The Ballad of the Five Marys

by Donald Smith

  Ubaldino brooded in his room at Hailes. This was not war as it should be waged by soldiers, but the death throes of animals. He left for winter quarters and was never seen again at Haddington. What a proper man he was. And I was left to winter on my own.

  Then, Francesca, came the worst, without remede or succour. A wet raw season gnawed at the vitals on all sides. Plague broke out inside the town; bodies lay unburied in the glaur. Brave Wilford took a fatal wound and was let go to die in England. Outside the town was little better, for men crouched behind their siegeworks frozen cold, soaked to their skins, exhausted, starving. I tried to offer entertainment at the castle but with poor provision. The serving lasses gave what comfort they could to hungry men, but I kept clean quarters and insisted on payment down. War grinds all grain coarse, and gives a death to feeling. The heart lies waste and silent. Will it never end? God pray, dear sister, we do not see that like again. They say the English turned to eating rats, but sure the rats were already starving.

  Then of a sudden, all hope gone, there was an end. Another English army trudging through the Borders. But not to fight – they had no further stomach. Instead they gathered up the remnants and burned the rags of Haddington. They marched their survivors home shrouded in close column, or in carts, or on canvas litters. An evil work, they say, for what our town cost them, foul island in a sea of enemies. And our besiegers let them go, watching sullenly yet without fight, since they had no more stomach for it either.

  Every stone standing in the town was torn down. Last of all the English stopped south of the river and razed our nunnery to the ground, as if the French Treaty they had come to wreck might be blotted out by powder and by fire. Of course the stores were long since gone, but all those pretty chambers, and the chapel where young Master John supped holy blood from our silver chalice. To see them lost forever made dry eyes weep. Even today. Look at these smudged cheeks. Aye, pass a napkin. And a sup of wine.

  How time revolves. The wheel of fortune turns, Francesca. I was left at Hailes, a castle to my charge, but no convent to receive me back. I was unsure what might come, though girdled round with gold. Till Earl Patrick comes riding back from Hermitage to make his peace at Court. Somehow Pat was on the winning side again, if winning is what you call the ruin of a country. Anything he had left in Lothian was saved by me, for all the thanks I got. He died unwept soon after.

  Enough for one night and maybe many more. Let’s say our rosary, sister, and go to sleep, for this old body slows and unwinds. I’ll take a cordial with me and trust on better dreams. God grant peace and quiet rest.

  Bothwell

  GO ON, FEEL IT. Hard as the sword it holds. Where I put my trust.

  Aye. To win what is mine by right. With a strong arm. What did my father leave me? A name and my blood. Little else to show.

  I’m not used to wielding the pen, but as God is my witness, the truth will be set down to their damnation.

  But the name is Hepburn, fourth Earl Bothwell, Lord High Admiral of Scotland, Baillie of Lauderdale, Lord of Hailes and Crichton, Sheriff of Berwick, Haddington and Edinburgh. Aye, and Warden of the Marches if blood runs true. My name must be my fortune, embellished with noble insignia. Two lions pull at the rose. On the crest a horse’s head, bitted and bridled. Keep Faith, the motto. And I will defend Scotland’s borders for her rightful Queen.

  ‘Your Majesty, I do not make religion an excuse for disloyalty, unlike some. I am your devoted servant. Every lance is at your command.’

  ‘That is very reassuring. How did you find France, Lord James?’

  ‘All the more beautiful for the sun which shines from the brow of our young Queen. Your daughter is truly a reflection of her bountiful mother.’

  ‘You studied military affairs, I understand, as well as courtly flattery.’

  ‘It is my belief that Scotland should have its own army and not be dependent on French soldiers.’

  ‘Yet French women are still fair game.’

  ‘Your Majesty must not believe idle gossip. My main exercise at Court was to train with Kirkcaldy of Grange, and to hunt wild game with King Henri.’

  ‘The gallant Sir William. He has also returned home, but by way of England. Will you emulate his accomplishments? ’

  ‘His deeds of war and knighthood, in the service of France, are the envy of every honourable soldier.’ I avoided her question and its implication.

