The Ballad of the Five Marys

by Donald Smith

  Keep faith. Hold fast. I’m not finished. I can spring the trap and win. Only her word is enough to free me. Before vile, smooth-faced Moray has me killed. Venomous toad – crush him and piss would squirt out instead of blood.

  They would have rallied to my side – Flemings, Hamiltons, Huntly – till they called me murderer and outlaw. Then it began – they had to pull me down, and they took my men one by one and broke them on the wheel, extracting false confessions before stopping their mouths for good.

  It was thorough, planned, driven home. First they had to suppress the truth, then cause a lie to flourish. Morton, Lindsay, Maitland and Balfour were all involved – but Moray pulled the strings and looked aslant.

  I have written it for all to see. My confession will convince the world by laying bare the face beneath the mask.

  Which is why I shall never see daylight again, except through a noose.

  And the English were in it too, Cecil’s spies and assassins. They tried to kill me in the north but I left their blood on the steps and the old Bishop weeping for my fate. It was his idea to go to Orkney and my Shetland, where I could start another Viking kingdom.

  North they came to hunt their quarry down, but I outgunned, outsailed, outwitted plodding Kirkcaldy and sped to Norway’s fjords, where I could ally myself with Swedes or Danes and bring an expedition back to free my wife and restore our rule. I was received by Eric Rosencrantz, the Governor of Bergen, establishing my credentials beyond suspicion. I knew the Governor’s name from my embassy to Denmark, and he recognised in me a nobleman of true stature.

  My ships were being cleared at the Merchants Court for through passage, when in filed a troop of claimants against me. What claim could there be in a town where I knew no one?

  Anna the Dane. Anna Thorondsen was in Bergen, living as a merchant. Hell has no fury like a woman scorned. She lodged a claim for breach of promise and return of her money given years ago in France, with interest and damages. As if the favours I conferred were not royal recompense for such a lowborn bitch. She never even showed her face in court, she was so ashamed and aged. All her relations and connections came instead, relishing the scandal.

  ‘Lord Hepburn has three wives living from which you can judge the value he places on promise of marriage.’

  Now I was stuck in Bergen negotiating annual payments and a pension to this grasping fishwife. I should have stuffed her full of salted herrings, which is the currency she understands. The whole place stank of fish. I drank by night and wandered round the booths by day gaping at their glassy eyes.

  I could have stayed in France. I had my chance that second time when Moray had me exiled. Taken a noblewoman to wife and lived easy, and God knows I had offers. But France is not Scotland. My curse has been love of my own country and her queen. No second chances, no turning back.

  So I gave Rosencrantz my papers which were hidden in the ballast. My whole fortune was laid bare for all to see. The Dukedom in recognition of my marriage, proclamation of outlawry, and a handwritten letter from Mary still in her captivity. They took notice then and had me ferried to Copenhagen on a warship, to await King Frederick’s pleasure, or leisure as it proves.

  Your Highness’ fat pig pleasure. I’m still waiting for you to release the consort of the Queen of Scots, and send me to France. Or to Scotland with a navy at my back. You have no right to hold me here. Bargain if you want, like the fishwife. I’ll give you Orkney and Shetland back for my freedom. Read my bloody confession, swine, and you’ll see I’m innocent. Be bloody King only this once, instead of a cheating innkeeper. Just decide anyway what to do with me, for I’m rotting in this hole.

  Copenhagen Palace. Malmo Castle. Then what? Ask the rats. They’re the only ones that know my plight.

  Where’s my pissing wine! Get it in here or I’ll rip your throats. With my bare fangs.

  Kirkcaldy of Grange

  I THOUGHT THIS castle my surety. It has become a trap. We are hemmed in and blasted by their firepower. This happened at St Andrews so long ago, but I never thought to see the Maiden Fortress breached.

  The wells are dry, or foully poisoned. Our throats are dust and ashes.

  When Moray granted me the Castle, it seemed that nothing could upset the new dispensation, so firm was its grip on power. I did not consider why Balfour’s resignation was so amply compensated. When did I begin to doubt?

