Royal Road to Fotheringhay

by Виктория Холт

  “You make a bonny boy!” he said. And he slung her across his shoulder and carried her into Dunbar Castle.

  For the rest of that night she was ecstatically happy. Everything seemed worth while. They made love and afterward they made plans, and then made love again.

  He said at length: “We cannot remain here. We shall have to ride forth to meet them.”

  “We shall win, my dearest,” she cried. “We shall win and be happy together. You could not fail. Anything you desired you would win.”

  “Thrones are not such easy prey as queens.”

  “Queens are not easy prey,” she answered, “except for those whom they love. And to those whom Fortune loves, thrones may come more easily than the love of a queen.”

  He kissed her and they were fiercely passionate lovers again. She wondered whether it was because he feared there would be little time left for loving.

  SHE DETERMINED to ride with him at the head of the army.

  She had come to Dunbar dressed as a boy and there was none of her own garments at Dunbar Castle. No women’s clothes could be found for her except that of a citizen’s wife. She put on a red petticoat; and the sleeves of her bodice were tied with points; a black velvet hat and a scarf were found for her. And so, dressed as a tradesman’s wife—she rode out to meet those who had rebelled against her. Her spirits were high, for beside her rode Bothwell.

  The armies met at Musselburgh and the Queen’s encamped on Carberry Hill close to that spot where some twenty years before the famous battle of Pinkie Cleugh had been fought; but now that the two armies were face-to-face they both appeared reluctant to fight.

  For a whole day inactivity reigned, each side anxious not to have the sun facing them during battle, and now that they had come to the point, the rebels had no wish to fight against the Queen nor had the Queen to fight against her own subjects.

  So the long day passed—each side alert and waiting, watching each other from opposite hills across the little brook which flowed between them.

  In the afternoon Du Croc, the French ambassador, rode to the rebels and declared his readiness to act as mediator between the two forces.

  “We have not,” said Glencairn to the Frenchman, “come to ask pardon but to give it. If the Queen is willing to withdraw herself from the wretch who holds her captive, we will recognize her as our sovereign. If, on the other hand, Bothwell will come forth between the two armies and make good his boast that he will meet in single combat any who should declare he is the murderer of the King, we will produce a champion to meet him, and if he desires it another and another, ten or twelve.”

  “You cannot seriously mean me to lay these proposals before the Queen,” protested du Croc.

  “We will name no other,” said Glencairn, and Kirkcaldy and Morton joined with him in this. “We would rather be buried alive than not have the death of the King investigated.”

  Du Croc then went to the Queen. Bothwell was with her.

  He cried: “What is it that the lords are at?”

  Du Croc answered: “They declare themselves to be willing servants of the Queen but that they are your mortal foes.”

  “They are sick with envy,” said Bothwell. “They wish to stand in my place. Did they not all sign the bond promising to make good my cause and defend it with their lives and goods?”

  Mary said quickly: “I would have all know that I espouse my husband’s quarrel and consider it my own.”

  Du Croc then told her of the suggestion that Bothwell should engage a chosen champion in single combat. Mary looked fearful. She would not agree to that, she declared. There should be no single combat. What man was there on the other side who was of high enough rank to fight with her husband?

  “Unless this is done,” said du Croc, “there will be bitter fighting.”

  “Stay and see it,” said Bothwell. “I can promise you fine pastime, for there will be good fighting.”

  “I should be sorry to see it come to that for the sake of the Queen and for both armies.”

  “Why, man,” boasted Bothwell, “I shall win the day. I have four thousand men and three pieces of artillery. They have no artillery and only three thousand men.”

  “You have but yourself as general,” said du Croc. “Do not forget that with them are the finest soldiers in Scotland. Moreover there is some discontent I believe among your people.”

  When he had gone Bothwell and the Queen looked around them at their army and, to their dismay, they saw that du Croc had spoken the truth. Many of those who had marched behind her banner were now visibly deserting to the other side. They did not wish to serve under the banner of an adulteress and a woman who had, they all believed, had a hand in the murder of her husband.

  Bothwell then rode forward shouting: “Come forth! Come forth! Which of you will engage in single combat?”

  Kirkcaldy stepped forward.

  Terrified for her lover, Mary galloped up to his side.

  “I forbid it!” she cried. “There must be someone of rank equal to that of my husband. I will not have him demeaned by this combat.”

  Bothwell cried: “Let Lord Morton step forth. I will do battle with him.”

  But Morton had no wish for the fight. His friends rallied to his side and declared that such a man as himself must not face the danger of combat. He was worth a hundred such as Bothwell.

  Bothwell had no desire to fight any but Morton, and when others were offered he declined to accept them as opponents. And while this farce was in progress Mary saw with dismay that her force was dwindling so fast that there were scarcely sixty men left to support her cause.

  She asked that Kirkcaldy should come to her and, when he came, she asked him what terms he would give.

  “That you leave your husband, Madam, and the lords will submit to you.”

  “You mean that he will go free if I return to Edinburgh with you?”

