It was James’ turn to stare in silence.
“But despite your… creatures, I do not wish you dead! You are an unnatural husband and you have torn my children from me, but despite all that, James, I wish you no harm!”
“I am sore grieved, Annie. Aye, sore grieved! I can see that I am wastin’ ma breath. Dinna call me unnatural… is it too much t’ expect a wife to believe her ain husband again’ the word of an evil little toadie?”
“I suppose you think poor Beatrice was a party, too?”
“I dinna what t’ think. She is a Ruthven, too, is she no’?”
“That child has not an evil bone in her body—I’ll vouch for that and I will not allow you to vent your anger upon her.”
“Ye’ll no’ allow me!” James shouted.
“No! I will not!” Anne shouted back at him.
“She will pack her bags and go… like all the tribe of Ruthvens! I dinna want to hear that name spake again! D’ ye ken me, woman? First thing in the morning… she goes!”
Before Anne could reply he stamped from the room, slamming the door behind him, not caring if he roused the whole palace.
Despite Anne’s protests Beatrice was turned out and the whole Ruthven clan were banished, their property confiscated and their very name abolished. Anne retired to Dunfermline in a great state of melancholy which was not improved by the fact that she was yet again with child. James came to bid her farewell, but to his attempted reconciliation she coldly replied,
“I hope Heaven will not visit my family with its vengeance for the sufferings of the Ruthvens!”
James remained in Edinburgh, engaged with his parliament which according to an ancient and gruesome law of Scotland, sat in judgement upon the dead bodies of the two Ruthven brothers—duly pronouncing them guilty of treason and attempted murder of the King. The corpses were hanged and quartered and their putrid and mutilated remains set upon the walls of the city.
Anne was very ill. On the 19th November she had given birth to a son but the depression which had settled upon her during her pregnancy and the plight of Beatrice (now virtually destitute), added to a difficult and prolonged labour, left her weak and exhausted.
James journeyed to Dunfermline but was shocked at the change in her. Dark rings circled her lustreless eyes, her face was drawn and pinched and her flesh hung upon her bones.
“Was it vera bad, Annie?” he asked with some concern.
“I am tired, James. I shall recover.”
“Aye, ye maun rest. What o’ the bairn, I hear he is no’ strong?”
“No, he is not strong. I fear for him—he reminds me of my little Margaret.” She turned her head away from him, the tears sliding down her thin cheeks.
James took her feverish hand in his. “We maun pray, Annie.”
She wiped away the tears with her other hand and nodded, thinking it was small wonder the child was so sickly considering the traumas she had experienced whilst carrying him.
James’ concern was greatly increased when he beheld his son. He decided that it would be best if the babe were baptised immediately for he secretly thought his son would die before morning. The child was given the name of Charles, his father’s own first name and that of his uncle, Lord Charles Stuart.
Little Charles, Duke of Albany, was more robust than he first appeared and clung tenaciously to his thin thread of life and a month after he was born he was formally baptised once more, this time at Holyrood, and in due course was handed over to Lord Fife.
Anne gained strength and as the New Year gift, James ordered from George Herriot his goldsmith (known to the court as ‘Jinglin Geordie’) a fine jewel which cost £1,333 (pounds Scots).
The resentment and hostility were smoothed over for a time but the grievances remained buried beneath the surface.
Five
The following year Anne gave birth to another son who was endowed with the name of his revered ancestor, Robert Bruce, but like his sister Margaret before him, Duke Robert died before his first birthday.
James found consolation with his favourites, Ramsay, Erskine, James Hay and the like, while Anne turned to her ladies in her grief. Often she thought of her mother and her brothers and sister, looking back upon her happy childhood and thinking how much she had changed since she had come to Scotland those many years ago, a mere child of sixteen. She had changed; she could look back with a certain detachment now over the years. She had been a spoilt, pettish child but time and experience had changed her. She had grown accustomed to James’ habits and odd ways, accepting the fact that he would always win on matters of singular importance. She had even accepted to a degree the separation from her children, although the thoughts of Henry-Frederick, her first born, growing up in the care of Annabelle Marr, still rankled.
