoured custom of helping himself to the dead prisoner’s jewellery. There was nothing, though, but a ring enamelled with bones and tears. The grandfather removed it anyway, forcing it over Bothwell’s knuckles. He held it up and examined it.

  “I was told this was the betrothal ring that the Queen of Scots gave him,” he said. “If so, the promise came true.”

  “Don’t keep it, Grandfather!” cried Sten. “Who would ever want to wear it?”

  “Leaving it on him would give him an unquiet grave, I think, and it’s time now that he be quiet and in peace.” The grandfather put the ring on his own finger, and Sten shuddered.

  “There now,” said his grandfather, pulling up the shroud almost tenderly around Bothwell’s shoulders.

  The Earl looked, not at peace, but angry. His mouth was set in a grim straight line, and there was a faint diagonal scar on his forehead, the relic of some fight. Sten half expected him to rise up with a wail and a knife.

  His grandfather finished fastening the shroud and then closed the coffin lid, nailing it down. The guards carried it across the courtyard and out of the castle precincts—the only time Bothwell had passed the gates. He was laid to rest in the nearest church, the Faarevejle chapel on the promontory where the seawater sprayed the whitewashed walls, and the tower served as a lighthouse. The prayers were intoned by a Reformed minister, as the coffin was slid into its vault. No inscription was left to mark the spot.

  * * *

  The next day, Lauridson filed his report in his official calendar, and sent notices to the Scottish and English governments. The Earl of Bothwell, sometime husband of the Queen of Scots, is dead this April 14, 1578. May God have mercy on his soul.

  XIV

  Mary was humming as she finished her midday meal and gathered up her sewing. It was May, mid-May, and it was one of the warmest, lushest seasons they had ever had. Every growing thing had burst forth at once, as if it had been stored up not only for months but for years: the baby leaves shot out of the branches like cannonshot, daffodils and irises erupted from the soil and exploded in flowers, and overnight the matted last-year’s grass was overgrown with a velvety carpet of new grass so sweet the rabbits hopped about in it deliriously, stuffing themselves on the tender green shoots. Mary was unable to resist the overwhelming spirit of urgency in the season. She must sit outside today, and do homage to the gift of new life that God had bestowed.

  Chatsworth always offered pleasant places to sit outside; Mary had taken her seat in the moated pleasure-house so often it had been renamed “Queen Mary’s Bower” in token of her fondness for it. Today would be a perfect day to sit on her folding stool—embroidered, of course—and give herself over to the ethereal mildness of the air.

  She made sure to take along her wide-brimmed hat. How good it was to pick it up again! During the long, pale winter, when she saw it hanging on its peg, it always seemed a forlorn survivor from another world, the only proof amid the ice and dark that there had ever been a summer.

  Hope is a straw hat hanging beside a window covered with frost, she thought.

  She had meant to go straight to her bower, but there were so many blooming shrubs and bushes on the grounds that she found herself drawn to them. The gooseberries were covered with little blossoms, the grapevines were flowering, and the honeysuckle was starred with its own creamy flowerlets that emitted a characteristic scent that, strong as it was, was impossible to recapture in a perfume.

  Mary closed her eyes and made her way over to the honeysuckle bush by smell alone. It was so heady it seemed to suffuse her entire body when she breathed it in, as if it had the power to intoxicate by airborne magic.

  It enveloped her, and she opened her eyes. She was right beside it. She reached out and pulled off one of the slender, trumpet-shaped blossoms and sucked on its broken stem. Sweetness of taste from the nectar mingled with the sweet scent and became one.

  The bees had been drawn to it, too. She was astounded at the motion of so many bees changing places around each flower, making a drowsy hum. It was a soothing lullaby of spring.

  She did not hear any footsteps until Shrewsbury was almost ten feet away. Her first thought was how sour, worn, and altogether out of place he looked against the brightness of the day. Human beings did not always fit the season as easily as animals, she thought.

  “Good day, dear Shrewsbury,” she said. She smiled and hoped to make him do likewise. But he just kept trudging forward, his mouth set.

  He then looked intently at the honeysuckle bush, as if there were something hidden in there he sought. Mary could not help looking herself, but all she saw was a bright blue-and-black winged butterfly hovering and about to light.

  “I have received some news that will sadden you,” he finally began.

  Suddenly she knew what it was and wanted to say No, no, do not tell me that, I cannot bear it. Instead she said nothing. The butterfly seemed to hang, motionless, above the bush.

  “The Earl of Bothwell is dead,” he said, with dull finality.

  She saw him reach out to take her hands, to comfort and steady her, then withdraw them. It was not his prerogative to touch her.

  “I received word this morning from Cecil. King Frederick had informed them as soon as he was notified by the authorities in the pri—at Dragsholm,” he continued.

  Everything seemed to pass under a great stilling hand. Everything stopped. Even though the butterfly’s wings quivered and it swooped gently down and alighted at last, it seemed no real movement. It was nothing at all.

  “How did he—die?” Mary asked.

