In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  Moray grunted. He blew on the steaming cup, holding it in both his hands. The fire crackled as the flames danced to a sudden gust of wind that blew down the chimney, which caused a few errant sparks to fly onto the hearth rug. “His Grace had repaired to his father’s house in Glasgow to nurse an attack of measles. Or so it was bruited. It is fortunate that the queen has banished him from her bed; what really ails him is the pox. God alone knows if he has infected my sister with it! Anyway, he is back in Edinburgh now.”

  Cecil looked up sharply. One well-known consequence of syphilis was insanity. That would explain much, for both Mary and Darnley!

  Moray took a swig of his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “My Lord Darnley may look like a whey-faced boy, but his reputation as a libertine is well known. He is steeped in vice. The pox is the reward for those who indulge such unwholesome appetites.”

  Cecil nodded. “Indeed,” he replied. “But what both the queen and I are concerned about is that the Queen of Scots has seemingly seized the initiative. This is energizing the Catholics on both sides of the border. Exactly what I feared when Darnley was sent north! Both our countries stand to face civil war should the French or the Spanish intervene. And from what I hear, your sister claims that she has Philip of Spain in her pocket.”

  James snorted. “There is naught to fear. Pope Pius declares himself impressed with my sister’s foot-stamping about restoring the Catholic faith to Scotland. But no one on the Continent, when it comes to it, will want to spend their good ducats on Scotland. Nay, my friend, I fear that it is Ireland that may prove much more of a problem.”

  Cecil looked up sharply. “Why, what mean you?”

  The earl set his wine cup aside, leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “My sister thinks to assist Shane O’Neill in his plan to invade England.”

  “Huh,” grunted Cecil. “The doings of these petty Irish kings are of no interest to me. They are, forgive me, worse than the Scots when comes to internecine faction and strife.”

  “True,” agreed Moray. “But Mary means only to distract England from Scotland. And whilst that occurs, Mary seeks to gain followers amongst the Catholics in every shire in England, especially in the north, where there are many more Catholics. While England is busy quelling the Irish, she will invade from the north and sweep down to London, seizing the crown from your good queen. At least that is what she thinks to do. But when it comes to it, my sister will have little support for the same reasons you just pointed out. The Scots seem unable to unite for very long under any cause. It has always been so. The clans war amongst themselves. Such a plan is doomed to failure.”

  Cecil chuckled. “Such puerile double-dealing! And your sister chides Elizabeth for supporting Scottish subversives! Elizabeth believes that it will not be long before the Queen of Scots founders on the rocks of her own impulsiveness. But until then, England must hold the dogs of war at bay.”

  Moray arose and helped himself to more ale. “There are danger signals all around my sister, but she fails to see them,” he said matter-of-factly. “She has alienated her nobles. She has promoted a hated foreigner in Rizzio, and fails to see the danger to herself of the scurrilous rumors that have arisen about the two of them. Some even go so far as to say that the child she carries is not Darnley’s but the upstart Italian’s. The Scottish court seethes with resentment against Rizzio, and by her close association with him, the queen herself. Now she has refused Darnley the Crown Matrimonial, and has even forbidden him the use of the royal arms of Scotland. All of this is madness, but she flies in the face of it. And what she says of her husband to any who will listen I cannot repeat for modesty’s sake! For what remains of her tattered honor I cannot report her words.”

  “Clearly,” said Cecil, with just the hint of a question in his voice, “things cannot go on as they are.” Elizabeth may not be made privy to the use of which her support to Moray would be put, but Cecil must know all.

  “Aye,” replied Moray. “And so they shall not. The people of Scotland are heartily sick of the three of them. Peace with England has finally been achieved; I can speak for the Scottish nobles when I say that we have no intention of allowing my sister to alienate the English. We may continue to fight amongst ourselves, but we have no desire to waste our substance fighting the English. But most troublesome of all is the shift in my sister’s policy in regard to religion. Scotland will not go back to paying Peter’s Pence and the idolatry of the Catholic Church, Cecil. Such shall not be borne.” James arose from his chair, seized the poker, and stoked the fire. Cecil wondered if Moray was picturing Rizzio with each violent thrust.

