Jean looked at him sharply. She knew that the servants were looking too. She was aware of suppressed laughter. Knowing the Earl, and understanding Bessie, there was only one conclusion to be drawn.
She said nothing to her husband, but mentioning that she had work for them to do, she commanded the servants whom she would need, to accompany her to the kitchens where she wished to make arrangements for that night’s supper.
Half an hour later she returned to the sewing room where Bessie—the dust brushed from her dress and her hands clean—was diligently working.
“Oh, Bessie,” said Jean, “your father lives in the smithy outside Haddington town, I believe.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
“That is fortunate for you. Gather your things together and go to him immediately.”
“Go… m’lady?”
“Yes, Bessie. I find that I no longer require your services.”
Bessie blushed and stammered, then burst into tears. To leave this wonderful house, to live in her father’s wretched smithy, to help at the anvil instead of doing fine needlework, to have as a lover some village lout instead of the great Earl of Bothwell—it was too much to be borne!
“Now, Bessie, it is no use weeping. Get ready. Go at once. I shall expect you to be gone in an hour.”
There was nothing Bessie could do but obey.
Bothwell shrugged his shoulders when he heard what had happened. Then he burst out laughing.
“So you’re jealous, eh?” he said. “Jealous of a sewing girl!”
“Not jealous,” his wife replied. “Pray visit her if you wish. I have no objection now that she will be no longer here. It is merely that I cannot have you making demands on her time when she is working for me.”
He was astonished. He had never known such a woman.
After that he had Bessie brought to him on one or two occasions. The tradesmen of the town were obliging, providing rooms where they could meet, and carrying messages to and from the smithy; but he grew tired of such arrangements. His lust always demanded satisfaction without delay. By the time matters could be arranged his ardor had cooled or been slaked elsewhere.
So … he returned to Edinburgh.
IT WAS Saturday evening. The March winds howled down the great chimneys as the Queen was taking supper in the small closet next to her bedroom. She was in her sixth month of pregnancy and her physicians had advised her to fortify her strength by eating meat although this was the Lenten season; they had also prescribed quiet for the royal patient. The servants were hurrying into the closet with dishes of meat which they set on the small table. Mary was reclining on a couch and beside her were her bastard sister Jane, Countess of Argyle, and her bastard brother, Lord Robert Stuart. It was a small party in view of the doctor’s advice, and the Lord of Creich her master of the household, Arthur Erskine, her equerry, the Queens doctor, David Rizzio and a few servants completed it.
The beef was delicious, and with it they drank French wine.
“This wine always reminds me of Chenonceaux,” said Mary wistfully. “Oh, what happy days they were!”
“Would Your Grace go back?” asked Robert.
“Nay, brother. If I went back I should have to return again by the same road, and at times I found the going tedious.”
“Signor Davie looks grand this night,” said the Countess.
David looked down at his damask gown which was trimmed with rich fur. His doublet was made of best satin; and his hose were of russet velvet. There was a fine feather in his cap, and about his neck hung a great ruby, a gift from the Queen.
“Yes, Davie,” said Mary, “’tis true.”
“I should consider it an insult to Your Majesty to appear clad in anything but the best I could assemble,” said David.
“You are right, Davie,” said the Queen. “I like not drab garments. Sing us something of France, please. I have a longing to hear French songs tonight. Master Erskine, I beg of you pass Davie his guitar.” She turned to one of the serving men. “Can you pull the curtains a little closer? There is a draft.”
“The wind is fierce tonight, Madam,” said the Lord of Creich.
The servant had gone to the window. For a few seconds he looked out and saw figures moving about below. They were numerous and they were in steel bonnets, with guns, swords, Jedburgh staves and bucklers.
What were these men doing out there? He had heard of no reason why they should be there. They might be troopers. What was afoot tonight? Some exercise, he supposed. He would have mentioned it to the company but, as he turned from the window, Signor David was already playing his guitar and his rich voice was filling the small chamber.