  “Yes, Madam. Those are our conditions.”

  She looked about her in despair. Bothwell stood apart with a few—a very few—of his Borderers. She knew that there were two alternatives. She must part with her lover or see him slaughtered before her eyes. She asked that she might be allowed to speak to him.

  Drawing him aside she said: “We must part. It is the only way. You will be allowed to ride off with your men unmolested.”

  “And they will take you back to Edinburgh. For what, think you?”

  “I am their Queen. They will remember that. I shall force them to remember it.”

  “You place too much trust in them.”

  “I can do nothing else.”

  “Mount your horse. Pretend to bid me farewell… and then … we will gallop off to Dunbar. There we will fortify ourselves. We will defend the castle while we raise an army.”

  “They would kill us. That is what they mean to do. They mean to part us. They will do it either by our willing separation or by death.”

  “I demand that you do as I say.”

  But she shook her head and gave him her tragic smile. She was the Queen and he could no longer force her to his will. She longed to ride with him, but greater than her desire for him was her fear for his safety.

  “I shall go with them,” she said.

  Kirkcaldy rode up to them. “The time is up, Madam,” he said. “Unless you make an immediate decision I shall be unable to hold my men.”

  Bothwell held her in his arms. In those last moments she was aware of an exasperated tenderness. She had decided, and he was opposed to her decision. He believed that once more her emotions had played her false and that she was delivering herself defenseless into the hands of her enemies. His last kiss held a plea. Do not trust them. Leap onto your horse. We will snap our fingers at that mighty army. We will ride together to Dunbar.

  But she, who had been so weak in love, could also be strong.

  Let them do what they would with her, let them deceive her; he had an opportunity of riding away unmolested. He would find his way to safety.

  One
more kiss; one last embrace.

  A terrible desolation came over her, for she had a sad premonition that she would never see his face again. She wavered and clung to him afresh. But Kirkcaldy was impatiently waiting.

  He helped her into the saddle and she turned her horse.

  Bothwell had shrugged his shoulders; his spurs pressed into his horses flanks and he was away.

  She turned her head, straining for the last glimpse of him; but Kirkcaldy had laid his hand on her bridle and was leading her away.

  HOW RIGHT he had been! How wrong she was to trust them!

  She knew that if she lived twenty years she could never live through such horror, such shameful humiliation, as now awaited her.

  Seeing her thus, mounted on her jennet, stripped of her royalty, a conquered queen in a red petticoat, the rebel soldiers, remembering and repeating the rumors they had heard of her, inflamed by the vilification of years which had been hurled against her by John Knox, jeered as they gloated on her humiliation.

  The whispering first started among the low soldiery. “Who murdered the King?”

  The rest took up the cry. “Burn the adulteress. Burn the murderess.”

  The soldiers crowded about her and Kirkcaldy had to hold some back with his sword.

  “Bring her to the city—the scene of her shame!” they cried. “Let her see what the citizens of Edinburgh have to say to her.”

  So she was led toward her capital, and two soldiers, bearing a banner extending between two pikes, marched before her; the banner was turned toward her that she might read the crude inscription thereon. On this banner had been painted a figure of Darnley lying murdered, and beside him was a smaller figure which was meant to represent Prince James, Darnley’s son and hers. The little Prince was on his knees praying: “Judge and revenge my cause, O Lord.”

  “Make way! Make way!” cried the soldiers. “Good people of Scotland, we bring you the murderess. We bring the woman who, with her lover, slew her husband. We bring you the whore of Scotland. Make way for the adulteress.”

  She was alone; she had lost her strong man and had given herself over to traitors, but as always in terrible adversity she found great courage.

  She took the hand of Lord Lindsay of the Byres who was beside her and cried: “By this hand which is now in yours I swear I’ll have your head for this outrage.”

  “Madam,” said Lindsay, “look to it that you do not lose your own.”

  For hours it lasted, that terrible ride. She was exhausted and only pride kept back the tears of heartbreak. Never had a queen been treated so. If her lover had been with her now, how different it would have been. Then they would not have dared to treat her so. She should have obeyed him. Then he and she would now be riding to Dunbar… together.

  She kept her eyes fixed on the hideous banner. She had lost everything—her lover, her child, her throne.

  It was twilight when they came to Edinburgh. Crowds thronged the Canongate to watch her pass; and there was not one friend in the city to give her a word of comfort.

  “Here comes the murderess,” they cried. “Let us burn the whore.”

  Morton had arranged that the procession should take an indirect route through the city. Mary did not at first understand why. Then suddenly she realized what they were doing; they were taking her along the road which led to Kirk-o’-Field. They halted for a moment before the ruins of that house in which Darnley had been murdered. There the banner was brought close before her eyes, and the people crowded in on her.

  “Burn her! Burn her! Now… now! Why do we wait? She betrays her guilt.”

  “Good people,” cried Mary, “I beg of you let me speak.”

  But her words were lost in howls of derision. And as the people closed in on her, Kirkcaldy once more drove them off with his sword. Lindsay, Morton and Atholl were forced to join him.

