by Donald Smith
I protested our loyalty and said that we would not depart until she was at liberty from Earl Bothwell’s forces and under the protection of the nobility of the realm. She mocked at that, yet even as we spoke her supporters were melting away into late afternoon. She withdrew to consult with Bothwell and then asked if he would be given safe passage from the field. I went back to Morton and Argyll, who reluctantly agreed since Mary would not yield unless this was conceded. He would have to await another day of reckoning.
So I rode back up the hill and, finally, it was concluded. Respective positions were held until Bothwell rode off with a small following. As she bade him be gone she wept, and he protested wanting to stay, fearful he would be taken and killed. But she assured him of the agreement. Still mounted, he took her hand between his, pressed it and then releasing her, he swung round galloping off towards higher ground with all the instincts of a reiver for survival.
She waited an hour to let him away, and then turned to me saying, ‘Laird of Grange, I give myself up to you under the terms agreed with the lords.’ I led her down under escort to where we were already forming up. Mary Seton, her only attendant, came behind on a pony. I was ashamed to accompany such distress. All men watched in silence as she joined the column still clad in the red petticoat, and some inclined their heads.
But as we moved off there were mutterings of ‘whore’, ‘adulterer’ and a few cries of ‘burn the murderess.’ I kept close by her mount while one by one the lords came to greet her. ‘How is this, my Lord Morton?’ she demanded. ‘I am told all this is done to bring justice on the King’s murderers, but that you are chief among them?’ He turned away with a black look. Most were respectful but when Lindsay tried to kiss her hand she burst out in a passion, saying she would have his head for what he had done today. She saw herself suddenly as a prisoner under armed guard, and raged that she would turn the tables to hang them all. Better to have kept silent had she known the enemies that surrounded her.
As we approached the men dispersed to camps, leaving only the Queen with the lords and a heavily armed escort. She was expecting to go to Holyrood, but instead we proceeded to the Netherbow Port. Here Her Majesty’s travails began in earnest, for warned ahead, the common sort were gathered at the gate, holding a banner of murdered Darnley with Prince James kneeling beside his father’s corpse beseeching justice. As we came near a great howling got up with screams of hate and bloody cries for Mary to be hanged or burned. I came level with her horse’s head in a vain attempt to screen her person. She kept upright in the saddle, though numbed by shock.
When we turned onto the High Street we could see the passage narrowed on both sides by mobs of folk pressing in and impeding our progress. The escort went in front to clear the path but I felt the spittle of their fury and feared the Queen might be torn from her seat. ‘Whore’, ‘murderer’ came at us like roaring waves of sound, and Mary’s head bent before the storm. Eventually we reached the Provost’s house where she was hurried up into a bedroom and I saw no more of her that night. The lords retired to feast and plan their next steps, but I was not party to their Council.
The next day Mary came to her window dishevelled and weeping, asking the people’s help in her distress. They began to gather around the house and to take pity on her state. She was not naked or distraught as some alleged, for I saw her with my own eyes. She was a queen even in her distress, and the mood of the town changed as their old love for her revived. I stood nearby, as did Maitland and others sympathetic to her cause, but when she called out to her good Secretary he pulled down his hat and hurried away.
The lords convened at the Provost’s house, and I went in to demand that the promises given to Her Majesty the day before be honoured. They agreed the Queen should go to Holyrood and be freely restored. When this had been publicly proclaimed I left them to their own devices. The crowd was satisfied, though some lingered on the street until she was taken to the palace by Morton and Athol, still half-dressed and under armed escort.
That night the Queen was roused from her sleep and hurried away with a wrap thrown over her nightgown. They rode hard all night to be received in the morning onto Lochleven Island. There Her Majesty was forcibly confined under the guard of Sir William Douglas.
I cannot clear myself of blame for these events. Queen Mary had been falsely handled and my own part appeared treacherous. But it was much later before I understood what had taken place. The depths of their deceit were not yet disclosed.
