The Ballad of the Five Marys

by Donald Smith

  He has great suspicion, yet trusts in my word, but not so far as to tell me all he is devising. However if you want me to disclose to him then I will draw all out, though I will never be willing to deceive someone who puts his trust in me. He will not come unless I am with him at bed and board as before. Nevertheless you may command me in all things, and do not think less of me for it, since you are the cause. I would not do this for my own revenge.

  This letter, without address or signature like the first, is subscribed, ‘the long letter written from Glasgow by the Queen of Scots to the Earl of Bothwell’. Once more the subscription is crossed out and replaced by ‘a composite letter composed from correspondence to the Earl of Moray from Glasgow, and letters to the Earl of Bothwell after he was married to the Queen.’ One further paragraph is appended by itself.

  The bearer of this will tell you much more on my authority. It is late and I have many things to write, so you can trust his word. He will go anywhere on my instruction. Alas, I never deceived anyone, but I submit entirely to your will. Send me your will and I will obey you in all things. Take counsel with yourself if you cannot find some secret medicine, for he will take physic and the baths at Craigmillar. He may be there for a long time.

  Below this is written, ‘Of the Earl Bothwell, and of the lodging in Edinburgh.’ Beside this is scribbled in an uncertain hand, ‘Not Craigmillar, Kirk o’ Field. Manifest falsehood.’

  There is a short account of the supposed trial written by my father, but much later. By this time he was already besieged in Edinburgh Castle, and looking back in justification. He refers to the letters but does not quote from them or acknowledge the existence of these copies, if that is what they are.

  Their side pressed for written proof or evidence. Moray protests reluctance, unwilling to blacken his sister’s name, or be the means to incriminate her. Yet at the same time he was seeking a secret guarantee before he showed his hand – that Mary would not be restored whatever the outcome.

  Morton set a silver casket on the table, the one reputedly secured from Bothwell’s servants. And piece by piece, despite Moray’s feigned protests, Secretary Wood snatches out the letters to be displayed. They were copied by Cecil’s clerks and then returned.

  George Buchanan and Wood worked the deceit together, but Buchanan authored the story. A beautiful but adulterous queen plots with her lover to secretly kill her husband the King. Then the murderer joins his paramour on the throne, threatening the welfare of her young son, the prince and heir. Tyranny reigns triumphant and true religion is set at naught.

  Together these two learned scholars tortured French Paris, extracted a false confession, and had him hanged in St Andrews. Yet as the noose tightened his last words were ‘I took no letters to Lord Bothwell from the Queen in Glasgow.’ He proclaims their lie even on the scaffold, and is silenced.

  The final work is artful since nothing has been entirely forged, merely altered by date, time or recipient. So letters to Darnley pretend to be written to Bothwell, while letters and love poems sent by one of Bothwell’s many women are passed off as Mary’s.

  It seems persuasive, not least to those who already want to believe the worst. Until fabrication is matched against known facts. Why should the Queen write from Glasgow to Bothwell in Edinburgh, on the eve of Darnley’s return? He had just left Her Majesty to attend to matters in the Borders, as she knew. Why accuse her of plotting Darnley’s death at Kirk o’ Field, while publishing her intention to seclude him at Craigmillar Castle?

  Not even Cecil could swallow such a confection whole. So proceedings must be suspended, moved to London with the membership widened or watered down, Elizabeth consulted, and so forth. The blunt truth is it would not hold up, so things must be fudged; conclusions were no longer palatable. Mary could not be condemned; nor could she be restored without damning Moray and the Protestant lords.

  I proposed the Queen should marry Norfolk, England’s premier peer, and share the sovereignty in Scotland with her son. Or live honourably in England as Queen Dowager, protecting James’ inheritance and the union of the two crowns in due season. This was statesmanlike compromise with an end to war, murder, and calumny.

  But Moray could not abide her freedom. He feared any challenge to his version of events. He has become trapped within his own falsehoods. To defend the lie of Mary’s guilt, many men have been ruthlessly destroyed. No other version of events can be allowed. All is justified by religion and the security of England, even deceiving its Queen.

