Royal Road to Fotheringhay

by Виктория Холт

  He was frantic. He began to make plans. He would get into touch with the Pope; he would write to Philip of Spain. After all, was he not a good Catholic—a better Catholic than Mary with her talk of tolerance? Good Catholics did not talk of tolerance. Why should he not procure the support of the Catholic world? Why should he not usurp Mary’s throne? Perhaps one day he would be King, not only of Scotland but of England as well. Moreover he was the father of the undisputed heir.

  Lennox, his father, was alarmed on hearing of his plans—for Darnley had to confide in someone, and the only person whom he could trust was his father.

  “But, my son,” said the Earl of Lennox, “this is ridiculous. The Pope would not aid you, and the King of Spain is a cautious man. He would not support a rebel such as you would be.”

  “A rebel! I am the King.”

  “In name only. The Crown Matrimonial has never been bestowed on you.”

  “It is so unjust. I was promised. And first Rizzio frustrated me… and now it is Moray and Bothwell. Maitland is back. My old enemy. He will kill me. I know he will. He will bring the murderer Morton back, and together they will kill me.”

  Lennox, in great agitation on account of his son’s hysteria, wrote to the Queen telling her that Darnley proposed leaving Scotland for Spain.

  Mary sent for her husband. He came, ill at ease.

  “What are these wild plans of yours?” she demanded.

  “I shall not tell you.”

  “Henry, I insist.”

  “Why should I stay here?” he screamed. “What am I? You only want me to stay because you fear the scandal my departure would give rise to. Take me back. I demand to be taken back. I wish to be your husband in very truth. Let me stay with you, share your bed and board. Then you shall not have a more faithful servant.” He threw himself at her and tried to put his arms about her. She drew back in disgust.

  “Mary… Mary,” he pleaded. “You used to love me. You used to come to my chamber because, you said, you wanted us to be alone even if it was only for a little while.”

  She pushed him away. She hated to remember those times; and even now she was comparing him with another. She would never allow Darnley to touch her.

  She said: “If you attempt to put your hands on me I shall call the guards.”

  He whimpered: “What have I done? How have I changed? You used to be eager for me.”

  “If you say that again you will regret it.”

  “But I will say it… I will!”

  “Go quietly now or I shall call the guards. In the morning you may state your case before the lords of the Court.”

  He had no help for it but to go; and in the morning he faced them nervously—Moray and Maitland among them, those two who hated him and he believed sought to destroy him, those two who would not be satisfied until they had brought his enemies back to Court.

  Moray did not intend to spare him, nor did Maitland. The cold eyes of Moray, the sarcastic ones of Maitland frightened him. He scraped his feet on the floor and scowled at his toes.

  Why was he going to run away? they demanded.

  He did not know. He wanted to leave Scotland, that was all. He did not now think he would go after all. It was just to make the Queen understand how badly she treated her husband.

  “It would be a treasonable act,” said Moray, “to leave Scotland for Spain. For what purpose did you intend to go?”

  “To … to bring the Queen back to her duty…. To be received back in her favor….”

  “It is hardly the way,” said Maitland suavely, “to win the Queen’s favor—by playing traitor to her.”

  “I am not a traitor. I am no traitor!” screamed Darnley.

  Mary could bear no more. There was nothing she wanted so much as to be rid of Darnley. She was filled with shame whenever she was forced to look at him.

  She said: “If he gives his word not to leave Scotland, we will pardon him… providing he returns to his fathers castle… and stays there.”

  Darnley’s face was white with rage, but he trembled with fear as he turned from the watching group and, shouting: “Goodbye, Madam. You shall not see my face for a long time!” He hurried away.

  IT WAS OCTOBER and the mist lay thick across the land, when news came of Border fighting near the town of Jedburgh. Bothwell left Court and galloped south at the head of his men.

