The Wild Queen

by Carolyn Meyer

  I called for maidservants to help me dress, but I could not decide what to wear. The maids fluttered about in confusion when I asked them to choose for me, but finally settled on a plain black gown. “Perhaps with only a few jewels, madam,” they suggested, and I nodded and let them choose the jewels as well.

  When they had dressed me, I descended to the royal chapel. Everyone stared at me when I entered, and then all of them dropped to their knees, as was customary. After that, no one knew what to do. The bride rushed up and, in tears, embraced me. I did not understand why she was weeping. She loathed King Henry. So did her intended husband, John, my distant cousin.

  “We shall all weep later,” I told the bridal couple, and I signaled that the ceremony should begin.

  When it ended and the couple had been blessed, everyone was to join a happy procession to the great hall, but the mood felt anything but joyous. The musicians waited for a cue. Perhaps if I left, I thought, there would be some good cheer. I returned to my apartments and sat alone, staring at the wall. Later in the day I moved to a darkened chamber at Edinburgh Castle to begin the forty days of mourning. Outside the castle, the wind howled like a wounded animal.

  ***

  On the evening of Friday, the fourteenth of February, King Henry was laid to rest next to my father in the royal tomb at the old abbey. There was little ceremony. Only a few mourners gathered in the early darkness of a winter night—few, because most of the noblemen were Protestant, and this was a Catholic sacrament.

  It had not yet occurred to me that I might be blamed for his death.

  But soon I was dismayed to find that I had become a target of criticism. People began to suspect, and then to convince one another, that if I had not actually ordered the murder, I was at least complicit in it. Queen Catherine wrote to me that Henry’s death was the subject of much discussion in France; many there felt my intentions were sinister. In fact, she sent me a strongly worded challenge: Avenge the killing, or suffer dishonor and disgrace.

  My uncle Charles, the cardinal of Lorraine, sent me no message of sympathy or support. He pretended that I did not even exist. Instead, he chose this moment to write to my brother and tell him that they must cooperate in restoring order to Scotland! The pain of my uncle’s action hurt me almost beyond words.

  Worst of all was the letter from Elizabeth. I received the diplomat who delivered it in the mourning chamber at Edinburgh Castle and strained to read it by the light of the single wavering candle. It was written in her own hand. Many people here are saying that you will look through your fingers at this deed instead of avenging it, and that you will take no action against those who have done this in your name or at your order. I forced myself to continue reading. I exhort you and beg you to take this to heart and will not fear to touch even him you have nearest to you if he was involved.

  Even him you have nearest to you. Whom did she mean? She went on to spell it out exactly: Bothwell, if the father of King Henry accuses him.

  Why Bothwell? What rumors had reached her? Did she despise him because he had managed to escape from the Tower of London? Why would she choose to believe the accusations of the old earl of Lennox, who had long ago fallen into her disfavor and whose wife Elizabeth still held prisoner? There were several men close to me—Lord Bothwell, certainly; Lord Huntly was another; my brother Lord Moray; Sir William Maitland; others. Elizabeth must have had her own personal reasons for pointing a finger at Bothwell.

  The queen ended her letter by stating that there was no longer any question of naming me her successor, and I must agree to sign the Treaty of Edinburgh as it had originally been drawn up. Everything I had dreamed of, longed for, worked for, artfully argued for was gone now, erased in one brief sentence. The murder of the king of Scotland was too shocking, too scandalous, to allow the agreement to go forward.

  The diplomat expressed the hope that he would have a reply to carry back to his queen within the week. I made some little movement of my head, neither aye nor nay. The gentleman withdrew, and I gave myself over to sobs that went on for a very long time.

  ***

  Sitting alone in my darkened chamber day after day, I tried to think through what was likely to happen now, not only to me but to little Prince James. Whatever befell me, I was determined to preserve my son’s present safety and future reign. But I had no idea what to do or where to turn. My suspicions fell on first one nobleman and then another. I had begun to believe that my brother had organized the plot. I had never been certain of Lord Moray’s loyalty, and now I felt more strongly than ever that though I had often turned to him for advice and wise counsel, he was mostly interested in securing the crown of Scotland for himself. That conviction grew when he went into exile in France, sending me only the briefest message of his departure.