The Council resumed at Holyrood but without young Huntly, the Hamiltons, or, of course, Bothwell. I went there to protest at what had happened. Their men were all over the palace ransacking the apartments and taking control of government.
I said this was not what had been agreed. When she let Bothwell go, the Queen was to be restored to liberty and government. Then Morton drew out a paper and laid it on the table. It was a letter in the Queen’s own hand, written two nights before in the Provost’s house. I scanned it quickly before he pulled it back. It swore undying devotion to Bothwell – that she would go the ends of the earth for him in her petticoat if need be. I was shocked. Maitland sat to one side, silent.
Morton pressed his advantage and the others joined in. She was adulterous, passionate and deceitful, unfit to be queen. Lindsay was vehement, swearing she had refused to divorce Bothwell and declared she would not touch food again till reunited with him in the flesh. I asked them what was intended.
Morton pulled out another paper, detailing the charges against her. First that she had behaved tyrannously, breaching the laws of the realm. Second that she had incontinently indulged her passions with Earl Bothwell. Thirdly that she had connived at the murder of her husband the King, and falsely accused others of the deed. It was a sheaf of deadly accusations.
I could not muster my thoughts other than to protest they were threatening the Queen’s life. ‘No,’ said Morton quickly. ‘If she resigns her throne in favour of the Prince, not a hair of her head will be harmed.’
‘And who is to govern in her place?’
‘We have sent for our Lord Moray to come home.’
I should have seen the pieces falling into place. Moray with Cecil at his back. But what else could they do? It seemed better than Morton seizing Scotland by the throat and starting another war.
All I could think of was that Mary must be free of Bothwell, so I asked a commission to hunt him down. And they consented immediately. I continued unwitting, playing the game. Maitland appeared unfathomable neither dissenting nor consenting. He would not meet my eye.
I received a letter from Her Majesty in Lochleven, charging me with breaking her trust, so I replied pledging my opposition to the harsh treatment she had received, and stating my desire for her to divorce Bothwell and recover her honour.
But I was uneasy in my mind and returned to Fife relating everything to Margaret. Word reached us there by reliable testimony that Mary had renounced the Crown in favour of her son and that she had miscarried twins of Bothwell’s getting in Lochleven Castle. ‘Poor lass,’ was all Margaret would say. ‘No wonder she would not divorce him.’
I tried to consult with Maitland, but he remained at Court preparing for Moray’s government. I spoke to him once in Edinburgh about the commission to pursue Bothwell, when in his oblique way he said, ‘Of course anything to which the Queen consented under duress need not be held against her.’
Maitland of Lethington
BOTHWELL HAD TO be stopped; the damage he inflicted ended. He must be pursued and Kirkcaldy is the man to finish it.
But the Queen is in chains. Cruelly imprisoned.
Government must continue. I am indispensable to the conduct of business in the kingdom, as Secretary Cecil is in his of England. I cannot desert my post. Though it pains my heart to hear of Mary’s plight, prostrated by sickness and miscarrying in the womb.
Fleming is exchanging notes, and the Queen may be moved out of Lochleven Keep to the round tower where she will have her own rooms. Some
of the Douglas household are loyal.
I must be discreet and silent. Her Majesty’s friends outnumber her enemies and Mary may soon be freed from her pit. Fleming has sent her an enamelled ring. The emblem is a mouse who frees the lion by gnawing patiently at his royal master’s bonds. Patience and time. We must thole and await events.
Moray knows the ways of government and moves the levers of power. So the young Prince is crowned at Stirling and Parliament convened. Most of the nobility do not attend this coronation fearing the taint of treason, but many come to parliament to avert confiscations.