  Almost as if James had read his thoughts, he said, “My Lord Darnley, our puppet king, is grievous jealous of Master Davey. Darnley does not love the queen, that much is evident, but the thought that he has been cuckolded sticks in his craw. The Italian’s days are numbered.”

  Cecil regarded Moray steadily over the rim of his wine cup, but said nothing.

  “Morton, Argyll and Ruthven have conceived a plan to rid ourselves of Rizzio, using Darnley as our cat’s paw.”

  “And how do you plan to get Darnley’s agreement to such a plan?” asked Cecil.

  Moray guffawed. “We have planted the idea in his addled brain that Mary sleeps with the Italian; the rumors rife at court have done the rest. The carrot we are dangling in front of the lad’s eyes is the crown of Scotland.”

  “And he believes this?”

  Moray regarded Cecil with his steely gaze. “Darnley is stupid, arrogant, easily led, and insanely jealous of Rizzio. But just to be certain we have required him to sign a bond describing the plan. He is most enthusiastic. In fact, he insisted upon the wording being changed to show himself as the instigator and leader of the plot.”

  Cecil shook his head in amazement. “But then will Darnley not lord it over all of you, as the queen and the upstart Italian do now?”

  Moray shook his head. “We have no intention of allowing him even the pretense of rule.”

  “And how will this deed be carried out?”

  Moray shrugged. “It will not be difficult. A darkened corridor, a dagger in the night…” But he needed Cecil’s sanction of such a plan; Darnley and Mary were Elizabeth’s cousins.

  Cecil placed his wine cup on the table and steepled his fingers under his chin. “The king and queen must come to no harm.”

  James breathed a sigh of relief. “You have my word on it.”

  So his brilliant plan was to be implemented; he would implicate Darnley in Rizzio’s death; the queen would be disgraced and the king placed under house arrest for Rizzio’s murder. And then James Stuart would realize his most burning ambition; the regency of Scotland.

  Palace of Holyrood House, March 1566

  A full yellow moon illuminated the path with a ghostly white light. Mary shivered. Moonlight always looked dead to her eyes. There were only three of them, for she dare trust no one else; herself, the faithful Mary Fleming, and Darnley, who was necessarily sober and whimpering in fear. They might have been three ghosts themselves; but they were very much alive. Unlike poor Davey, whose grave she must pass to effect their escape in the dead of night.

  They must gain St. Anthony’s Chapel quickly; they had purposely waited until the moon was at its fullest before setting out upon their midnight errand. It was less than a mile, but she was six months gone with child and very unwieldy; Fleming, despite the fact that she usually had the heart of a lion, was afraid of the dark; and Darnley was paralyzed with fear. And well he should be! He had betrayed his fellow conspirators, who would be howling for his blood when they discovered his two-faced treachery. It had not been hard to convince him that once the men with whom he had conspired had possession of their son, they would kill him without a second thought.

  So it was imperative that she should remove Darnley from the clutches of her treacherous noblemen. She could only guess what they had promised him to betray her; no less than the crown, she was cert
ain of it. But she was equally certain that once the Protestant lords laid hands on her son, both of them would be killed, being of no further use; left alive, they were likely to cause no end of trouble. Their days would be numbered.

  That poor Davey’s heinous murder had been done in front of her very eyes was more than likely Darnley’s idea, and the lords had been nothing loath. Why not force her to witness the cruel slaughter of her dearest friend? Would the sheer shock of such a terrible thing not, in any lesser woman, have precipitated a miscarriage? And a miscarriage in a woman so far gone in pregnancy would very likely have proven fatal. But whatever else she was, whatever else her enemies and detractors may call her, she was the daughter of a king, and was fearless.

  Indeed, it was plausible that her death would have cleared the way for Darnley to take the throne; that is, if the lords had any intention whatsoever of offering it to him! But that they did not was clear to her, if not to her unbelievably thick husband.