  I said these words before. I said, How did he … in what manner was he mortally injured? And the boy told me and I died then too. At Jedburgh, so many years ago. But he was not dead, he was not, and by some providence he was restored to me, restored and then our life together truly began.… Can there be two restorations? Or was the first only a dream as well?

  “Peacefully, my lady. Peacefully in his sleep. When his guards brought his food, they found him stretched out on his bed, a smile on his face.”

  Thank God, thank God, thank God.… “Had he been ill?” she asked, in a small voice.

  “Not that anyone knew, no.”

  “Is he … has he been buried yet?”

  Those words, those words, the same questions, and now I must hear another answer, another answer. He must be sent here, here, where I can
visit his tomb.

  “Yes, he was buried in a little church near Dragsholm.”

  She gave a cry. He was gone, taken. She could have no part in his funeral, or even behold his tomb.

  Shrewsbury could not help himself; he broke protocol and put his arms around her, holding her as she shook with sobs.

  “Comfort yourself, my lady,” he said. “He did not suffer. He was well treated, well fed and looked after. His quarters were near his beloved sea, and he is buried where he can hear its roar. He can hear the sea singing for eternity.”

  May 15, Anno Domini 1578. I sit here, holding the pen, staring at the paper, about to write the words, but not able to. To write them is to fix them and make them real. Not to write them is to have to carry them in my mind every second. If I write them, will it lift the burden? Or will it double it, the knowledge now being contained in two places?

  Eleven years ago, this was my wedding day to my Lord Bothwell. We lived together as man and wife only one month. The rest of our marriage—ten years and eleven months—we have been separated, lying in different prisons, in different countries, held for no legal reason, save that we are who we are. We vowed to be faithful unto death, and now it has come, and we are sundered forever.

  My lord and love and husband, James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, is dead.

  There. I have written it.

  But it does not make me feel better, it lifts nothing.

  Shrewsbury told me two days ago. He came and spoke to me himself. He was very gentle and I could see that it distressed him, but I am thankful he had the courage to do it. It is true, it has been confirmed by Denmark. He said Bothwell left no personal effects, and there was nothing he could bequeath me. He said he did not suffer, but died in his sleep.

  How could Bothwell die in his sleep? I cannot imagine that he would be so meek, I always thought he would meet Death like a warrior. But Death is a sly knave and takes us unawares. He delights in cheating us of the end we have planned for ourselves. To warriors he imposes a sleep-drugged departure, to the trusting, a cup of poison or a knife in the back, to the robust, a wasting away; to the man of words, silence. Martyrs at the stake hope for brave words and a good example, but often they are robbed of it and perish ignominiously, or even recant and thereby refute their lives.

  Bothwell is dead.

  Can he see me now? Is he nearby, in this room, watching? Has his spirit, freed now from prison, flown here? O, would that it were true!

  When Shrewsbury told me, I felt a creeping cold paralysis come over me, as if the very life in my own limbs was stopped. My teeth started chattering, even though it was a warm spring day. Death himself has an icy grip, fingers of icicles, hands of leaden cold, and I felt his presence around me and in me. I took to my bed, and lay there, staring, shaking.

  It was as it had been at Jedburgh long ago, when my life was despaired of. Then I also lay cold and immobile, and worsening by the moment. Would that I had died at Jedburgh!

  But instead God spared me for all this misery. I have only had a few happy moments since, and most of them with Bothwell. Now he is gone, and we shall never see each other again upon this earth.

  Does he see me now? Will I see him again, when I am dead?

  The shadowless sun of high noon lies over the land which I see from my window. Death seems most pitiless in the bright daylight. At dusk, at midnight—then, perhaps, I shall write more. I cannot bear it now.

  The household sleeps, and I have the little candle over my bedstead lighted. I am writing in bed, a difficult thing to do, but I do not want to leave it. I feel safe only here in bed. The window is open and a cool wind steals in, touching me with a chill certainty. Now Death is at home; this is his hour. I should welcome him, sing Ronsard’s “Hymn to Death.” If I welcome him, will he be kind to me? Will he grant me the presence of my beloved, release him from his silent grip, and let him slip away to my side?

  Death is the crudest gaoler. There is no bribing him, no persuading him, and he never softens.… O Death, please, just one moment … I lost him once before to you, and you relinquished him into my keeping. Do so again!

  I felt the presence of my husband in this room calling me, bidding me rise up from the bed and follow him. But when I felt it, never was I more afraid. I told myself it was only Bothwell, Bothwell who would never harm me, but somehow Death might have changed him into something else, and that I could not bear. And so I waited, my knees drawn up, my arms around them, trying to get either the courage to follow the calling or the sense that it was all my imagination, and calm myself. But I could do neither. He was here, he called, but I was frozen and could not move. I saw nothing; there was no movement; the presence was speaking directly to me, inside my own mind.

  Bothwell, I failed you. Forgive me. I am mortal, and afraid.