When the song was ended, the servant left the apartment. He was going to make sure that he had interpreted correctly what he had seen. He quickly discovered that there were many—possibly more than a hundred—armed men stationed about the palace.
Almost as soon as he had gone, the door which led to the private staircase was opened and Darnley came in. Mary frowned. He appeared to have been drinking. He came to where she sat and slumped on the couch beside her; he laid a hot hand on her arm.
“Have you had your supper?” she asked coldly.
The company had become silent and tense, waiting for one of those scenes which seemed now inevitable when the Queen and her husband were together.
Darnley had not answered her, and suddenly all except the Queen had risen to their feet, for, standing in the doorway through which Darnley had just come, was Lord Ruthven. His face was yellow above his gleaming armor; his hair was wild and there was a look of death on his face. For a moment they thought they were seeing Ruthven’s ghost, as they knew he was near to death and not expected to leave his bed again; moreover he had always been suspected of having magical powers.
No one spoke in those frightening first moments as Ruthven’s hollow eyes ranged about the room and came to rest on David Rizzio.
Then Mary saw that Ruthven was not alone. Behind him, through the narrow doorway she caught glimpses of Morton, Lindsay, Kerr and others. Ruthven suddenly lifted his hand and pointed to David.
“Come out, David,” he said slowly. “You are wanted without.”
David did not move. His great eyes seemed to have grown still larger; his trembling hand reached for the Queens skirt.
Ruthven began to shout: “Come out, David Rizzio. Come out from the Queens chamber. You have been there too long.”
Mary stood up and confronted Ruthven. “How dare you, my lord, thus come into my chamber? How dare you! You shall pay dearly for this. What means this intrusion? Who are those who follow you here? Why have you comer
“We come for David Rizzio, Madam.”
“Then go away,” commanded the Queen. “If David is here it is my wish that he should be.” She turned fiercely to Darnley: “What means this outrage, my lord? Do you know aught of this?”
Darnley did not reply for a second or so. Then he mumbled: “N-No. But it is a dishonor that David should sup with you, and your husband be kept out.”
Ruthven caught the hangings to prevent himself falling from exhaustion. Mary looked around at the terrified company. Catching her look, Erskine and the Lord of Creich started forward. Ruthven cried in a hollow voice: “Let no one touch me. They will regret it.” He looked supernatural in that moment, and the two men stood where they were as though held there by Ruthven’s uncanny powers.
Mary cried out: “Leave at once! Go! I command you to go.”
“I have come for Rizzio,” persisted the grim-faced Ruthven. And with those words he unsheathed his dagger.
It was the signal. His accomplices rushed into the chamber.
Rizzio gave a great cry and, falling to the floor, gripped Marys skirts and tried to hide himself in their folds. Dishes were swept aside; the table toppled over. The Countess of Argyle picked up the candelabra in time and held it high above her head.
Mary felt the child protest within her; nauseated, she tried not to faint. Rizzio was clinging to her and she m
ade an effort to put herself between him and those men who, she knew, had come to kill him.
George Douglas had twisted Rizzio’s arm so that, with a cry of pain, he released his grip on Mary’s gown.
She saw their faces vaguely, distorted with bloodlust, and the desire to kill not only Rizzio, she believed, but herself and the child she carried.
“Take the Queen,” someone said, and she saw Darnley close beside her. He put an arm about her and held her; she turned from him in revulsion just in time to see George Douglas snatch the dagger from Darnley’s belt and drive it into the cowering, shrieking Rizzio.
Hands were clutching the terrified David who was bleeding from the wound. She watched him as they dragged him across the floor, and his terrified eyes never left her face. She stretched out her arms to him.
“Oh, Davie… Davie …,” she sobbed. “They are killing you, Davie. They are killing us both. Where are my friends? Is this the way to treat the Queen?”
“Be quiet!” hissed Kerr. “If you are not, I shall be forced to cut you into collops.”