  Mary was desolate. She had begged him to let someone else go, for she could not exist without him; but he had laughed at the idea. The Border was his domain. If there were trouble there, who should be at hand but Bothwell? Then she began to understand the difference in their passion. She realized that she did not mean as much to him as he did to her.

  He wanted to ride away. The excitement of battle called him as lust had called him in the room at the Exchequer House.

  She was frantic with anxiety and jealousy. He would doubtless call at one of his castles before returning, and he would see his wife. She visualized Jean Gordon—not exactly a comely woman—oval face, sandy hair, and the long Gordon nose; yet it was said that in the early days of his marriage Bothwell had been more faithful to Jean Gordon than to any woman.

  But not now, she assured herself. He would come straight back to the Court. He must. Why had she not made him promise not to go to his home? Because one did not, she had also realized, command Bothwell in such matters. She knew that to have asked him not to visit Jean would have put it into his mind to do so. But if he was not the man to make such promises, neither was he the man to deceive her. If he had thought of seeing Jean he would have boldly said so. It was his arrogant and most disconcerting boldness that she loved. These were a symbol of his independence. It showed her clearly that she, the Queen, needed him, more than he needed her.

  How long would he stay? Until he wished to return?

  Why did I let him go? she asked herself. The answer was: You could do no other. None could hold Bothwell against his wish.

  With what joy she discovered that there was an assize at Jedburgh which she should attend! With what joy she set out on the journey!

  She had a perfectly reasonable excuse for going to him, for her duties as Queen demanded her presence in Jedburgh. Fate was being good to her at last.

  Seton watched her with some anxiety as they set out.

  Never, thought Seton, had she looked so beautiful. She had changed since her association with Bothwell; she had become feverishly gay. But would it last? wondered Seton. Bothwell was not the man she would have chosen for Mary. There was no tenderness in him; there was instead a ruthlessness and a primitive appetite. What did he really feel for Mary beyond his lust? There were times when Seton thought she would like to seek the peace of a nunnery because the outside world made her so unhappy.

  Meanwhile they rode toward Jedburgh, but before they reached that town the news was brought to them. Mary saw the man as he rode toward them and her heart leaped, for she knew him as one of Bothwell’s men.

  “What news?” she cried. “What news?”

  “Bad news, Your Majesty.”

  Her hand tightened on her reins. “Bothwell?” she gasped.

  It seemed as though the man took a long time to answer. “It was John Elliot of the Park… the notorious highwayman, Your Majesty. My lord heard that he was in the neighborhood and went out to get him. The highwayman was wounded, but… not seriously…. He turned on my lord and—”

  “And… killed him?” murmured Mary.

  Seton was beside her, her gentle eyes pleading: Not here … do not betray yourself here before these people. You loved him…. He was everything to you… but do not betray yourself here before these witnesses.

  “So Bothwell is killed,” said Mary blankly. She looked at Seton, pleading for help. I am lost. I care for nothing. I wish it were I who had died.

  Seton said: “It is a great shock. Her Majesty has not been well of late. I think we should rest here for a while before continuing our journey.”

  Seton escorted her to the chamber which had b
een prepared for her and lay down beside her on the bed, putting her arms about her; they did not weep; they lay close together while Seton stroked the Queens hair. At length the Queen said: “There is nothing to live for, Seton. I wish that I were dead.”

  SHE DID NOT KNOW how she sat through the assize. She supposed she conducted herself with outward calm, for none seemed to realize the tumult within her. The strain was so great that at times she seemed near to fainting. The old gnawing pain was back in her side.

  She was lenient as she always was with offenders. She wanted to help all those who suffered. And all the time she was thinking: I wish I were dead instead of him. How I wish it was I who died.

  When the assize was over there came a messenger from Bothwell’s Castle of Hermitage. He was not dead, said the messenger, though so seriously wounded that death seemed inevitable. Then she was filled with hope. She would go to him at once. She would make him live. She tried to hide her joy; she said calmly: “He has received his hurt in my service, and I myself must see that all that can be done for his comfort shall be done.”

