In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  “I shall call a muster. Can you ride tomorrow?” Bothwell placed his helmet back on his head; he was a man of few words. He had come to inform the Queen of Scotland that she had an army, and to see what she wanted to do with it. He had his answer.

  Mary waddled towards the door. “I can ride right now!” she cried, throwing off her shawl. “Fleming!”

  Bothwell laughed, a sound so rare that it took Mary aback for a moment. “No, no, Your Grace, that is not necessary. It will take even me at least one day to organize supplies and to ready the horses and the cannon. Rest while ye can; we ride at dawn tomorrow.”

  “I shall be ready,” she said matter-of-factly. Bothwell nodded and then stamped out of the room with a jingling of spurs.

  Darnley had been remarkably silent ever since their midnight escape and their headlong flight to Dunbar. He felt confused, defeated; whom could one trust? He had trusted the lords who had encouraged his hatred and resentment of Davey; so much so that he had signed a bond admitting to his intent to murder the rogue. And why not? From passionate lovers, he and Davey had quickly come to see love’s other face, loathing.

  It was not that he minded sharing a woman with Davey; they had actually done so on several occasions. In the dark and in his cups, it had been lost on him that those women had been remarkably similar to Mary. But to share his own wife, and she a queen, with such a vile creature as Davey! No, that was too much. And even he could see that the paternity of their child must not be called into question. The thought of Mary, her long limbs entwined with Davey’s short ones, their lips touching, was enough to send him into a furious rage. Whether it was true or not, and when it came to the point, he doubted it, for others to think so touched his own manhood, and that nearly drove him to distraction with rage.

  And then suddenly there were the Scottish lords, offering him a golden opportunity, with their sanction, to do away with the little Italian who had dared insult him so! Could any man have resisted such a God-given chance? And then the lords had slyly insinuated that with the paternity of the heir to Scotland in question, it might not be a bad thing for the queen herself to die. He could marry again, have a true heir, and be the king he had always wanted to be. To sit on the throne, wear the crown, and have others respect him and do his bidding! It was a brilliant offer.

  But Mary had not fainted away and miscarried at the sight of Davey’s blood, at the sickening coppery smell of it; she had been angry and had fought her attackers. And then she had been kind to him, who had caused her such grief, and explained that the men he had trusted meant to turn on him, to kill him, imprison her, or worse! And then take their child and rule in his name. It was too much to be borne.

  And so when Mary had come to him, frantic, explaining that they must escape, that she had loyal men who would help them, give them horses, shelter them, what else could he do? Oh, if only his father were not so far away in Glasgow! And for the first time, he wished his mother were there. She would have known what to do, whom to trust.

  Could he trust his wife, after he had just murdered her friend? She swore that she and Davey had not been lovers, that the child was his; could he believe her? The need to make a hasty decision was frightening him to the very marrow of his bones; stay, and hope that Mary was wrong; risk being murdered himself once their child was born. Or trust in his wife and escape. Escape! It seemed the only viable option.

  Suddenly he realized that Mary was regarding him with that look of utter loathing that was her usual expression these days.

  “When we ride for Edinburgh, my lord, do you wish to ride in the vanguard?” He was the King of Scotland by virtue of his marriage to its queen, whether he had been granted the Crown Matrimonial or not. It should be he, and not herself, seven months gone with child, who was to lead their troops in triumph back to their capital.

  Darnley nibbled a cuticle. If he rode in the vanguard he would have to wear his armor and stay sober. Distressing thought!

  “No,” he said. “I shall stay here and keep Dunbar for Your Grace.”

  She had not dreamed that he would not ride at all; but perhaps it was better that way. If he came with them, he would become petulant when he was hungry and he would be drunk before they had gone five miles. She would post a stout guard and leave him behind to wallow in drunkenness.

  “As you wish,” she said with a shrug. In her mind’s eye, she could see it all; herself riding back in triumph at the head of her army to reclaim her capital city, after being forced to flee ignominiously for her life just a week before! So far from being forced then to flee her realm, to become an exile like her brother James, she would be back on her throne! It was a wonderful, heartening thought.