  I marvel how the godly can convince themselves that foul means are justified by pious ends. They believe so firmly in their righteousness that any contrary evidence can be excluded. The Good Regent betrayed Norfolk’s correspondence to Elizabeth before she had been consulted. His actions take Norfolk to the Tower and eventually the scaffold. His own sister he condemns to imprisonment in England. She is too dangerous to release, but risky to confine. Our Queen has the worst of both worlds, while Moray was left to rule in Scotland for a time.

  I came back to Lethington. Not even my infant son, nor Fleming’s pregnancy, could raise my spirits from the slough. I was ignored at Court and Council while, bit by bit, Moray tamed dissent and brought the land to heel by force of arms, judicial execution, and the bribery of office. The Prince remained at Stirling guarded by Mar and tutored by Buchanan, the man who named his mother whore and murderess.

  My father’s arrest and rescue by Kirkcaldy followed, along with their seclusion in the castle. For them the final act had commenced.

  Cecil’s hatred though was still unslaked. He was determined on Mary’s death, nothing less sufficing. He feared that in her confinement the Catholic Queen became an even greater threat to England than she had been reigning in Scotland. In pursuit of his master’s goal, Walsingham directed a constant flow of provocation towards Mary’s inner circle to lure her into treasonable communication. Most English Catholics dwell in dread and caution, so these pledges of imminent restoration appeared from associates of Spain or the Papacy, at several removes. Yet Cecil magnified the dangers, painted rebellion in apocalyptic hues, and prevented Elizabeth at any cost from helping her royal cousin.

  Everything returns to Mary. She is the force of attraction and repulsion that moved events. She is the creature at the centre of the labyrinth, the monstrous woman as Knox would have it, born to rule. But in her we find a source of truth, and beauty – a legitimate Queen whose faithfulness upheld the rights of our ancient nation.

  All along she has tried to tell her story but few have listened. We prefer the mermaid whore or a martyr sealed in holy silence. It has been my privilege to go beyond the veil.

  Amidst the papers I received at Rheims is a brief note written by Mary Seton, when still confined in England.

  ‘Though all the world stand against us, my trust in Mary remains steadfast. In love that surrenders life itself, we find our purpose and our deepest joy. I thank God for what I have known and would not have chosen any other path than to serve Her Majesty.’

  This is the authentic voice of the shadow who shelters in the Abbey St Pierre. She left it for us to find before age and time could silence her. I thank her for allowing me to tell this story, and gain my release. At last I am free to find my own way of love, unhindered by the shackles of the past.

  Mary

  SETON LEAVES ME tomorrow, early in the morning. She is worn down by our hardships and seems twice her age. All of her youth was devoted to my service and now she has been sacrificed to our misfortune. I remember her coming to my side even at Carberry Hill. Now I must let her depart, though it tears my own heart.

  Imprisonment wastes and wears. That, at least, I have learned in England. My household shrinks as we are confined to smaller and stonier quarters. Damp runs down these walls till each month and year is imprinted in my flesh, my aching bones.

  The dignity of my Court is lost. I cannot get my rents from France so everyone must make do and mend. Fortunately I can sew and embroider. I owe that to Granni
e Bourbon, who has not written to me for many years.

  I commend Seton to my aunt at Rheims. She will care for her bodily needs and comfort her soul. To all who love me I am faithful and generous. Through my intercession Lady Margaret Kirkcaldy is also at Rheims. They can pray at my mother’s grave while I remain entombed in England.

  I can see no hope of release. Failing an invasion, my days are prescribed. They are at Elizabeth’s disposal, the cousin who cannot look me in the face, far less treat me as sisters should. I am at her mercy without hope of alteration. She cannot see me alive nor bear to have me dead. Her features are closed to me; she has become more mask than woman

  So I have gathered up my papers, letters and journals, to send away to Rheims. Seton will hide them in her person and keep them secure till need arises. I have always depended on Seton, more than all my other Marys, who left me one by one to marry. Perhaps I have presumed on her devotion.