The news from England was causing speculation; Elizabeth was ill and James and his court were eagerly looking forward to the day when the ‘promised land’ would be theirs for the taking. She and James lived virtually apart now, he had his court consisting of mainly odious young men but with a few exceptions (notably Ludovick Stuart, the Master of Grey, and Lords Huntley and Home) and she had her own adherents. Only on formal occasions did the two intermingle but James did visit her frequently.
Dejectedly she laid aside her needlework and looked out over the gardens of Holyrood. It was so long since she had seen her children, she thought wistfully. Henry-Frederick was a sturdy boy of eight, Elizabeth a lovely, lively little girl of six and Charles two. Little Charles had caused her many an anxious moment for he was a frail child with huge, dark eyes which seemed to dominate his tiny face and he was constantly ailing. So far he had failed to utter a sound and in fact doubts were being expressed as to whether he was capable of speech. Yes, she feared for Charles, Duke of Albany. Would he follow his brother and sister to an early grave, she wondered?
She looked up sharply as Katrine entered.
“Madam, my Lady Paisley and the Mistress of Angus wish to see you on an urgent matter.”
Anne nodded.
Lady Paisley, the daughter of Lord Seaton, and Margaret Douglas, the Mistress of Angus, entered.
“Madam, we have news of Beatrice Ruthven,” Margaret Douglas began.
Anne immediately lost her apathy. “Where is she?”
“Not far from here but she is in dire straits and implores that you see her.”
“Poor child! You must bring her to me… but wait… we must have a care, that odious Erskine creature is Captain of the Guard and he watches me like a hawk!”
“We could smuggle her in as one of our maids,” Lady Paisley suggested.
“The King will be furious if he suspects and James has eyes and ears everywhere.”
“We will take care, Madam.”
“Very well, bring her this evening after supper. I shall plead a headache and the King will no doubt be otherwise engaged, but watch for Erskine, Margaret, I do not trust that man!”
Just as the palace clock was striking ten and James and his associates were settling down to a hard night’s drinking, Beatrice Ruthven, heavily cloaked and veiled, followed Lady Margaret Douglas along the dimly lit corridor towards the Queen’s chambers. They encountered a few serving wenches and lackeys but there was no sign of Thomas Erskine and they were both relieved when the door of Anne’s antechamber was safely closed behind them.
Anne embraced Beatrice, exclaiming with pity at the poor quality of her clothes and remarking how pale and thin she was. “My poor Beatrice, how you have suffered and through no fault of your own! Come, take off that hideous garment. Anka, did you find those clothes I asked you to look for?”
Anka brought the dresses which she had spent half the afternoon searching for. They were Anne’s—discarded long ago—and she had finally found them in a press in a roomful of old furniture. They were a little out of fashion but with a few alterations they would suffice and they were certainly far better than the miserable, faded, rose brocade that Beatrice now wore and which was her only dress.
Before changing into Anne’s gown, Beatrice was urged to partake of the supper that Anne had thoughtfully ordered and while she ate heartily of capon, beef, roast heron and lark, she was plyed with questions by her mistress.
Anne gazed upon her tenderly for she had watched this girl grow up and being deprived of her own daughter had lavished her affections upon Beatrice.
The tale Beatrice told was a pitiful one. She had been driven from the palace with only the clothes she stood up in and very little money. Her entire family had been dispossessed and reviled and she had been at her wits end to know where to turn, if it had not been for the kindness of the Mistress of Angus and Lady Paisley she was certain that she would have starved ere this.
“But you have some news which will please Her Majesty, have you not, Beatrice?” Margaret Douglas prompted.
Beatrice smiled, her pale face lighting up. “Yes. Sir John Home of Cowdenknows has offered for my hand,” she said shyly.
Anne looked questioningly at Margaret Douglas.
“He is a young man of good character and his intentions are quite honourable, Madam. I took it upon myself to ascertain these facts for she has suffered enough!”