  And best of all, she would ride exultant into her capital with her best, most loyal soldier by her side. Bothwell!

  Chapter 9

  “I thank God I am endowed with such qualities that if I were turned

  out of the realm in my petticoat, I would be able to live and

  prosper any place in Christendom.”

  – Elizabeth I

  Edinburgh Castle, June 1566

  T he screams ceased abruptly, and in the few seconds between the onset of the unaccustomed silence and the wailing cry of a newborn baby, the Earl of Moray felt his fate hang in the balance. Mary’s labor had gone on for so long and was so arduous that he was beginning to believe that she could not survive. That would be best; the queen dead, Darnley sidelined, the infant, who must be male and whose demise he would not even consider, declared King of Scotland, and himself made regent for his nephew. Yes, that was the best solution.

  And then Fleming emerged from the small room adjoining his sister’s magnificent bed chamber. He heard her words as if they came from very far away. A son had been born to the queen, an heir for Scotland; his sister was asking for him. So she was not dead…yet. But there might be complications that had yet to manifest; twenty hours of difficult labor could very well result in the loss of too much blood. And if that failed, there was always the childbed fever. That could take several days to become apparent. But for now, he must play the good brother, congratulate his sister upon the birth of a son and heir, and wish her a speedy recovery from her ordeal.

  He had arrived in Scotland a few days after Rizzio’s murder, expecting to find the Scottish lords in charge, Darnley arrested, and Mary in vapors. But it was not so; his wily sister had flown Holyrood in the dead of night, right under the very noses of his men, wisely taking Darnley with her. Within a week she had mustered a formidable army and marched on Edinburgh. It was her capital city, and sympathy was with her because of the shocking murder she had been forced to witness. The people forgot, in their pity for the “puir queen”, how much they had hated and resented the Italian upstart, who was both foreigner and Catholic.

  There had been no help for it; Morton, Ruthven and the rest had had to flee to England, to that warm nest from which Moray and his rebel lords had just emerged, having flown there when Mary chased them across the English border. He had to pretend outrage at the insult, the danger, to which his royal sister had been subjected, and she heavy gone with child. And not just any child…the heir to Scotland! He had promised Cecil that no harm should come to the king and queen, and what had his men done, with himself not there to guide them? They had allowed foolish Darnley his head, and murdered Rizzio before her very eyes. Could no one save himself be trusted to keep a cool head?

  There was only one way to explain his oh-so-timely presence back in Edinburgh; he must pretend that he had returned only to beg his sister’s forgiveness for rising up in arms against her, that he might serve her now in her time of need. Time of need, indeed! What need, he asked himself bitterly? For now it seemed that his foolish sister had formed an attachment to the Earl of Bothwell. This was a turn of events that he had neither foreseen nor for which he was prepared. He had not anticipated that his own flight across the border into England would result in Bothwell’s return to Scotland from his exile on the Continent, n
or did he realize that his sister would be so imprudent as to become infatuated yet again, and this time with a subject. God send that no one else had noticed the cow’s eyes that his sister was making at the earl. At that thought he became somewhat pensive; the seed of an idea was born and planted itself in his head. As with all his ideas, he laid it away to let it germinate…to see what it might bring forth. He was not a man to act precipitously. And with that he returned to his ruminations.

  Blood was thicker than water, and Mary had always had a sense of the dramatic. What better than that in the midst of her triumph over her enemies, that her hitherto recalcitrant brother should arrive, hat in hand, sword at the ready, to support her and avenge her honor?

  Mary had more than risen to the occasion of his unexpected return; when he was led into the Presence Chamber, she had leapt from her throne, embraced him, called him brother, and cried that the wicked lords would not have dared to use her so roguishly had he been there to protect her. It was a very good show; they had even wept. Only he knew that his tears were of chagrin and frustration that his plans had gone awry.