  Was it the arrest of old Hamilton newly returned from France? Or the attacks on Huntly? Or the bloody suppression of the Borders? It started with the torture and execution of anyone close to Bothwell. French Paris was swiftly and brutally silenced. Something in it bespoke the tyranny I rose against when young. Yet I complied with all their instructions. What I could not understand was the failure in England to openly declare the Queen’s guilt.

  No one foresaw the Queen’s flight one hundred miles cross-country. Nor her decision to seek refuge in England rather than France. Yet Elizabeth was her cousin, and it was always Mary’s way to trust her friends or seeming friends.

  When Maitland returned from London, out of favour with the Regent, I wondered. But then he was arrested and accused, with Balfour. Moray had presented evidence in England to prove that Bothwell and Mary herself had murdered Darnley. Now suddenly Maitland and Balfour were the instruments of assassination. How many murderers could one King have?

  To ensure fair trial I persuaded the guard to release Maitland into my custody and I took him into the castle for safekeeping. That night Moray hurried up with honeyed word to reassure us he would see justice done and that the accusations were the work of Lennox. He is, was, the most plausible of men and I have been moulded by his persuasions. But his eyes are cold. I was disconcerted by their unblinking gaze, even as his blandishments were applied.

  Maitland nodded suavely to Moray’s tune, but when the Regent had departed, he challenged my acquiescence, and demanded to know on what grounds I held Mary guilty of adultery and murder. I cited her letter to Bothwell on the night of Carberry, when she had pledged her undying love in defiance of our agreement.

  Forged. Maitland was adamant. I had been gulled by black hearted falsehood. Mary’s only concern had been the baby in her womb. She could not honourably disown the fruit of Hepburn’s opportunings.

  Forged? Surely Moray had not stooped so low. His own sister, with whose childhood and youth his years were intertwined in France and Scotland. But Morton was a different matter. And Balfour, who had been so suspiciously rewarded.

  But the Queen’s letters on which Parliament had based the abdication? By what due process? Maitland’s logic was unbending, and that chimed with my long harboured doubt. Why had Parliament not investigated the accusations but taken them on trust? Condemning their own queen without a hearing or right of reply. Was this Scots justice?

  Forged letters: a tissue of deceit composed from private correspondence of the Queen to various parties, mixed in with love letters and poems sent to Bothwell by some paramour. Maitland had seen them all in England, where even Cecil had declined to publish them or pronounce the case against her proven.

  I was reeling but unable to deny Maitland’s superior knowledge. He had been accused in order to smother his as yet unspoken disbelief.

  I did not know what to do or say, so I maintained a neutral silence. But I refused to surrender the loyal Secretary into Moray’s grasp. Meanwhile Balfour was released, either through bribery or because the accusation against him was a cover for the assault on Maitland. Balfour is Scotland’s most accomplished double dealer – a strange distinction. In recent months he has joined our party then once more deserted. Beware when Balfour leaves; it marks you as the losing side.

  The days of simple truth and upright action have departed. I wish I had the Treasurer at my shoulder but those were simpler times. Pharisees and Sadducees rule the land.

  Then Moray was slain in his turn, without forewarning or mercy. The greatest captain in Israel laid low by an assassin’s shot. It was a Hamilton conspiracy to strike bac
k for Langside and the old Duke’s imprisonment. The tool was a man driven to revenge by some harsh decree that turned his wife out of their home into the snows to die. Such deeds sow whirlwinds of hate that eventually destroy everyone in their path. Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh, primed and positioned, shot Moray in Linlithgow High Street and laid the Regent low. Killing begat killing, and it continues to this day.

  I cannot abide foul murder. I thought of all that Moray had achieved, our long association, and comradeship in field of battle. The struggle we had wrought for Scotland’s weal. I could not see his honour stained in death, so I carried the lion standard before his coffin, up the High Street from Holyrood into St Giles Kirk. It was lowered before the pulpit, and all Knox’s spiritual power, his torrent of words swept across the multitude of bowed heads. ‘Blessed are they that die in the Lord. Their earthly labour is ended; their victory ensured’.

  This for a forger and deceiver.

  My mind and heart were strangers to one another.