  So she set out from Jedburgh to the Castle of Hermitage, and there she saw him. He was wounded in the thigh, the head and one of his hands; and so severe were these wounds that they would have killed an ordinary man. But he bore them with ease. He lay looking at her, and the old insolent look was in his eyes. They seemed to grin at her below the bandage.

  “Thank God you are alive!” cried Mary.

  Even as she spoke she fell fainting to the floor. The strain of the last few days had been too much for her. She had sat through the assizes believing her lover dead; she had not been allowed to show her grief because their union was not a regular one, and the need for secrecy had made her burden the harder to bear. And now that she saw him lying very badly wounded, yet still with more vitality than that of ordinary men, now that she knew she might not lose him, the tension snapped. In the days that followed she was as near death as he was.

  SHE LAY AT Jedburgh in the house of Lady Fernyhirst whither she had been carried in a litter, and a terrible melancholy filled her.

  I love him, she mused, but what am I to him? One of the thousands who have amused him for a while. I, who am a queen, am but a light woman to him.

  She had a husband; he had a wife. What hope was there that they could ever marry? Marriage with him was what Mary desired beyond all things. Only that could comfort her and give her peace. She longed to end her adulterous association, but she could only end it by making it legal.

  During those days at Jedburgh she believed she was dying. So did Moray. He began helping himself to some of the precious silver in Holyrood. For more than a week she lay close to death. Bothwell was brought to the same house, but although he had been severely wounded, owing to his amazing vitality, there was no doubt after the first days that he would live.

  Mary lay in the room above his, thinking of him constantly while John Hume, her player on the lute, and James Heron, her player on the pipe tried to beguile her with sweet music. But the music no longer charmed; she could only think of Darnley and Jean Gordon who stood between her and her lover. She planned the new dress she would have when she rose from her bed; it should contain twenty ells of red silk, four ells of taffaty and three ells of finest black velvet; there should be twenty ells of royal Scotch plaid. But what was the use? Such delights could no longer hold her attention.

  Darnley came to see her. He was sulky. He had been sending letters abroad. He had reminded Philip that Mary’s friends were Moray, Bothwell and Maitland, who were all Protestants. It was Moray who was doing much harm to the Catholic cause in Scotland. Philip would readily understand how different matters would be if Darnley were King and Mary had no power to harm the Church.

  He did not care so much that she turned away from him. She would rarely speak to him. She had not wished him to come, she implied. Soon he rode away. There were other women in the world besides Mary; and his head was teeming with plans for his own greatness.

  When Mary rose from her bed she went to visit Bothwell. He was unable to move, for the wound in his thigh had not yet healed.

  “Ah,” he said, when he saw her, “so we both came to grief, eh?”

  “I thought you were dead,” she answered quietly. “They told me so.”

  “It would take more than John Elliot to finish me. I’ll be up and about as soon as my flesh heals.”

  “And what of your head?” she asked. She lifted the bandage and looked at the head wound. She shivered. “My dearest… I cannot bear to think what might so easily have happened.”

  He took her hand and kissed it. “I am out of action,” he said. “’Tis a pity.”

  “You will soon be well. I shall nurse you myself.”

  “Mayhap I should go to Jean for the nursing.”

  Mary’s face flamed. “That shall not be. I shall nurse you.”

  He grinned.

  “Did you go to Crichton?” she demanded. “Did you see her?”

  “I did.”

  “And did you …?”

  That made him laugh. “I declare I shall break open my wounds afresh if you say such things.”

  “Did you? Did you?” she cried.

  “My dear Queen, what do you think? I am her husband, am I not? It is long since I saw her.”

  Mary’s eyes filled with tears of rage and jealousy.

  “Sometimes I wonder how I can go on loving you.”

  “You should not wonder. It is very clear why you do. Now you must not be jealous. She is my wife; you are my mistress. I am content that it should be so.”

  “But I am not!”

  “Alas, how can you change it? By breaking away from me, of course. You could do that.”