  And then a very peculiar thing happened. Mary was settling in to the last three months of a pregnancy that had seen extraordinary emotional upset and hard physical usage. Now that she felt safe with himself and Bothwell to see to things, she relaxed, became serene and eerily tranquil. James was baffled at first, and then his lady wife explained. She had given birth to their first child late in the year before; she described to him what it was like to enter the last three months of pregnancy. There was nothing to compare with the unflappability of the breeding female when the nest has become calm, safe and comfortable.

  And so, in a roundabout way, he had gotten what he wanted; as Mary settled in to her confinement, he stepped in and began to rule Scotland in her stead. His sister’s forgiveness of him was evidently genuine; he was reinstated and appointed to her Council, as were all the lords who had risen up against her. But he knew that it was only temporary. As soon as Mary shed her load, and recovered, he feared that he would once again be shunted aside. That would never do.

  James entered the room where his sister had just given birth. It was stiflingly hot; not a breath of air stirred. The coppery smell of blood was much in evidence, although all traces of the birth had been removed. Mary sat propped up on her pillows. She looked very pale and seemed oddly shrunken, she who was usually so vital. But she smiled and held out her hand.

  “Jamie,” she whispered. It was her old, fond name for him when they were children.

  He took her hand and brushed it with his lips; but all the time he had to suppress a recoil at the sight of the reliquary that sat upon the table beside her bed. Inside the silver casket lay the head of Saint Margaret. Mary had commanded that the holy relic be sent to her from Dunfermline Abbey, to help ease the pain of childbirth. So much for his sister’s superstitious popery! She had almost died. The only efficacy that the disgusting thing could have been said to have, perhaps, was that she still lived.

  The baby wailed like a newborn kitten from his elaborate cradle. James approached and regarded his nephew. He was red and wrinkled. All babies looked alike to him; it was difficult to believe that what separated this child from all others was that he was the heir to Scotland. He stuck a finger in under the mass of gauze and cloth of gold; the baby seized it in a surprisingly strong grip.

  “He was born in a caul!” exclaimed Mary. She was weak but still able to express her excitement at this seeming miracle. To be born in a caul was a sign, it was said, of good luck, and predicted a great destiny.

  James said nothing. If this child’s fate was to be brilliant, it would be due to his uncle’s wise regency, not to his mother’s popish superstitions.

  Darnley entered the room, reeling and breathless; he had had to be fetched from a tavern just outside the city walls. He was, predictably, drunk.

  “And how fares Davey’s brat?” he asked insolently.

  Mary sat up, her face drained of the scant color it had left, and cried, “My Lord, God has given you and me a son, begotten by none but you!”

  Darnley flopped down into the nearest chair with a loud belch.

  No one dared to speak; the midwife busied herself with the child, the lords who had filed in to be allowed a glimpse of their next king had their eyes fixed firmly upon the floor, and Mary’s ladies withdrew into the shadows.

  “This,” said Mary, indicating the cradle where the future king lay, “is the son whom, I hope, shall unite the two kingdoms of Scotland and England!”

  Darnley guffawed, but said nothing.

  Mary’s eyes flashed, and whereas before her face had been deathly pale, it was now flushed red with indignation. Addressing her husband she said, “I swear before Almighty God, as I shall have to answer to Him on the great Day of Judgment, this is your son, Darnley, and no other man’s! And I am desirous that all here shall bear me witness; for he is so much your own son that I fear it will be the worse for him hereafter!”

  “Sweet Madam!” replied Darnley facetiously. “Is this how you fulfill your promise to me to forgive and forget all?”

  It was true that she had made such promises during that awful time when they had escaped Edinburgh and stolen away in the cold and dead of night from Holyrood; but she would have said anything to get Darnley to bestir himself.

  She eyed her husband coldly.

  Finally, she drew a breath and said, “I have forgiven all, but I shall never forget.”