Anne was delighted. “Then your troubles are over. I myself will furnish you with a small dowry, then you will not be forced to go to him without substance… we can at least spare you that indignity!”
“Oh, Madam! You have been so kind to me… I know not what to say…” Beatrice cried.
“Come now, no more tears, Beatrice, you must look to your future and put the past behind you, it is done with!” Anne comforted, patting her gently upon the shoulder. “Eat your food. You shall stay here tomorrow while we refurnish your wardrobe and gather together such items and money that will be necessary.”
Beatrice slept on a truckle bed at the foot of Anne’s bed while Anka, Katrine and Margaret Vintner took it in turn to watch the door lest James take it into his head to visit his wife. The next day they spent stitching and altering dresses, cloaks and petticoats and acquiring gloves, stockings, shoes, trinkets and toiletries and a small purse of gold coins. So as not to arouse suspicion Anne went about her daily routine while Beatrice remained in the Queen’s bedchamber, attended at all times by one of Anne’s maids and that night when the palace was quiet, Beatrice, laden with gifts, took a fond farewell of her mistress.
“God go with you, child, and may He grant you happiness. Should John Home misuse you he will have to answer to me!” Anne said as she kissed Beatrice goodbye.
Beatrice clung to her. “Madam… I have loved you as my own mother. I shall never forget your kindness. God protect you, dearest lady!”
Anne watched her go with tears in her eyes, her anger and resentment at James’ harsh treatment of Beatrice smouldering in her heart.
Thomas Erskine, Captain of the Guard, was a canny man and missed little that went on in the vast, rabbit-warren of Holyrood and it was not long before he had extracted the information from one of the Queen’s serving wenches that Mistress Ruthven had stayed in the Queen’s chambers for a day and a night and had then left, laden with gifts. Reading all manner of dark suspicions into this visit he considered it his duty to inform the King.
As he had surmised James was angry at Anne’s blatant disregard for his edict against the Ruthvens and it was a highly irate man who went in search of his wife.
“Away wi’ ye all! Out! Out I say! I hae a bit word t’ say t’ ma wife!” he summarily dismissed all her attendants.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Anne enquired, observing that James was very agitated and beginning to realise that perhaps all her precautions had been in vain.
“I hae just been informed that Beatrice Ruthven has been here wi’ ye!”
“Might I ask who it was who informed you of this?”
“Ye may, ’twas Thomas Erskine.”
“I thought so! That spying, creeping creature misses nothing!”
“He’s ma Captain o’ the Guard, it is his business to miss nothing!”
“It’s not his business to spy on me!”
James ignored this remark. “Did I no’ instruct everyone t’ hae nothing to do wi’ yon Ruthvens?”
“To use your own expression, that ‘stramash’ had nothing to do with Beatrice and well you know it, James Stuart! It was cruel to vent your spite upon a defenceless girl! She begged to see me because she was destitute. Was I supposed to refuse her and turn her away to starve?”
“She’d no’ hae starved! Ye’re being ower dramatic, woman! The point is ye defied ma express command! How am I t’ know that she was no’ cooking up some plot again’ me—they be a powerful bad lot yon Ruthvens!”
“Now who is being over dramatic? You are obsessed with the notion that there is a Ruthven waiting behind every door ready to strike you down!”
“I might hae expected that from ye, Annie! I hae had personal experience o’ their treason. Aye, personal!”
“What do you intend to do? She has gone!”
“I’ll tell ye what I intend t’ do, woman. I intend to examine all the women and men o’ your household, maist straightly!”
Anne remained unperturbed. “The girl came to me for no other reason but to beg my aid and to inform me of her forthcoming marriage to John Home of Cowdenknows—there was no plot!”
This statement had the effect of calming James a little. “So Johnnie Home intends t’ marry the girl? He’s no’ getting a bargain in that one!”
“I furnished her with a small sum so she would not go to him empty handed.”
James threw up his hands in despair. “I dinna ken ye, Annie! Ye maun get a deal o’ satisfaction from flouting ma commands! I wash ma hands o’ ye!”