  ‘It is my pleasure, Lord James, to make you Keeper of Hermitage Castle, and Lieutenant of the Borders, with immediate effect. Such honour for one so young.’

  ‘I shall give proof against all your enemies of my courage and good counsel, despite my tender years. I am obliged to Your Majesty for succeeding my father in the Marches and at Hermitage.’

  ‘Arise, good Lieutenant. And may your motto always be your guide, unlike the late Earl Patrick.’

  She gambles on me, the lovely Guise, because Scottish nobles and French commanders fall out and fail. Keep Faith. This command presents the first chance and I do not miss my mark. Regulars for the set piece; Borders horsemen for sortie or ambush. The surest weapon in all warfare is surprise. For that you must have mobility and speed, operating on known terrain.

  Two days after Christmas, a hard frost retreats leaving surfaces soft but the ground firm beneath. A scattering of thin snow mantles the tops. So I cross the Tweed and catch Northumberland napping.

  As the howe of the night deepens conditions smile on us. The air is raw but not freezing while low lying mist shrouds the valleys. Hooves muffled, we approach the river at Ladykirk, not at the Glendale ford. A slender column snakes across screened by the island from Norham Castle. Each man is wrapped in a dark cloak with only steel bonnets to reflect the starless sky and murky currents. But the river runs quiet, neither high nor low, and everyone is over without alarm.

  No gathering or waiting on the far side, but moving on in the same formation. The breath of horses merges into the mist. Creak of saddles and brush on branches but no clash of weapons, sheathed against leather jacks, or chink of stirrups, bound with cloth. Man and beast together step with steady footprint. Unwatched we go on, skirting villages and farms, the danger-point passed over.

  By now the warning message has gone from Glendale to Wooler. Cursing, Harry Percy pulls on his boots, shouting for word to go on to Alnwick where the merry Earl his brother slumbers deep from Yule feasting. The Scots are over the border. Come quickly since Percy rides north to meet the old enemy. A Hotspur to stir Northumberland awake from winter sleep.

  Following the course of the Till, racing first between rocky banks but then widening and slowing. We are near the place now. A steep slope of oak and beech climbs above the watershed, flanked below by a bog of swampy turf, dwarf sedge and willow. I chose well scouting with French Paris. The infantry spreads out quietly through the wood taking cover behind leafless trees. The moss troopers wait below, drawn back from the river.

  And it works. On they clatter as fast as night allows. When they pass by on the west side a forward detail fires the hayricks at Fenton, blazing up in the dark sky. It stops them in their tracks. Where are these foxes now, with torches in their tails? Percy thinks fast, and turns their heads around. Back, shouting and untangling, to Milford where they can cross and block the path to Wooler.

  He’s within half a mile now of the place. The troopers at the ricks show themselves and Percy gives chase. By God it is working. Clattering and crashing along the bank they come straight into the snare.

  I let them past the swamp to the wood. Now. The slope explodes like a firework. A wave of sound crashes into the valley side and roars back at us. Guns flash, horses scream, riders fall. The horsemen charge into the mass emptying saddles, slashing reins and bridles, turning them back onto themselves and into the river. Gradually they win free from panic, and those behind gallop on past crumpled bodies. We pursue on horse. The infantry reform and go at the double to block the crossing at Ford. Percy’s front column is over before them, but the stragglers
are caught between pursuit and a hedge of pikes, and surrender.

  We chase Percy further but as a grey dawn creeps into the east another column can be seen coming north. The merry Earl comes late but in force. I pull the cavalry back, form up with prisoners in train and head swiftly down to Ladykirk. Still quiet at Norham as we gain the north side of Tweed. It is a night for Scots annals. Northumberland is left to wonder what devils ravaged their Christmas cheer.

  My first command is my first victory. Pity they ended the English war soon after. But no one ever called me boy again. And if you’ve got anything to say for yourself, you can speak it to my face now.

  Sister Beth

  SO BACK HE comes, quite the Lord and Master, though all those years, remembered only as a wild boy. And in his shadow that sleekit Frenchman, Paris, glued to him like a double. His personal attendant if you please, and he does look to please that one, however he may. The new Earl is a Hepburn to the fingertips, as I ought to know, with that bold slightly sneering eye that looks you over to see if you’re worth the having.