  Nor had she; she certainly had not forgotten her promise to Davey not to leave him in an unhallowed, unmarked grave. Barely a month after his death, she had his body exhumed from that unholy mound in the Canongate cemetery and reburied in the tomb of her forebears, with a full Requiem Mass. That by doing so she broke Scottish law, and that her care of one who was, after all, merely a servant and a commoner, reflected badly upon her in the people’s eyes, she cared not a whit.

  James had said nothing about this most unwise decision; let his sister make a fool of herself. All the better for him! He would get what he wanted in the end; he must just be patient. If he could not gain the regency by one road, very well then, he would take another.

  Jedburgh Abbey, October 1566

  The days were beginning to close in very early; it would be dark by half past three of the clock. Seton moved quietly about the room lighting the candles that would be needed within the hour. Mary sat in the window seat staring out at the gloom, her chin in her hand. It had been a misty, wet day.

  Even though the monks who had refused to accept the Protestant regime had long since been made to flee the abbey, many of the lay brothers had accepted the change, and stayed. But even without the soothing sound of the monk’s chanting, Mary still found comfort in the quietude that the place offered. She had purposely arrived two days early, ahead of her Council, so that she might enjoy the peace and solitude before they arrived and the shouting began once again. For the Scottish lords seemed unable to settle any point without a great deal of bombast and occasionally, almost coming to blows. It made her long for the genteel manners of the French court, lost to her now forever.

  A commotion at the door to her privy chamber made her look up, annoyed that the tranquility of the fading afternoon had been disturbed; what now, she thought? She turned with a frown to see what was afoot.

  “Adam!” she cried. Adam Hepburn was Bothwell’s cousin, and his most trusted retainer. What was he doing here?

  The boy practically fell at her feet; it was obvious that he had ridden hard and long. It has been drizzling off and on all day; he was soaked to the skin.

  “My lady,” he gasped. “The earl…”

  Mary felt her heart skip a beat. “What of the earl?” she cried. Her own voice sounded very far away in her ears.

  “Set upon,” gasped Adam. “Near Hermitage. By rievers. Lawless men, who fight without honor.”

  Mary’s hand went to her throat. She gave a strangled cry. “D-dead?” she asked, in an anxious
whisper.

  “Not when I left the castle, but like to be so by now,” gasped Adam. “My lord was engaged in combat with Jock Elliott of the Park; he struck Elliott a grievous blow. Jock’s men, seeing that their leader was down, converged on my lord and dealt him many blows, some with the hilts of their swords. We routed my lord’s attackers and carried him back to the castle, but we have no leech…”

  “Seton!” shouted Mary, clambering up from the window seat.

  Seton, who had been lighting the candles in the outer chamber, ran in to find Mary struggling out of her gown.

  “My lady!” she cried, glancing at Adam, who was doing his best to avert his eyes.

  “I must ride to Hermitage. Tell the grooms to saddle my hunter,” she said. “And then hie you to the Cellarer and tell him I need bandages, wineskins, at least two pots of well-aged honey, and a bread poultice, all packed into my saddlebags.” Hermitage was a stronghold for soldiers, and with no physician, she would need medicaments. “Then find Fleming and bid her fill saddlebags with blankets and linens. And send Beaton to me, I will need help to dress.”

  Seton was horrified at the queen’s intention to ride such a distance, at such an hour, and in such foul weather. And on such an errand!

  “But Your Grace!” she cried, “you cannot ride to Hermitage now! I beg of you, send someone else!”

  “I shall ride,” Mary said calmly.

  “But…certainly Your Grace cannot go unaccompanied!” Seton, who was accustomed to Mary’s unorthodox ways, was nonplussed at the thought of the Queen of Scotland riding alone in the dark, through the lawless Borders. And the terrain was unfriendly; there were forbidding moors and bogs no matter which route one took.

  Struggling with her laces, Mary said calmly, “Fleming shall ride with me, she is the best horsewoman among you. And tell Beaton to find three men willing to ride with us. If there are none, I shall go alone. Adam, go with Seton and make sure all is prepared to my orders. We ride within the hour.”