  Now I place my reputation in her trustworthy hands. Who will dress my hair? From this time forwards I may have to wear my wig. Whatsoever, Seton must go, before English servitude stops her breath for ever. She is the last, sorely missed by me above all others.

  Grannie Bourbon said I married beneath me and so brought disaster on my own head. None is left to intercede on my behalf. The Medici always despised and envied me. When Maman was in Scotland, and the snake glowered on my charms, Annette de Bourbon was my mainstay and consolation. Now I am bereft of family. I am finally alone.

  Beside my bed I have the double portrait of my infant son and of his father. Framed in gold they are always before my eyes, the altarpiece of my devotion.

  They say I connived to murder Darnley. False; all lies and treachery. God knows he repaid my love in bitter coin, but I never sought his death. He was the father of my child, our heir and successor, pledge of the double crown. Despite his cruelty, the violence of his assault on Rizzio and on my person, I needed Henry Stewart to live. I was the greatest loser by his annihilation. Those who slaughtered Darnley aimed at my destruction first, and when that failed, they used his death to pull me down into the mire. We were both victims of their dark devising – to besmirch my name and defile my crown. Filth was their natural element.

  Morton, Balfour, Bothwell, aye Bothwell, were the guilty ones. Even Maitland looked aside and pretended to some deeper scheme. So many nobles gave assent, but Moray’s was the guiding hand. And, behind him, hateful Cecil. Could they not see the price Scotland would pay for such royal assassination? Most were blinded by lusts for land and revenge.

  Yet my brother, the good Lord James, aimed at my downfall from the start. I see that now. I was innocent of his resentment and his craving for power. Even wealth was just the means to a long harboured end. I did not understand the Bastard’s need, burning beneath that impassive brow. It was not just that he desired my place; he wove a net of calumny and falsehood in which to trap me. I was innocent, uncomprehending of such malign intent. He wore a mask of reason, and wrapped himself in the guise of piety. But he became the direst traitor, a tool of English policy and cunning.

  Yesterday I had word from Prince James in Scotland. It is the first time he has written to me, despite all my presents, notes and anxious solicitations through the long years of captivity. My child, my grown up boy whom I have not seen or touched since they took him from my arms as a baby. He was not allowed to write nor ever shown my letters. But now he has come of age. My royal son.

  James utterly repudiates my claim to restoration. He will countenance neither the compromise of shared rule, nor my return to Scotland. Subservient to Elizabeth’s desires, he has set me aside in favour of his own succession to the English throne. He wants to call me Queen Mother. Words cold and sharp as a blade.

  False, ungrateful child. Have I endured so long to be spurned by my own son? What unnatural offspring could deny his own birth in such callous fashion? Like me he was divided from his parents in infancy, yet dearly loved, never abandoned. What have they done to him? Moray, Morton and Buchanan – the teacher who calls me ‘whore’ to his face. They have frozen his heart and turned his love to iron disdain.

  Merciful Lord, grant me strength in my weakness. Supplant my will with thine and help me to submit. Drive out unruly desires, and be thou only Master of my passion. Make me alone your dwelling place, your cell, your desert and retreat. Sole spouse of Christ.

  It is not my first captivity. As the world knows I was imprisoned in Lochleven Castle. Long before I was given refuge on an island; then I was confined on one, in breach of every guarantee and promise. In defiance of my rights and status. My life hung by a thread. Like the Princes in the Tower my death would be convenient and unseen.

  I was not able to defend myself, or even to understand my situation. They demanded I repudiate Earl Bothwell, but I carried his bairn in my womb. Bairns, as it turned out. He was my lawful husband, not paramour or illicit lover. I lay numbed by pain and shock till in a bloody flux I lost the tiny babes.

  To this infirm state, weak from loss of blood, fevered and inflamed in all my lower parts, came Lord Lindsay threatening death unless I signed their abdication. Not mine. Never mine. Even in my extremity I am the Queen; I do not renounce my crown. Only God’s decree can remove what has been ordained for me. I signed their papers under duress, knowing that my brother Moray was hastening to Lochleven to relieve my oppression and distress.