  “You do not care.”

  “You will see. As soon as I am on my feet we will meet again in the Exchequer House as we did on that first encounter.”

  “You should not have gone to Crichton,” she insisted.

  He only shrugged his shoulders.

  “You have a greater regard for her than for me!” she went on. “Yet I hear that she has no great love for you. She wanted Alexander Ogilvie. She preferred him to you and yet… you go to see her!”

  “I like her,” he said quietly. “I’m fond of her. There’s no one quite like Jeannie.”

  “And there are many like the Queen!”

  “No. There is only one Queen and only one Jeannie. I am fond of them both.”

  “But I… can give you so much more than she can.”

  “What?”

  “My love… myself… my honor… my …” She put her arms about his neck. “Please … do not be so cynical. You must love me. How can you go to her… when you know my feelings?”

  “She might ask, How can I go to you… and with more reason. What can she give more than you can, you ask. She could give me children.”

  “Could I not?”

  “Not legitimate ones. So you see, she can give more than you can. You are two women. You have two eyes, a nose, a mouth, two arms, two breasts …”

  “Be silent!” cried Mary, tense with emotion. Then she added: “There is one thing I could give you which she never can. A crown.”

  A flame leaped into his eyes, the only sign that she had touched his smoldering ambition. She knew—and he knew—that nothing would ever be quite the same between them again.

  MARY SAT ALONE in her chamber. She, with her nobles about her, had left Jedburgh and was traveling by stages to Edinburgh. Bothwell, now well enough to travel, was with them. The wound in his thigh was healed, and that was all that he had been waiting for. His head was still bandaged, but he cared little for that if he could be on his feet again.

  They had rested at Craigmillar and it was in the castle there that Mary sat.

  She knew there were schemes in Bothwell’s head. She knew that his attitude toward her had changed in some ways. He was as lusty as ever; he had wished—as she had—to resume their passionate relationship. But there was something el
se. She had more to offer him than Jean Gordon had; she had said so and he had accepted that.

  She could not get Darnley out of her thoughts. Sometimes, in her dreams, she saw him lying on the floor in the supper chamber at Holyrood-house, clutching at her skirts; and as she turned shuddering from him, his face would change to that of David.

  “Holy Virgin,” she often prayed, “intercede for me. Let me die now, for I believe it were better so. I am an adulteress. Let me die before I sin more deeply.”

  The door of her chamber opened, and she thought it was her lover coming to her. But although Bothwell was there, he was not alone. With him were four of the lords—Moray, Maitland, Argyle and Huntley. They stood before her—five men, relentless in their struggle for power, and it was Maitland—the obvious choice as spokesman, suave and persuasive—who addressed her.

  He began: “Madam, much distress is caused, not only to you but to our country, through the evil conduct of one who can bring no good to any. I speak of your husband, Lord Darnley.”

  She bowed her head and, when she raised it, caught the burning eyes of Bothwell upon her.

  “It is known,” went on Maitland, “that he has tried to get into communication with Spain and Rome; and his object is to do harm to Your Majesty who has done nothing but good to him. Madam, shall you tolerate such conduct, even though it is that of your own husband?”

  “I am powerless to do otherwise. If we keep him under close surveillance, if we see that he does no real harm, it is the best that we can hope for.”

  “Not so, Your Majesty. If you will grant pardon to Lords Morton, Ruthven and the rest who are now in exile, we, your servants, shall find means of making a divorcement between you and your husband. This is necessary, not only for Your Grace’s comfort, but for that of the realm, for if he remains with Your Majesty, he will not rest until he has done you—and the country—some evil.”

  Mary saw her lovers eyes upon her. They were gleaming as they had gleamed at the time of the rape. But this time was it her body he desired to possess, or was it her crown? She tried to be calm. “I agree with what you say, my lord Maitland. But if there were a divorce it would have to be made lawful, and I could never agree to anything which would prejudice my son’s inheritance of the throne.”