The ministers are triumphant, blowing the Lord’s trumpet with puffed out cheeks. Knox himself preaches the righteous overthrow of an evil tyrant. He sees the chance to impose his own tyranny of faith. Moray’s Parliament puts their demands into law; his falling out with Master Knox patched up. We are now truly the Protestant nation. None may hold office in Church or State that does not subscribe their creed to the Calvinist letter. And so they gain reward on earth as well as heaven. Had Knox his way, women too would be excluded. The Mass is banned on penalty of death, as if that ancient rite were some foul contagion.
The deposition of the Queen, the coronation of the King in her place, and Moray’s Regency: all ratified in due order. She is condemned for complicity in the former King’s murder without right of reply or appeal. The grounds – some private and unshown letters, sent by her to Bothwell, are alleged to prove her guilt. Any punishment deemed appropriate is authorised. The preachers bay for her blood with Knox in the van. He sees his quarry stumble and closes in without mercy or compassion. God protect us from such religion.
Elizabeth rails at her Council in London, demanding action on behalf of her sister Queen. She is the only thing that stays their hand from bloody regicide, since they cannot act without her approval. Cecil temporises, qualifies and redrafts in his usual fashion, buying time. He is of a mind with Knox in wanting Mary dead, most conveniently in Scotland. So he joins discreetly in the chorus of condemnation, led by those who themselves contrived the deed of which she stands accused.
Yet England must not intervene by force. Then this country would turn again to France and all the labour of these years be lost. The interests of the kingdom must be foremost, not the power of faction.
But Mary Stewart gave up her crown under threat of execution. Lindsay urged violence on her person and in her presence. What would good Sir David have said to that? The Queen told Fleming that on his return Moray left her one whole night expecting death. He revealed his nature in the end.
Are the Scots a cruel and barbarous people, bereft of civilised manners? Our most Christian nation – the more Christian the crueller. I feel shame to see a reigning monarch abused in such a fashion, yet it happened before, and with fatal consequence.
She can by law renounce what was given up under duress. She is our Queen by right of blood and birth.
I am like a tumbler on his tightrope, balancing perilously between two falls. On one side I read distrust in Moray’s eyes, and see his intent that I should be dispensable. On the other, the Queen’s true friends accuse me of betrayal. But Fleming knows my truth.
Maitland. Only that name, skill and foreknowledge can guide me safely over. My beloved wife is with child, and another generation will inhabit Lethington. Bothwell’s fall secures the Abbey lands of Haddington to our estate. I must not slip now the stakes are set so high.
Moray has the means to reward his friends and allies and buy support. He and Morton have pillaged the Queen’s household at Holyrood. Her jewellery is broken up to be sold and her papers set aside for future use. The country is uneasy under such harsh subjection.
Kirkcaldy of Grange
HE MUST BE hunted down. Ever the source of hurt and mischief, he escapes north and, going to his mother’s country in Orkney, gathers a small fleet. Lord High Admiral and Duke of Orkney, the outlaw turns pirate.
Despite making good headway we missed him at Orkney, where the Sinclairs gave us a cold welcome. But we learned at the quayside that Bothwell’s fleet was a ragtag collection of small boats with one two-master, the Pelican, a flagship for the Admiral.
We took on what provisions we could and sailed on after him to the Shetlands. A land made of moor and rock, roofs tied against the wind, and squat stone towers. I thought of the Queen looking out of her tower at the lapping waters of Loch Leven.
What did Moray intend? To keep her imprisoned? That could not be; no such thing had ever been. She was a queen in her own country. A return to France could not be allowed, for then the Catholic powers would use her to threaten Scotland and England. Could Moray be trusted any longer to shield her from harm? With Bothwell gone, an accommodation should be reached, restoring some position and dignity.
We had to make good speed, but we were at the mercy of wind, tide and this waste of sea. As usual Bothwell gave a good account. His stragglers went down but exchange of fire continued for three hours, moving steadily out to sea. The Pelican’s mainmast was broken and the engagement near conclusion, when a fierce squall blew in. Unfortunately our ships were still in full sail which had to be lowered before we were blown back onto rocks. In the meantime Bothwell ran before the wind with his remaining canvas. We followed after but he had disappeared into the mists.