  Not as pretty as Pat but more manly and something dangerous in his eye. Like the old Earl he knows what’s due to the Hepburn name and honour, but with Earl James there’s a hard streak of ‘I’ll get it by fair means or foul.’ Aye, a story was there ready in the making. The natures of folk are cast in a mould and there’s no understanding it or undoing. Preserve us from ill – lead us not into temptation. Tell your beads, lass, but first fetch a piece of that ham, with some pickles and sweetmeats. There’s no purpose in telling a tale with our bellies rumbling and farting.

  The convent was patched up by now, bits of it anyway, and we’re back in business but with far fewer sisters. I have my old duties too and Mother Abbess gives me free range, so I’m to and fro from Hailes, keeping in touch with the household and buying in supplies. He of course takes no notice, and if truth be told I was too much of an eyeful now for the younger sort.

  Funny how blooming flesh turns creeshie without you noticing. Be warned, Francesca, for though you might be scraggy now, venial sins can glutton you. God knows I had few pleasures in those years when the English War was ended and my flesh gave up its youth to my belly.

  Where was I? Yes the young Earl James. He soon found out his cupboard was bare. Then someone told him I had managed things through the siege, so he called me in for some talk of household accounts. I took him through the books, and he was quick to see the way it worked. No sluggard when gold glimmers. Within days he had the notaries disinherit his own kith and kin, so he could recover land and increase rents. This was before he got back Hermiston as well – by favour of the Guise and the strength of his arm. He was always flexing those muscles, but he knew how to swing a sword which was a form of learning much needed in the Border Marches. Lady Abbess kept any young nuns out of sight – she knew her own kin too well.

  Shame for my years, since I was beginning to like the young Earl, in a motherly way. And I was related somehow, though my daughter was nearer, alas for her. For himself there was little family to speak of apart from his own respected mother at Morham, and his full sister Janet, whom he loved. With all others he was cold or casual, for what else had the child known but strangers? Maybe that was why his eye was always roving, greedy for possession. It became a curse on him, even then.

  The thing is French King Henri was pierced in the throat, or was it his eye, with a lance. So our own Mary was become Queen in France and not sent home to us with her boy king. And that leaves her poor mother to deal with these Scots Protestants. And they saw their chance to wrest us away from the French, and into the arms of the English and their heretic queen. In spite of all the blood already spilled to put the English out.

  But Earl James was broken into the ways of women and he had the Queen Regent charmed now too, for she was failing in health and wanted a man, not in the bodily way I suppose, though she still had her looks I can warrant. It was for the weakness of her rule and the lack of nobles to hold her cause upright.

  A Bothwell for a queen, as if history turns in wheels. And he was ready and bold, though he professed Protestant. Why was that? I know not, unless he wanted the Church put aside for her lands, like the rest. Or there was a darkness in his soul that craved Calvin’s cure. He was a close one, hard to fathom. He lived for deeds not prayers. God knows, he lives yet in misery.

  What’s your hurry, lass? Get on with the story? Alright, I suppose it’s just a story to you but I had to suffer it. Pass the flagon, there’s a good girl.

  Anyway, word comes of secret subsidy from England to the rebel lords so they might cast off Marie de Guise in favour of I know not what – a Hamilton again, or the Bastard, but Protestant whatever. It had to be secret, for Elizabeth had no truck with godly rebels. God commands us, Mother Abbess was never tired of saying, to obey Princes. Elizabeth was a queen and so was Mary, whatever Master John had to say on the matter. So her wily counsellors had their subsidy all counted out in French crowns and sent over the Border, with promises of gunpowder to come, in Ormiston’s saddlebags.

  What a stroke for the young Earl, and in his own country. He never could resist the bold ploy, if it made his name resound; let the consequence look to itself. Yet he was cunning too. It was Hallowe’en and deep dark. He waits till Ormiston with seven men is near Hailes, where the road twists narrow and the trees close in around. You know the place, Francesca, for we go that way sometimes and keep sharp lookout for any landless rogues.