  I, who had always felt secure in my role as queen, now felt defenseless; it seemed my power had been swept away by rebellious lords who wanted the authority for themselves. My thoughts turned to my former mother-in-law the queen mother of France. Catherine had no trouble exerting her power. I might learn a valuable lesson from her: Avenge the killing, or suffer dishonor and disgrace.

  I had to find someone whom I could trust completely The only person left in whom I had total confidence was James Hepburn, earl of Bothwell. He had been unwavering in his loyalty. He had shown himself to be intelligent and courageous. If in the past he had sometimes come down on the wrong side of the law, he now represented it as high sheriff of Edinburgh with a number of armed men under his command.

  There were other qualities I admired in the earl. My husband was just twenty-one at his death and in most ways still a boy, an unformed youth. Lord Bothwell was thirty-two, eight years older than I, mature in judgment and seasoned in experience. I knew that he was disliked by many people, but I took that as a sign of jealousy of the high regard in which I held him. Had it not been for him, I would have been completely alone, totally isolated.

  I called for him, and he appeared immediately, as though he had been expecting my summons. “My lord Bothwell, you have long been a friend to me, as you were to my dear mother. I am asking you now to pledge me your help in all things, to place your loyalty to me above all others.”

  Lord Bothwell dropped to one knee and placed his hand on his heart. “My lady queen, you need not ask it, for you already have it,” he said. “I am your faithful servant in all things, as I have been in the past, am now, and shall be evermore.”

  I was so moved that to demonstrate my complete faith in him, I promised him some fine gifts—Henry’s splendid stable of horses as well as his most luxurious suits of clothes. Lord Bothwell raised my hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly. He left my presence chamber, both of us feeling pleased by our conversation.

  Watching his confident swagger as he departed, I had a moment of self-doubt. Have I made a mistake in giving him those things?

  But I brushed away the thought and prepared to meet with my secretary.

  Chapter 43

  Abduction

  ON THE SUNDAY before Easter I ended the forty days of mourning by ordering a solemn requiem Mass for the soul of King Henry. As the choir chanted a mournful dirge, I was overcome by emotion and collapsed. For three days I lay in bed, my mind in a turmoil. Then I collected myself with difficulty and moved from Edinburgh Castle back to Holyrood to observe the great feast of Easter.

  Lent was over, the official mourning period for King Henry had ended, and by custom it was time again for feasting and music and dancing. Slowly my deep melancholy faded. Gradually I began to feel brighter about my future. I sent nine-month-old Prince James off to Stirling, where I believed he would be safe, under the governorship of Lord and Lady Erskine. But I was stunned when I realized I could no longer count on the love of the common people of Scotland. Placards accusing Lord Bothwell of plotting the assassination of the king began to appear around Edinburgh. Women in the streets jeered at me as I passed by. The first time it happened I was so shocked by their rude shouts that I swo
oned. I would have to work hard, do everything correctly, to win back their trust and their support, but I felt sure I could accomplish that in time.

  Henry’s father, the earl of Lennox, was relentless in his determination to name those responsible for Henry’s death and to see them punished. On the day after my mourning period ended, Lord Lennox demanded the right to accuse Lord Bothwell in front of Parliament of the murder of King Henry—just as Elizabeth had warned. I had no choice but to allow it.

  Lord Bothwell himself seemed little disturbed by this accusation. “Have no worry over this matter, my queen,” he assured me. “I can easily put the matter to rest.”

  The trial would take place in a fortnight. Lord Bothwell continued to be unperturbed—Lord Huntly was in charge of the court proceedings—and I marveled at his self-assurance. I was convinced of his innocence, but I was not as certain as he was of his acquittal. That the man in whom I had put my complete trust now had to face such a trial strained my nerves. I fell again into a state of despondency and was given to fainting fits.