  English incursions on the Borders; the French mustering an expedition. Scotland once more divided. Have I not lived and fought to end all this? Now it will finish me instead.

  Perhaps the Queen could be restored and right order with her? Maitland and I had Edinburgh, with Huntly to the north, Argyll and Hamilton to the west, and half the Borders. They had the Prince, or King as they insist, and Stirling as their capital. They dithered till Elizabeth proposed Lennox for Regent and a parliament was called. I refused them the crown and sceptre from my keeping so it was a poor affair, though attended by all the chief men of their party.

  I struck then and could have had the winning stroke. Feinting southwards first, I sent four hundred horse and to break in by night and take all the nobility hostage from their houses. Only Morton kept his head and resisted, giving time for Mar to bring men from the castle and force our attackers to take cover. They panicked. I should have been there to lead. Some rushed their captives off; others stopped to exchange fire and try to hold the street, which raised more confusion. Most of the hostages escaped, except for Lennox. Someone shot him in the back.

  Whether one of our fools did it or a pursuer who saw a chance to dispose of his puny leader, I know not. Lennox, unpopular and unlucky to the last, was carried back to expire before his infant grandson, unlamented except by Lady Margaret in London.

  We had made things worse, since Mar now succeeded as Regent closely shadowed by the ever ready Morton. The Douglas is our enemy, the one who needs to see us both securely silenced. A siege and blockade began in earnest, and one by one our supporters in the country fell away.

  We were still strong, well supplied and holding all of Scotland’s cannon. I fortified St Giles to command the town, and put guns on the tower. Now it was cat and mouse, tit for tat, skirmish, raid, reprisal. Morton went off to burn my house and crops in Fife so I went down to Dalkeith and burnt his. He began to hang prisoners without quarter so in the end I replied in kind. My Margaret took refuge in the castle, but Mary Fleming was pregnant again and remained at Lethington with her little boy while Morton’s troopers wasted the estate.

  Knox raged against me from the pulpit, claiming I had threatened his life. So I offered him a guard and my personal guarantee of safety. He refused both and demanded to continue preaching against the Queen and our cause. Eventually he was persuaded by his young wife to depart to St Andrews. Once, in another age, we were comrades there, besieged together by the French. I feel the loss of that great man’s prophetic spirit, yet he is blinded by his hatred of the Queen and fears her restoration like a plague of devils. When did she deny his right to faith in our Lord Jesus?

  Maitland is determined to secure a diplomatic triumph. But while his mind continues agile as before his body is giving up the struggle. First his legs and then his belly refused to do their part. Though eating little, his frame began to swell. He had to be carried everywhere in a litter by four men, his resolve undying.

  It seemed we could hold out, relying on Elizabeth’s refusal to release the Queen or fund an army to put us down. But then I made my second error, agreeing to a truce. The town was weary and disaffected, with more houses damaged by the day. The Netherbow Port was hard to hold, and we had to pull down more houses and build a second gatehouse.

  The fighting ceased, and Edinburgh was reopened to trade and movement. But they tricked us and reoccupied the town by force. As negotiation dragged on for months our kingdom shrank to a single fortress. But we would not surrender Mary’s right or betray the lords who remained loyal allies. So Morton went instead to buy off Huntly and the Hamiltons.

  Now we are alone. While Maitland talks of French or even Spanish aid, we look out at hostile territory on every side.

  Mar died still desiring peace, though he could not have it, and Morton finally stepped into the place he coveted so long. He is our greatest foe, since only our deaths fit his purpose. They trench and tighten a ring round the castle rock. I begin to weary.

  English cannon are brought north. Siegeworks are laid, gun embrasures mounted, the town walled off and the blockade made secure. Nothing like it has been seen since the siege of Haddington. The jaws are cunningly positioned to close on us from each side with crossfire. We have neither range nor shot to reply in kind. I set the town alight to try and drive them back, but fail to burn the besiegers out, and only draw the hatred of the people on my head.

  This struggle has consumed my better self. I have only my will to sustain me, my refusal to deny Her Majesty a second, or a third time. I cannot surrender my honour as it is all that remains.

  Every muscle drained and rarely out of armour.