She could hear the shrieks in the next chamber to which they had dragged David; she heard the hideous thud of blows. She heard the death agonies of David.
“His blood shall cost you dear!” she cried; and she slid to the floor in a faint.
WHEN MARY came out of the swoon she was aware of Darnley beside her, supporting her. For a moment she was uncertain what had happened to shock her so; then the sight of the room in the light from the candelabra showed her the upturned table, the spilled food and wine and the carpet soaked with David’s blood.
She turned to Darnley and cried out in anguish: “You are the cause of this. Why have you allowed this wicked deed to be done? I took you from low estate and made you my husband. What have I ever done that you should use me thus?”
“I will tell you, Madam,” cried Darnley. She saw his shifty bloodshot eyes; she smelled the wine on his breath and she knew he was not entirely sober. “Since yonder fellow David came into credit and familiarity with you, you have had little time to spare for me. I have been shut from your thoughts and your chamber. You were with David far into the night.”
“It was because you had failed me.”
“In what way? Am I failed in any sort in my body? There was a time when you were so eager for me that you came to my chamber. What disdain have you for me since you favored David? What offense have I committed that you should be coy with me? You have listened to David and he spoke against me.”
“My lord, all that I have suffered this night is your doing, for the which I shall no longer be your wife, nor lie with you anymore. I shall never rest content until I have made you suffer as you have made me suffer this night.”
She could not bear to look at him. She covered her face with her hands and wept bitterly.
Ruthven returned to the chamber.
He said: “His lordship is Your Majesty’s husband, and you must be dutiful one to the other.” As he spoke he sank into a chair from very exhaustion and called for wine to revive him.
Mary went to him and stood over him. “My lord,” she cried, “if my child or I should die through this night’s work, you will not escape your just reward. I have powerful friends. There are my kinsmen of Lorraine; there is the Pope and the King of Spain. Do not think you shall escape justice.”
Ruthven grasped the cup which was offered to him. He smiled grimly as he said: “Madam, these you speak of are overgreat princes to concern themselves with such a poor man as myself.”
Mary stood back from him. She understood his meaning. He was implying that they were too great to concern themselves with the troubles of a queen of a remote country, who could be of little use to them when her nobles had rendered her powerless.
Mary was seized with a great trembling then; for she realized that the folly of Darnley had, by this night’s work, frustrated all her careful plans; all her triumphs of the last months were as nothing now.
Others were hurrying into the room. She saw the mighty figure of Bothwell among them, and her spirits lifted. Rogue he might be, but he was a loyal rogue. With him were Huntley and Maitland of whom she was not quite certain, but could not believe they were entirely against her.
Bothwell cried: “What means this? Who dares lay hands on the Queen?” He seized Ruthven and pulled the dying man to his feet.
“What has been done has been done with the consent of the King,” said Ruthven. “I have a paper here which bears his signature.”
Bothwell seized it. Mary watching, saw the change in his expression and that of Huntley. They at least were outside this diabolical plot.
Morton, who was with them, cried: “The palace is full of those who have had a share in this night’s work.”
Mary’s eyes were fixed on Bothwell, but at that moment there came a shouting from below. The townsfolk of Edinburgh had heard that something was amiss in the palace and had come demanding to see the Queen.
With a sob of relief Mary dashed to the window, but Kerr’s strong arms were about her. She felt his sword pressed against her side while he repeated his threat to cut her into collops if she opened her mouth.
Ruthven signed to Darnley. “To the window. Tell them that the Queen is well. Tell them that this is nothing but a quarrel among the French servants.”
“Henry!” cried Mary. “Do no such thing.”
But Kerr’s hand was over her mouth.
Darnley, alarmed and uncertain, looking from the Queen to Morton and his followers, seeing the murderous light in Morton’s eyes, remembering the groaning, blood-spattered David, allowed himself to be led to the window.