  If Lord Bothwell had enemies, he also had many supporters, and they began to arrive in Edinburgh by the hundreds until they numbered nearly four thousand. I watched from my window at Holyrood as he rode off to his trial. Mary Fleming stood beside me. “Never have I seen a man so confident of the outcome of his own murder trial!” she remarked.

  “Of course he is confident,” I said. “He is innocent.”

  “He rides the favorite horse of the man he is accused of killing. And is that not one of the king’s suits, adjusted to Lord Bothwell’s size?”

  I did not reply, but I realized that even my closest friend was showing some misgivings. I glanced at her. Was it not possible that her husband, William Maitland, had been in some way involved with the murder?

  James Hepburn, earl of Bothwell, was formally charged with regicide, the murder of a king. His accuser, the dead man’s father, did not appear after he was informed by Lord Huntly that he could bring only a half dozen of his three thousand men with him into the city. No doubt Lennox feared reprisals at the hands of Bothwell’s men.

  Hours later, the jury acquitted the accused of the charges.

  Bothwell was jubilant. I felt great relief, though the jury’s verdict did not answer the question of who actually was the guilty party. When he swept into the courtyard of Holyrood, I went out to greet him. He leaped off his horse, and as he approached I held out my hand for him to kiss, which he did. Moments later he was gone. “Off to celebrate!” he shouted.

  The change in Lord Bothwell’s attitude was immediate and abrupt. He had always had a certain swagger; it suited his personality. He had also always been self-assured and something of a braggart; now that assurance took on a noticeable arrogance. He was notorious for his displays of temper, though I myself had never witnessed one. After the trial, that changed; he no longer tried to mask his true nature. He barked at servants in my presence and treated beggars and supplicants harshly.

  He had begun to act as though he were in charge.

  I saw it happen, and I was helpless to prevent it, but I also saw Lord Bothwell as my one reliable champion. He might turn on others, but I had persuaded myself he would not betray me.

  ***

  The memory of King Henry took on an almost holy aura among the Scots. He was becoming beloved in death as he had never been in life; he was now remembered—falsely—as a charming and beautiful boy whose days had been cut short by his terrible end. Most troubling, an ever-growing number of ordinary people believed that I was the one ultimately responsible for the king’s murder. More scurrilous placards began to appear, these portraying me as a half-naked mermaid, the symbol of a prostitute. I, who until then had enjoyed the people’s love and respect, had become an object of derision.

  The stresses of the past weeks were taking their toll on me. I could not organize my thoughts. My eyes were red and swollen from the fits of weeping that occasionally swept over me, leaving me exhausted but unable to rest. I felt ill. I decided that a few days at Seton Palace, where Henry and I had spent our wedding night, would give me a healthful change of air. On Saturday, the nineteenth of April, as Parliament ended its session, I left for Seton, little more than an hour’s ride from Holyrood. From there I intended to proceed secretly to Stirling to visit my darling son.

  The next day I was walking about in the fresh spring air at Seton with several of my ladies after hearing Mass when horses clattered into the courtyard. Lord Bothwell, Maitland, and their accompanying gentlemen greeted us genially, waving their caps.

  “Great news, my lady queen!” Bothwell called out.

  “Then tell it, good sir,” I called back. “We are always eager for great news!”

  “In good time, madam, in good time! My friends and I are famished and parched, and it would be better if we were first refreshed.”

  It was certainly not in order for a visitor, even an earl, to demand that the queen provide him food and drink. Nevertheless, I called for refreshments, and we retired together into the hall.

  When the men had eaten and drunk their fill, Lord Bothwell asked that all others be excused from the hall, a request I granted, though I felt this, too, was out of place. Bothwell and I sat alone at the long table.

  “You have all you have asked for,” I said, growing impatient as he continued to work his way through a large roast fowl. “If you please, what is this great news you bring me?”