  He closes there, riding up behind the Laird douce as you please to untie the saddlebags. Of course Ormiston flares up, but our James strikes him hard over the face with the flat of a blade and down he goes. The rest scatter for their lives unsure if they’re ambushed by men or devils. He bypasses Hailes since it’s too public, and rides instead, as fast as the weight allows, for Crichton Castle. Sure he knows every inch of the moor since a lad. Not even a falcon could catch him.

  But word is out faster and farther than he could have wished. They’re raging at him, and the Bastard, along with young Arran, raise a column to storm Crichton and get back the gold. Our man comes to, ten minutes to spare, and flees bareback with the guineas towards Haddington. But the weight drags him down so he leaves the horse and wades along Tyne to cover the scent. The wild man is still a nose ahead. Into Sandybed’s he goes, aye the farmer who has his lands of the convent, the old skinflint.

  But they have nowhere to hide him so they turn to us. You would have burst laughing so you would, but we had him dressed as a dairymaid and finally as a sister, with the saddlebags under his habit. And Arran’s troopers everywhere sticking in their nebs. I chased them about and clattered their ears with guid Scots. They couldn’t take a Hepburn in Haddington, not with Sister Beth in charge.

  Mother Superior was mad with worry, while he was bored, and handling a pretty little novice like unbaked pastry before we got him away. She was the last before you came, Francesca, and then you were last of all; God spare our holy order. We smuggled him out to Borthwick Tower where he had to stand on the ramparts to watch them burn Crichton Castle’s plenishings, and carry his charters off to Edinburgh. That hit him where it hurts. In the pouch.

  What a power of enemies he made then, Protestant though he claimed to be. Maybe he never knew which side to choose for the best. To gamble all on one stake was his way. Whatever, he was Marie de Guise’s general now, for all her French following. And the name on every Scottish tongue, aye and English ones forbye. James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, and let no one forget it.

  Well he made sure of that in due course, did our Jamie, none surer. God forgive him where he lies, for I never shall, foul sinner. As I know better than any woman alive. But he paid, Francesca, and he’s still paying so they say. Tied to a post in some darksome prison in foreign lands.

  Let’s say a prayer to Our Lady of Sorrows. And then we’ll have some supper with another flagon of wine. I’ll be the better for that and maybe able to speak some more, if it amuses you. I’ve seen too much, and
I should be praying more and talking less. But my knees are stiff. Aye, I have my rosary here. You begin and I’ll follow. There’s a good girl. If she’d lived my lass would have her own bairns now.

  Bothwell

  THIS STRONG ARM was Scotland’s defence. Aye, mother and daughter both. They can’t depose a queen for all their pious cant, godly assemblies and the rest. The English arrived to take advantage of our disputes. Though I cut their supplies, and harried their lines, it was too good an opportunity for the old enemy to miss.

  Then Maitland deserted us. The Secretary slipped out through a postern by dark to join the rebel lords. His reason I know not, but I shall bring it home to him when next we meet – I swore it on this sword. Immediately the Bastard sent him to England for his voice was judged more pleasing there than Knox’s doom laden croak. His intelligence was our loss, I openly acknowledge. Perhaps though his kin will lose some lands by that betrayal.

  Kirkcaldy and Lord James knew their business. Grange was a Hercules of France’s wars, and should have stayed there. As for the rest, they were in pantaloons, ragtag recruits. The Regent’s French regulars built our defences well, and my Borderers provided a gambler’s throw. Mustard to meat.

  The guns blasted away on both sides for days till ears were ringing. Their men got careless, some wandering off to taverns, or other diversions. So with fifty horse I galloped out to spike the guns. Then I saw Grey de Wilton hurrying over to protect them. Had he not seen enough at Haddington? I pulled round and launched at him. He half turned and got his shield up before I smashed in, mount and man going down. I swung back hard to pierce him on the ground but struck with only half my strength. Glancing up I saw my troopers falling away, so I drove the horse over his body with churning hooves, and broke back towards the walls calling retreat.