“Good people,” he cried, “there is naught wrong in the palace but some dispute among the French servants. ’Tis over now.”
He turned and looked at Mary’s stricken face. This was the last act of treachery. He was completely against her now.
She looked for Bothwell and Huntley among those who had filled the small chamber. They had disappeared. Maitland had left too. His loyalty was doubtful but she could have trusted his courtesy and gentleness.
She realized then that she was alone with her enemies. Nausea swept over her; the child leaped within her; and once again on that terrible night, she fell fainting to the floor.
THROUGH THE long night she lay sleepless. What now? she asked herself.
There were only a few women in her bedchamber. One of these was old Lady Huntley—Bothwell’s mother-in-law. The others had been appointed by her enemies, and her Marys were absent. There was no one to help her then.
She struggled up and Lady Huntley came to her.
“Where are my women?” she asked. “I wish to get up immediately. I wish to leave the palace.”
“Your Majesty,” whispered Lady Huntley, “that you cannot do. The palace is surrounded by the armed men of your enemies. My son and Lord Bothwell have left Edinburgh in haste. They could do nothing by staying. It would have been certain death. They were here alone, as you know, with few of their men and only a few servants to do their bidding.”
“So I am a prisoner here? But what of the people of Edinburgh? They will come to my assistance. I know it.”
“Your Majesty, they cannot do so. The King has issued a proclamation. He has dissolved Parliament and commanded all burgesses, prelates, peers and barons to leave Edinburgh immediately. The tocsins are sounding.”
“This is a terrible thing that has come upon me,” said Mary. “Is there no man in Scotland on whom I can rely?”
“There are my son, Your Majesty, and my son-in-law.”
“They ran away, did they not, when they scented danger?”
“Only because they can serve you better alive than dead. They have hurried away to muster forces to come to your aid.”
“Many have deceived me,” said Mary. “I trust no one.”
She turned wearily on her side and, being aware of the child, a sudden courage came to her, reminding her that it was not for herself alone she must fi
ght.
The child! She would fight for the child. And in a flash of inspiration she realized that the child might give her the help she needed. They could not deny her a midwife, could they? They could be made to believe that the terrible events of last night had brought about a miscarriage.
She was excited now.
Who could help her in this? Lady Huntley. She was old but she could play her part. Who else… when the palace was held by her enemies?
But there was one of uncertain loyalty. There was a foolish, gullible one. There was one whose craven mind she understood—her husband, Lord Darnley.
She said to Lady Huntley: “They cannot object to my seeing my husband, can they? Go at once and see if you can bring him to me. Tell him that he will find a submissive wife if he will but come to me.”
Darnley came, and as she looked at him, her hope sprang up afresh. He was afraid; he was afraid of her and he was afraid of the lords who—now that the murder was done and done in his name—had hinted that he would do as they bade him.
“My lord …,” said Mary, stretching out her hand.
He took it hesitantly.
“What is this terrible thing which has come between us?” she asked. “What has made you take the side of my enemies against me?”
“It was David,” he said sullenly. “David came between us. He has been your lover. Was I to endure that?”
“Henry, you have allowed these men to play you false. They have tricked you. You must see this now. How have they treated you since the deed was done? They command you to obey them. This was no murder of jealousy. This was a political murder. They wanted David out of the way because David knew how to make us great… us, you too, Henry… you who would have been my King. This was not done because you or they imagined David to be my lover. That was how they used you and how they will continue to use you if you allow them. They promised to make you King, but they will make you powerless. And when my brother returns, they will find some means of dispatching you … as they have dispatched David.”
Darnley’s teeth began to chatter. He was wavering. When he listened to Morton he believed Morton; but now Mary’s version of the motives of these men seemed plausible. They had ordered him to dismiss Parliament. Last night they had ordered him to speak to the people of Edinburgh. He had had no say in either matter. Already he could see the gleam in Ruthven’s eyes; he could see Morton’s tight, cruel lips sneering at him.
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