  “Fool!” she had cried in a sibilant whisper, as she sat persuading him to abandon his fellow conspirators and join her in her flight to Dunbar. “Do you truly believe that these disloyal, deceitful, traitorous men will keep any promise they have made to you? Oh, for a little while, you will sit on the throne and wear the crown! But once our son is born, they will do away with us both!”

  And so a shaken Darnley had cried and clung to her and begged her to take him with her. She had had to swallow her hatred and revulsion at his unmanly tears and at his hands, clinging to her skirts; just as poor Davey had once clung!

  They fled the palace without being discovered, and now skirted the south side of the abbey. The trio crept on silent feet. The ground was so cold that already Mary could not feel her feet; how was she going to walk the distance, encumbered as she was, all the way to the chapel? To add to the difficulty, the path they must follow was up a steep hill. But that was where Bothwell would be waiting with the horses. He dared come no closer for fear of discovery; and the view from the top of the hill where the chapel sat beside St. Margaret’s Loch afforded a strategic place from which to survey the surrounding countryside. While the light had lasted, and Bothwell was supposed to have arrived just before dusk, any sign of pursuit would have been revealed. Pray God that there had been none, and that he would be there waiting for them.

  Of the thirty mile ride all the way to Dunbar in the cold and dark she refused to think. If walking were difficult in her condition, riding hell bent for leather for Dunbar Castle may well prove to be a feat beyond her capability. But she must try; there was no alternative.

  They were now free of the brooding abbey walls. Before them was the expanse of the Canongate cemetery. Poor Fleming was beside herself with terror; Mary also felt her skin prickle as they picked their way carefully through the lopsided gravestones. The cold light of the moon was at its most unsettling. Once through the cemetery, they would be on the open parade ground, exposed to sight in the eerie moonlight, if there was anyone to see.

  It was bitterly cold, but her sharp nose detected the odor of freshly disturbed earth. A cloud momentarily blocked the moon’s ghastly light, but a cold wind had risen, and it quickly scudded away to reveal a most unnerving sight. For there before her lay the mound under which poor Davey lay. Tears welled up in her eyes. She longed to scream and shout, to tear her hair and beat her breast at the sight of it. But she could not for fear of discovery.

  She was leading the frightened Fleming and the nearly delirious Darnley; when she stopped, they stopped. She stood staring down at the mound. It was not even marked! But she knew that this was where Davey lay. Her heart filled with rage and she lifted her fist to the baleful moon. In a hissing whisper she cried, “I swear by all that is holy that I shall avenge your death! I call down a curse upon the house of Lennox for this dastardly deed! Oh, Davey, you are innocent as I am of the awful things these wicked men have accused you of!”

  Mary felt a trembling hand on her arm, shaking with cold or terror; she knew not which. “Your Grace,” whispered Fleming. “There is no time. We must be gone.”

  Mary lowered her fist and nodded. “Yes,” she whispered back. “Yes, we must.” She turned back to the dismal grave and said, “Davey, I make this vow; that you shall not lie long here in this unhallowed grave. You shall be buried with kings and with the blessing of the church.” She crossed herself and started walking once again. Fleming was so close to her on her left that she almost stumbled on Mary’s skirts, and Darnley so close on her right that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck.

  If only they could have taken a lantern! She knew the way, and she had a seemingly unerring sense of direction, but there were other things that could hamper them; a mole hole, a rock to be stumbled over. And her burden was precious; she must deliver a healthy heir to the Scottish throne.

  Now that she was moving again, her feet felt less like blocks of ice, and despite the grade up which they were struggling, they began to make better time. There was nothing to do except keep putting one foot in front of the other and to try to stay on the pathway. The sudden, piercing screech of an owl startled all three of them; at its ghostly flight across their path, Fleming let out a piercing yelp. All three of them stood motionless for a horrified moment; had anyone heard that untimely cry? Seconds ticked by; nothing stirred. Mary started walking again, swiftly this time, and her charges followed obediently.