  Lord Bothwell pushed aside the remains of the fowl. The previous day, he told me, he had invited the lords of Parliament to a banquet at Ainslee Tavern. “A favorite dining establishment of all those gentlemen,” he needlessly reminded me. They had enjoyed a fine meal, he said, “and nearly drained the wine cellar with all the good cheer that was in abundance.” Reaching for his tankard of ale now, he continued, “There followed a long and interesting discussion on the well-being of our sovereign lady—you, my queen.”

  I frowned, waiting for him to go on.

  “It was noted that our queen is now without a husband, a solitary state in which it is not wise for her to remain if she is to control the rebel lords, and it was proposed that she should take a new husband without undue delay.” My mouth dropped open at this, and I would have spoken, but Bothwell hurried on, not permitting me to say a word. “I offered my hearty and affectionate service and said it might be very likely that our queen, dear madam, might see fit to choose me, a native Scot, to be her lawful husband.” He sat back, watching me as a hawk watches a mouse.

  I was stunned. I took a moment to recover my wits. “Do I understand you correctly, sir? You and the lords of Parliament have decided that I should marry you?”

  “Aye, in sum, that is what was decided. And as I had already drawn up a bond to that effect, twenty-eight of your loyal subjects, nearly all of those present, signed it then and there.”

  Lord Bothwell drew out a document—a bond, he had called it—and laid it in front of me. I read through it quickly. It set forth exactly what he had just described, and there were all the signatures. I pushed the bond away, too shocked to speak.

  “My lady queen,” he said, leaving the document where it lay. “Marry me. It is the right thing for you to do. The only thing for you to do. You know that I am the one man in this kingdom who can control these fractious lords. Without me, they will trample you into the dust.”

  “My lord Bothwell,” I replied as firmly as I could, though I trembled with indignation, “my answer is unequivocally no. My husband was murdered less than two months ago. I have not yet found those responsible, and frankly I do not think I ever will. You have been acquitted, for which I am heartily glad, but too much scandal is still attached to his death. And may I remind you of one thing more? You are a married man!”

  “Lady Jean has agreed to a divorce,” he told me hastily. “On grounds of adultery with Bessie Crawford.”

  How dare he! What effrontery! I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “The answer is still no. You are
dismissed, Lord Bothwell.”

  “As you wish, madam. Perhaps you will reconsider.” He rolled up the parchment and brandished it. “When you realize how much you cannot do without me.”

  The earl of Bothwell bowed and strode out, his swagger not in the least diminished.

  ***

  Before dawn on Monday I left for my secret visit to Stirling Castle with only Lord Huntly and Maitland and some thirty horsemen to accompany me. In the best of times I could have made the journey easily in one day. But I had slept little the night before, and I therefore was weary when we left Seton and exhausted when my party reached Stirling late that evening. Lord Bothwell’s marriage scheme whirled in my head and left me no peace. “What am I to do?” I muttered, over and over. “What am I to do?” Surely he could not be serious! Yet I knew he was, and I feared he would mount a campaign to wear me down.

  My wee bairn was asleep when I arrived, but I stole into the royal nursery to look at him. He slept sweetly, tiny fists waving in a little dream. What a beautiful lad he is, and what a handsome man he will be someday! I thought, gazing down at him in his cradle. He was growing to resemble his father—already he had a full head of golden curls—and that was a knife twisting in my heart. That our marriage, begun in such ripeness of passion, had ended in such violence saddened me deeply, for all that could have been and all that was lost. My tears dropped on the babe’s coverlet until I turned away.

  The next morning I rose early, not wishing to miss an hour of my precious time with Prince James. I watched the changing of his napkins, his bathing and dressing, his suckling at the breast of his wet nurse. I rocked him and sang to him and played with him, little games I made up as I went along, just to see him smile. It was a perfect day. That night my sleep was disturbed by uneasy dreams of France and poor Fran^ois—it was the ninth anniversary of our marriage—and on Wednesday morning I kissed my babe before he was yet fully awake and rode off toward Edinburgh.