  Then finally I knew James for what he is, or was. God does not forget; his judgments are sure and just. The smouldering fire of his resentment, the determination to rule in my place, the cold anger. He harangued me like some canting preacher. The muscles worked beneath his impassive mask.

  John Knox had more fellow feeling than my own brother. He called me murderer and adulterer and left me a whole night trembling in expectation of a violent end. He proved what I had known but not experienced directly for myself – how religion could be an instrument of hate and fear. So I named him Regent in my place and prepared for long imprisonment or early death.

  He did not live long to enjoy his mean triumph. Shot down in his prime by a Hamilton bullet. Even tenacious Morton is deposed and brought to trial in Scotland. The mills grind slow but sure. God pulls the tyrants from their throne and raises the oppressed. They deserved their end.

  How things come round. A wheel without remorse or remedy.

  I still have the ring that Fleming sent me on the island. The lion is bound while a faithful mouse gnawsthenet. Time and patience, Maitland was trying to tell me. So many years ago. I maun thole.

  Now I embroider the cat and the mouse. A big striped ugly ginger cat, playing with its prey. Who does that remind us of? What truths there are in simple creatures. Where would I be without my little darling dogs? They know their mother and run to my hand to nuzzle and pet. We spoil each other with our titbits and chatter. Such pleasures are a comfort for creatures made to give and receive love.

  My supposed letters have been published for all to gloat over. Discovered by Morton like long lost treasure in a casket, they are Moray’s artifice. Now Cecil spreads them about, though covertly for fear of Elizabeth’s disapproval. Am I not still Queen? Perhaps even the hate filled Secretary is shamed to openly put his name to such blatant fabrication. Having presumed to try a reigning monarch like some common criminal, he then resorts to blackening me in the court of opinion. And those who want to believe give eager credence.

  Yet their story bears scant examination. It is a tissue of half-truths, sleights of hand and brazen forgery. All mixed with a dramatist’s most tempting devices – secret passion, adultery, treason, murder. Seneca would be proud. It should be made a stage play for the multitude. How could Buchanan, scholar of truth, my royal poet, stoop so low as to become Moray’s crooked scalpel?

  In my lifetime, I have been garlanded by two great poets, Master Ronsard and Maister Buchanan. The first has proved true gold, the second base metal. Given my teachers in the Muse, how could anyone think I penned such dreadful poems as the woman in those
letters? That I, a queen, should write like some abandoned mistress would be laughable, if not beneath contempt. Bothwell was well supplied with discarded paramours, so they had a choice of falsehoods.

  It was Ronsard who first praised me to the Muse, and my honour is still protected by his art. Faithful Ronsard, when others fall away, you remember me in sickness and in trouble.

  I did not conspire with Bothwell. Is that not clear for all to see? Yes, when Darnley abused me and when he died, I leaned on Hepburn’s strong arm for my defence. What else could I do, surrounded as I was by divisive faction, disloyal magnates, and greedy lords. They had tried to kill me and my infant in the womb. They lured me to Kirk o’ Field intending my destruction. No woman could resist such an attack alone. Bothwell was my protector and I had every right to depend on his loyal service and to reward him. My hardy Border Earl.

  But he was not satisfied with being my chief support and counsellor. He seized me at Almond Brig and carried me away to Dunbar Castle. Like Darnley he wanted to be King of Scotland; to possess Scotland he needed to secure my person. I was in a daze or sleep, numbed by the fear of all that had passed and might still come. I gave way, surrendering myself to his strong embrace and so to marriage. What else was left me, alone and threatened on all sides?

  Did something in Hepburn stir and excite? He was a man of action and of danger, no politic courtier. A hairy Esau to Maitland’s smooth Jacob. I had not been intimate with such a man. Yet, if I were attracted, the allure was soon proved false. He was unfeeling in his relations, callous and domineering.

  If, for a passing moment, I thought I could return to my first gallant knight, I was cruelly deceived. When Bothwell had an equal share in my body and in the offices of state, then he told me of his part in Darnley’s death. I was no murderer but I had married one.