  She closed the book gently. She was frightened, badly frightened. Her heart was pounding, even after writing the words in her journal. She had thought it would calm her and it did, after a fashion. But the room and its horrible darkness were oppressive, closed—like a tomb itself. She did not want to stay in bed, where she would either lie rigid and sleepless all night, or be haunted by nightmares.

  She made her way slowly and carefully over to the chair by the fireplace where Mary Seton usually kept a shawl to wrap around her shoulders. It was indeed there, and she draped it around herself and made her way to the doors of her outer chamber. Her bare feet made no sound on the floors, which were not cold enough to warrant her returning to her bedside and searching for her slippers. She decided to seek out the private chapel to pray. There the dark would not seem so threatening.

  As she entered an adjoining chamber, she was surprised to see a glow of light from yet another connecting room, and to hear the faint sound of men’s voices. She had thought everyone was asleep. Were the guards bored and restless on this warm spring night?

  Above all, she did not wish them to see her; she wanted to be alone! She tiptoed up to the doorway, planning to cross it stealthily, when she heard the word: Bothwell.

  She stopped as if a rock had been thrown at her. His name, his name itself seemed to crash all around her. It was as if no one but she had permission to use it.

  How dare they? was her quick, angry response. She stood stunned.

  “Been dead for days, they said,” a familiar voice was saying.

  “Who found him, anyway?”

  “Some boy who changes the straw. They had him so isolated in that dungeon that nobody came near him normally.” It was Babington—Anthony Babington’s voice! “He had completely lost his wits, and lived chained up like an animal. But then, I suppose it was the dark that did it. Locked up in the dark for five years!”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have a friend who assists Cecil in his correspondence. It’s being whispered about court to all concerned—everyone but Queen Mary. Poor lady, who would have added to her sorrows?” said Babington. “Shrewsbury pretended he died peacefully in a comfortable bed. ’Tis better that way.”

  “But what exactly happened to him?” the other voice persisted.

  “I told you, they just found him dead! Sitting up and stiff! But he had gone mad long before that. They say”—the voice grew low and confidential, and Mary had to hold her breath in order to hear the words—“he used to struggle and dash himself against the restraining post. But that was in the beginning. In the end, he had been utterly and completely abandoned, and he sat still. They say he was all overgrown with hair and filth—”

  Mary ran back to her chambers, clutching at her head as if that would drive out the pain and banish the words.

  O my love, I cannot bear this knowledge. She wept as she ran, bowed by desolation. I cannot, I cannot. Would that I had died in your stead! My love, my life, my soul!

  XV

  July 15, Anno Domini 1579. Saint Swithin’s Day. They have a belief here, that if it rains on Saint Swithin’s Day, it will rain for forty days. It has something to do with there being a downpo
ur when the saint’s body was moved on that day against his wishes, back in the year 971. They have many charming beliefs like that here. Anthony Babington told me this morning about this one, when everyone awakened to driving rain.

  When it rains here, it can rain in astonishing torrents. The heavens turn black, the skies rumble, and sheets of it come down, so much the earth cannot absorb it all. It fills the gulleys with swirling streams and turns the roads into mires. Here at Sheffield Manor, where we spend the summers, the sound of the rain on all the great oaks of the park sounds like spears rattling on Roman soldiers’ shields.

  Anthony came to bid me farewell. Another person leaves my life, a person I cared for. One by one they all leave. It is right that Anthony do so; he is a young man, ready now to go out into the world.

  “I am going to London,” he said. “I have come into my inheritance, as you know, and it is a tidy one. But I will never desert my principles, dear sovereign, nor abandon you or the True Faith. In fact, I look for a Catholic wife. It is time.”

  I looked at him; he was even more handsome than he had been as a boy, and any woman would find him an attractive match. His father being dead, he was much freer than most to make his own choice.

  “I will miss you, Anthony,” I could not help saying. The eternal voice of the left-behind. “But it comforts me to know you will be true to the Church. God knows, it is becoming more and more difficult.”

  “Yes, and more than that—I may be able to help actively,” he said. “There are plans afoot…”

  “Hush, Anthony,” I said. “Do not mix yourself up in them. Not now.” Live a little first, I meant, do not risk your life before you have tasted it.

  He looked disappointed. If he had thought I would applaud his plans, he was wrong. It is becoming more and more dangerous to dabble in this. Since my arrival in England, things have become much more tense for the Catholics. Elizabeth evidently hoped that once the old priests died out, Catholicism would die along with them. But some stubborn exiles set up a Catholic seminary in Douai with the express purpose of training new priests; since 1575 these have been sneaking into England, and suddenly many of the secret Catholics who went obediently to Anglican services have stopped going, and young people are being reconverted. The renegade priests slip from house to house, saying mass, hearing confessions, preaching sermons. The old Catholic families, like Anthony’s, have formed a secret network of houses where the priests can hide. There has even developed a profession of carpenters and masons who specialize in constructing ingenious hiding places for the priests. Like any forbidden thing, Catholicism now has become attractive for rebellious, adventurous youth. Oxford is particularly Catholic-leaning.