  Despite herself, for she had vowed to free her mind from the terrible memory of it, she began to relive that awful evening just a few days before. Morton, Ruthven and almost two dozen others, including Darnley, had burst into her chamber while she was having an intimate supper with Davey and Lady Argyll. The angry men had upended the table, sending platters of food and goblets of wine flying in all directions. It had all happened so fast; and yet when the hideous memory came back, as it did again and again to play itself out in her mind, she always seemed to recall it in slow motion. She saw the ugly expressions on the faces of the attackers, heard again Davey’s dreadful screams when they seized him. He had grasped her skirts and pulled so hard that she had almost been disrobed. Darnley himself had broken Davey’s frantic hold as he bent Davey’s fingers back to loosen his death grip upon her gown. She shuddered as she recalled the many times she had seen those nimble fingers fly across the strings of a lute.

  Then they had all stabbed and stabbed and stabbed in their fury, the red blood spurting everywhere; Davey had cried and shrieked and tried to run, but they pursued him out into the corridor and down the stairs. She had cried tears of impotent fury, for she knew that she could not help him. Finally his screams became fainter and fainter and then died away altogether. Ruthven had held her fast and she had not dared to move, for he held a pistol to her belly. All she could do was to scream, and shout poor Davey’s name.

  She had hardly heard Ruthven’s ugly words, but he had been yelling abuse at her the entire time; he had called her tyrant and whore. Through her tears of anger and fright she had ignored Ruthven, who had her in his iron grasp, and she had even managed to ignore the gun; all of her anger had been directed at Darnley, for it was obvious that he had been the instigator of this dastardly deed, or more likely had been led into it by these obnoxious men.

  At Ruthven’s shouted accusation of “whore!” she had rounded not on him, but on Darnley, screaming that such false accusations could harm their child, did he not realize that? Darnley had cried that Rizzio had made free with her body and deserved to die for it, while she had not for many a long day sought his favors. She rejoined that surely if a man and his wife coupled, it was the man who decided? But had he not always been too busy with his whores to mount his wife? And it was not the woman’s part to seek the husband! On and on it went, words that any couple should have been ashamed to utter in private, let alone in the presence of others.

  Finally it seemed that there was no more to say; all were exhausted with emotion and with the shock of witnessing, or participating in, so foul a murder. Ruthven lowered h
is pistol and let go of Mary’s wrist. Lady Argyll had fainted dead away at the first spray of blood on the wall from a stab to Davey’s neck; Darnley pushed her limp body over the arm and sank onto the settle beside her.

  Ruthven looked at each of them in turn, his face oddly inscrutable, and then he uncocked his pistol, placed it in the wide leather strap at his waist, and departed the room without another word.

  Mary had stood as if frozen to the spot on which she stood, the tears streaming unheeded down her cheeks. Suddenly she said, almost in a whisper, “No more tears. I will think now upon revenge!”

  The faint sound of a nickering horse brought her out of her reverie. They had arrived at St. Anthony’s, and thanks be to Saint Michael and all His angels, Bothwell was there. She could just make out his form in the moonlight. Fleming was a good horsewoman or she would not have risked bringing her; she and Darnley mounted their horses. Without a word, Bothwell reached down and with one hand swung her up onto the saddle in front of him. He spurred his horse and they set off with a jerk for Dunbar.

  Dunbar Castle, March 1566

  “What is the number again?” cried Mary, astounded; she could not possibly have heard aright.

  “Seven thousand,” said Bothwell. “There are your loyal troops, who have been amassing ever since they heard of your flight to Dunbar; and rising two thousand of my borderers and their retainers.”

  “Seven thousand!” Mary mused, her hand to her chin. Suddenly she jumped up, tottering a bit unevenly on her feet due to her bulk. She steadied herself on the mantelpiece; she had been sitting before the fire when Bothwell entered the room. “I shall lead them to Edinburgh myself!” she cried.

  Any other man would have tried to dissuade her; but not Bothwell. He had already take his queen’s measure and had not found her wanting. She was brave, courageous; foolhardy, some might have said. But she shared with him a love of action and a loathing of inaction. No safe place by the hearth for her, even though she was rising seven months gone with child.