He was lamed, and at peril on rough seas, but he had escaped. At least we had driven him out of Scotland. Yet, as Moray said, we could not deal in the bear’s hide till we had the bear.
Having returned my ships to port, I was barely home when it was Mary’s turn. She had escaped in a small boat from Lochleven, and had been taken by the Hamiltons to Glasgow where the west was rallying to her cause. This was a new twist. The old Duke was home from exile and his younger sons assumed the ambitions of their house, aiming once more at the crown, through Mary’s hand or leastways the regency.
I hesitated, but only for a moment. This could solve nothing and threatened civil war in Scotland as well as rupture with England. Yet Moray read my mind. A messenger came to Hallyards having ridden hard to deliver his personal letter, begging me in the name of our old comradeship to come immediately, for Christ’s sake, to his aid. Moray was always a step ahead of me, one at least.
But this time he was in trouble, cut off in Glasgow by superior forces that were growing by the day. Moray had gained power and government, but he had not won over the nation. I took my best horsemen and rode cross country by Stirling to join him. At least we could count on the Lennoxmen for support.
The Queen’s sights were set on Dumbarton where she could establish communication with Europe. She had the Hamilton forces, most of the southwest and Borders, and Argyll’s hosting. The deposing of a reigning monarch was too much for his royalist stomach. On our side was Morton with most of the Douglas faction, Moray’s personal following, my Fifers and Mar’s contingent. It was essential that even with our lesser numbers we blocked the route to Dumbarton. So we moved south of Glasgow, near Langside village.
Maitland was of our number and, as ever, trying negotiation. Moray and Morton had command but gave me the overall direction. In the event we had no time to plan since they advanced on us the next day, determined to press home their advantage and destroy Moray.
I mounted one musketeer behind each of the light horse and spread them through the gardens and orchards and behind field walls above. The Hamiltons came into Langside with gallant style. At the same time, skirting the houses, their vanguard set on us from the flank and forced Moray and Morton back. We lacked sufficient horse to hold them and those we had were overpowered.
This was the point of danger, but by now the Hamiltons were suffering damage from the crossfire of my musketeers. So I threw forward the main body of our foot, pikes to the fore, into the village. The enemy began to fall back in confusion. Yet this was also our last throw, since Argyll’s men were ranged behind ready to sweep down on us, and we would have to stand our ground and fight for every bloody inch. Instead the Highlanders turned and ran.
Later we learned that Argyll himself had suffered some fit and his Highlanders were unwilling to bear the brunt without their chief. The Lord of Hosts must have been our friend that day for truly we were facing defeat. But our discipline held, and though Hamilton losses were severe in the village, Moray called off the pursuit, and insisted on prisoners taken, and quarter given.
Mary herself had gone. Later it appeared she had not risked a race to Dumbarton, but rode hard instead to the southwest where she knew the country was friendly to her cause. We rarely see an outcome beyond the next throw.
Langside was a victory based on lessons learned long ago in France and luck. At the summit of my skill and strength, I inflicted defeat on my true queen. And saved the skin of two of the blackest falsest scoundrels my nation has ever known. All that is left to me is to try and amend my fault.
Bothwell
I HAD THE right. They agreed. They signed the bond. They wanted me to marry her. The lying two-faced scum.
I am the King of Scots. Bring me more wine. Come out of the shadows. Show yourselves in the light. Call me a murderer and you’ll answer with your life. Single combat – swords and dirks on foot, or lances mounted and armoured. Or I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands. Not a man among you has the birth and breeding, or the bloody guts, to fight.
They left us to fry on that hillside. Bring me more wine, you stingy bastards.
I let her go, for her own safety. Under pledge of protection and honorable treatment. She is your queen. Honoured with a prison cell. Treacherous bastards every one, even Kirkcaldy. Aye, William, and you need to learn how to steer a ship.
God but I’m parched, burning.