Anne smiled placidly. “You may examine my household to your heart’s content, James, but they will only tell you what I have told you.”
“Ye’re all in it together! It’s a conspiracy again’ me!”
“Oh, James! Plots, conspiracies… do you think of nothing else?” she laughed.
James cocked his head to one side, his good humour restored. “I think o’ plenty o’ other things, Annie. Now I hae a wee bit o’ news that may be interesting. Aye, interesting…”
“Then sit down and tell me about it. Will you take some wine with me?” Anne asked, pouring two goblets of a fine Rhenish and passing one to her husband, the friction over between them for the time being.
* * *
At last the long awaited day arrived. On the 24th March, 1603, Elizabeth Tudor died and it was an exhausted, injured and mud-spattered Robert Carey who brought the news to Holyrood. He staggered into James’ presence chamber in a deplorable state after an epic ride on which he had killed two horses under him and sustained a head and arm wound in a fall.
He fell to his knees before his outwardly startled, though inwardly complaisant monarch (forJames had already heard the news) and cried. “God Save King James! King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland!”
“Someone help the laddie afore he collapses!” James cried, for Carey was reeling with fatigue and loss of blood. “Vicky! Fetch some wine! Johnnie, lay him on yon couch! You, Doddie Home, send someone to fetch t’ surgeon!”
Carey was duly laid on a couch and was given a goblet of wine after which he regained a little colour.
“Now, man. We bid ye welcome! So Her Majesty o’ England, ma aunt, has died. Did she suffer?”
“Not greatly, Sire, though she would not take to her bed for many hours.”
James shook his head. “Fell stubborn t’ the end! Hae ye brought any letter from t’ Privy Council?”
“No, but I have brought with me a certain ring.” Carey fumbled with his good arm and drew from his doublet a ring set with a blue stone which he passed to James.
James turned it over slowly in his hand. “Aye, this will do. I know it well, an’ its owner. Ye hae lost a kinswoman an’ a dear mistress I know, but here, tak’ ma hand, I will be a good master t’ ye and ye shall be
rewarded wi’ honour. Aye, honour! Now away wi’ ye, yon surgeon will attend t’ ye. Here, Hume, see to it, man, the laddie’s nigh prostrate!”
An atmosphere of excitement and expectation prevailed and within a few days the official representatives of the English Privy Council arrived, inviting James to come forthwith to London and take possession of his rights—he having been proclaimed King James I of England on the day that Elizabeth Tudor had expired.
James was in a mood of rare benevolence and rubbed his hands in glee, his eyes gleaming at the thought of the overflowing English treasury.
“Ma days o’ penny-pinching are ower, Annie! Yon’s a land o’ plenty wi’ riches for the takin’!” he observed.
“Perhaps now we shall have some peace. The English are not such a quarrelsome race as the Scots, so I am told, and Elizabeth ruled them with a rod of iron so it should not prove too difficult a task for you.”
“Aye, if that auld miser could keep them in check it’ll no’ be hard!”
“James! Have you no respect for the dead?”
“Och, Annie! She caused a deal o’ trouble in her lifetime did that one!” he replied, thinking of his mother and the many subversive incidents instigated by his aunt which had indeed caused him a great deal of trouble.
“When do you intend to leave?”
“The beginning o’ next month, after I hae taken leave o’ ma loyal subjects here.”
Anne remained silent.
“What’s wrong wi’ ye now, woman? Are ye no’ pleased at the prospect o’ becoming the first Queen o’ Great Britain?”
“I was thinking that England has not been kind to the Stuarts or to Scotland… I fear for your safety.”
“Och, woman! Who else is there? Am I no’ the auld Queen’s nephew?”
“There is Arabella Stuart,” Anne reminded him.
“That bit lassie! She’ll no’ harm me!”
“No, but there are others who would use her as a figure-head.”
“We’ll cross that brig when we come t’ it. Dinna fret, has I no’ survived the devilish ploys o’ yon factious Scots a’ these years? Jamie Stuart can tak’ guid care o’ hi’self!”
The Danish Queen Page 8