  Margaret is gaunt and white, doling out the rations with an iron hand. As the weeks and months drag out I watch her lose faith in my cause. Now she is loyal only out of duty, and shows no inclination towards love. But a young lass comes to my bed and warms my limbs. They used to say I was a lamb at home and like a lion in the field, but even in these wasting days a fire can stir. Life has ground us down till only such wanton acts restore us to ourselves.

  Was Bothwell right in this if nothing else? I should have had more women to indulge my manhood. When death stares you in the face, it helps to forget mortality for a moment.

  The towers came down today. Yesterday the curtain wall collapsed onto the gatehouse, taking our remaining guns along with it. Their aim is deadly. Maitland is in the cellars day and night, as he cannot bear the noise. The Maiden Castle has crumbled round us.

  When the spur was overrun three days since, many of our men took the chance to slip away. We have barely a hundred fit to fight and even they are thirsty, hungry, worn. Margaret stands like a wraith between scant rations and their rage.

  They cannot go on and are ready to turn on me unless I end their ordeal. Dust is in our mouths and nostrils. It fills the air like smoke. The wells have been stopped for weeks and we hold out our tongues for rain.

  Today I will have myself lowered from the upper wall onto the ruins and surrender under terms. I must give the Castle into Scottish hands, never English. But I cannot entrust myself or Maitland into Morton’s keeping. I have ever been a friend to England and though Edinburgh cries for blood, the English army will protect us from their vengeance.

  The time has come to finish. Raise a white flag. Let’s be done.

  Sister Beth

  ‘NOT THE RATS. Please, take them away. I’ll eat anything else.’

  ‘Sister, Sister, you’re alright.’

  ‘Stop the cannon. I can’t bear it. Not another siege. God spare me, I cannot live on vermin. My flesh is parched already.’

  ‘Drink this, Beth. Sit up and lean on my arm. See, smell it.’

  ‘Is it you, Francesca? Wet my lips. That’s better, Christ and his Holy Mother be praised.’

  ‘Again, Sister. That’s good. It’ll calm you.’

  ‘Was I raving?’

  ‘About the siege.’

  ‘I thought I heard the guns.’

  ‘We’re too fa
r away to hear them. Maybe just a slight rumble now and then. If it’s not thunder.’

  ‘Poor souls, they might starve shut up in that castle. Once I would have smuggled in supplies.’

  ‘No one’s starving, Sister. When your fever lowers you’ll eat plenty, believe me.’

  ‘Have I finished the writing?’

  ‘We haven’t touched it for ages. Would you like to do anymore? I’ll fetch my things.’

  ‘No, Francesca. I’ve done with all the memories, or they’ve done with me. Bundle it all up.’

  ‘And bury it, Sister?’

  ‘No, lass, I’m no that gyte yet. I want to give it all up.’

  ‘To whom, Sister? There are some delicate…’

  ‘Aye, I ken it’s no saintly tale. But Bothwell won’t have it.’

  ‘He’s still in prison, so they say.’

  ‘May he stay there and rot for what he did to my bonny daughter. My lovely wee lamb, fouled and raped and God knows what else. May the rats eat his flesh.’

  ‘Shall I take it to Hailes?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, girl. I’m done with the Hepburns and all their works. I’ll be their woman no longer.’

  ‘Well what do you want me to do, Sister?’

  ‘I’m not long for breathing, that’s for sure. Bundle the pages up, every last one, and take them to Lady Maitland.’

  ‘Mary Fleming.’

  ‘Aye the Queen’s Mary. I was her Mary once too. Poor woman. She’s in prison again and without a good Scots lady to tend her this time.’

  ‘Shall I go to Lethington then?’

  ‘Aye and put it into her own hands. She’ll know, or her man will know, what to do, if he ever gets out of that castle alive. Morton wants his head.’

  ‘You’re very clear today, Sister. You must be better.’

  ‘Dinnae haver, lass. I’m a done old wandering woman, and you’ve been a comfort to me. I’ve left it all to you, Francesca, and the convent. You’ll not want while Beth Hepburn has a guinea to her name. Everything except the bundle. I can’t find peace of mind till that’s laid somewhere to rest.’