  Almost unconscious with strain and exhaustion she was taken to the provost’s house and there put into the strong room, the window of which looked straight onto the street. About the window the rabble clustered and the banner was set up outside so that every time she lifted her eyes she could see it.

  But for Kirkcaldy she could not have lived through that night. Kirkcaldy had not foreseen what would happen; he was a general who had promised safe conduct to the Queen, and since he had given that promise he meant it to be kept. Morton had no such scruples and had it rested with him he would have let the people have their way. He knew that Moray was on the way back from France. It was true that Huntley, with some of his Catholics, was half-heartedly preparing to rally to the Queen, but the people were all against her. They believed her to be guilty of adultery and murder, and they cried: “Take her to the stake. That is the place for sinners such as she is, be they queens or commoners.”

  There was no food for her in the provost’s house; there was no bed; she had no means of bathing her face or changing her clothes.

  She paced the room, moaning softly to herself, worn out with fatigue, distressed and hysterical. All through the night people thronged the streets and the fiery light of torches filled the room.

  Again and again she tried to speak to them; she tried to win their sympathy. She stood at the window, her hair loose about her shoulders; in her great agitation she plucked at her bodice until it was in shreds and her breasts bared. She beat against the walls; she wept; and at last she sank to the floor, moaning and whimpering.

  Outside the cry of “Burn the adulteress! Burn the murderess!” was chanted through the streets.

  ANOTHER day came. She went to the window, her long hair covering her bare shoulders.

  “Good people …” she cried. “Good people …”

  But their only answer was: “Burn her. Burn the murderess of her husband!”

  The dreadful banner was before her eyes. She wept and stormed. Then she saw Lord Maitland passing along the street. She called to him. He would have looked away but the sight she presented was so terrible that out of pity he was forced to turn back.

  “Come here, Maitland,” she cried. “Come here.”

  He knew that if he followed his inclination to hurry away he would be haunted by the memory of her eyes forever.

  She looked at him—the husband of her dear Flem—and one of those who had betrayed her. How wicked was the world, how cruel!

  “So you are with them now?” she called. “So you are with my enemies, Maitland?”

  “Madam,” he answered, “I served you well until you chose others who you thought would serve you better.”

  He had never forgiven her for supplanting him with David. He would never forgive her for her marriage with Bothwell.

  She cried: “Did you not know then of the plot to murder Darnley! Were you not in the plot, my lord?”

  His answer was: “Madam, you destroyed yourself when you took Bothwell for husband. Had you not become his slave and the slave of your own passion, you would not now stand guilty of murder.”

  The crowd roared: “Burn the murderess!”

  Maitland averted his eyes and passed on.

  In that moment she knew that all who had planned to murder Darnley were against her. They would—as Maitland would—revile her, doing their utmost to put all the guilt on her shoulders and those of her lover, that investigations should not be made concerning themselves. The murder of Darnley—like the murder of Rizzio—would be shown to the Scots and the world not as a political murder, but as a crime passionel.

  She was lost. She knew it. Maitland had had some honor in the old days. He had been one of those whom she could trust; but Maitland was ready to save his own life and his political rewards at the cost of the reputation, and perhaps the life, of the Queen.

  SHE LIVED through another day of torment, and that evening, because they feared for her reason, they took her from the provost’s house to Holy-rood. She was forced to walk as a captive with Morton on one side of her, Atholl on the other, while the soldiers marched with them to protect her from the murderous rabble. As she
walked the odious banner was held before her eyes and she prayed for death.

  But in Holyrood some comfort awaited her, for there she found some of her women, and among them those two loved ones, Mary Seton and Mary Livingstone.

  She wept in their arms and they swore that they would not leave her; they would die with her and for her if need be.

  But her captors did not intend her to stay at Holyroodhouse. Late that night she was hurried out of the palace and, hysterical and exhausted with misery and fatigue, she was taken through the darkness to Lochleven where her jailors would be the Douglases—Sir William and his wife who was Moray’s mother.

  And there, in the ancient castle on an island in the centre of a lake, Mary Stuart came to the end of her turbulent reign, for that night she passed into the half-light, a prisoner. She was twenty-four years of age and had many years left to her, but her life as Queen was virtually over.

  Mary, Queen of Scotland and the Isles, had become Mary, the captive.

  IT WAS the month of February, and in her apartment in Fotheringhay Castle the Queen was dividing her possessions into separate piles. There was a little money and some trinkets—not very much left after twenty years of prison—and there were so many to whom she wished to leave some token, some memory of herself.

  She was very tired; she had lived little more than forty-four years but it seemed twice as long.

  She looked at that dark corner in which one of her ladies—her dear Jane Kennedy—sat silently weeping, rocking her body to and fro in the agony of her grief.

  Elizabeth Curie, another of those who had been with her in many of her doleful prisons and who loved her, did not weep, but her grief was manifest in every line of her body. The others had run from the chamber, for they could not control their sobbing.