Or perhaps the lords planned something more subtle than that. Mayhap Darnley would simply be found at the bottom of a flight of stairs someday soon, his neck broken. Had not her own cousin of England arranged such a death for her rival, Amy Robsart, that she might marry Robert Dudley? There was a mystery! If that were so, why had Elizabeth not married him? Or perhaps it was the Earl of Leicester who had murdered his wife, to free himself for marriage with the queen. It mattered not. The result had been death for Lady Dudley, just as the result would be death for Darnley.
She was sick unto death of having to care for Darnley in his illness; how long would she be able to carry on this disgusting duty? All now knew that she had gone to Bothwell at Hermitage Castle to dress his wounds. She had explained away that wild ride to Hermitage by declaring that she could not afford to lose her best general for want of a leech; it was true that none compared to Bothwell for sheer audacity, and his death would have been a great loss militarily.
But now Darnley expected the same courtesy from her. She must bathe him, dress his revolting sores, gained by his sordid activities with his whores. She must play the lute…Davey’s lute, which she had kept to remember him by…and sing songs to amuse him. She must read to him. Pathetic! And all the time she pictured him in her mind as the corpse that he soon would be. She prayed fervently that he would be plagued by a sore for every knife-wound that Davey had suffered, and there had been fully sixty of those!
Mary shuddered. Abetted by her brother, her lover, and the lords of Scotland, she would be rid of Darnley and thus have her revenge upon him. And none the wiser, as they were all bound to mutual silence or they would be damned as murderers themselves before all the world.
The sun sank behind the hill at last and she stood in the dark, the castle below her in the valley looking like a swarm of fireflies with her wavering torches without and her candles within. She walked towards it. Darnley would awaken soon and be calling for her.
Edinburgh, February 1567
It seemed impossible to her muddled mind, but one moment she had been sound asleep in her bed and the next she was on her feet looking out of the window. How had she gotten there? She had heard cannon fire before, but this was different; it was more like a loud crack. She could see nothing from her window to explain such a loud noise in the middle of the night. She ran to the South Closet at the top of the turret. Fire and smoke in the direction of Kirk O’ Field, where Darnley was lodged. What had they done?
She ran back to her bedchamber; it was empty. Bothwell would have arisen and gone to his own apartments in the palace as soon as she fell asleep. They were anticipating their marriage vows, but what of it? She had done the same with Darnley and was none the worse for it. But what had happened at Kirk O’ Field? She regarded the candle beside her bed. It was half burned out. Two of the clock, then; perhaps three. She donned her robe and ran out into the corridor. The guards were gone; people were running this way and that. She simply must know what was afoot.
She ran back into her bedchamber and began to dress in her men’s attire; that was fastest. Linen shirt, hose, breeches; no time for a doublet and no one to help her lace it. She pulled on her knee boots and ran for the door. She must get to the stables; Pasha would be there. But she had never saddled a horse by herself before; could she ride without a saddle? It was less than a mile to Kirk O’ Field. She could run that far if necessary. And where was Bothwell? Likely not in his apartments; he also would have taken immediate action to see what was happening, and could be anywhere at this point.
All was darkness and confusion; no one even noticed her. She had no candle, but the cresset lights led her to the passageway that would take her to the stable yard. She must find Pasha and get to Kirk O’ Field.
The stables were pandemonium, but Pasha was in his stall as usual. How tall he was! Without a stirrup, a hand up from a groom, without a mounting block, she was powerless to get herself up onto his back. She hesitated for only a moment and then took her decision. She would run. She knew the route, she rode it every day. And there was no doubt as to her destination. Flames and sparks shot up into the night sky, and even here, nearly a mile away, hot ashes and glowing cinders blew on the breeze, resembling nothing so much as fireflies on a summer’s night. But it was not summer now, it was the dead of winter. Suddenly the cold struck her in her linen shirt. She shivered; but she was unsure if it was from the bitter wind or from the fear of what she would find at Kirk O’ Field.
Later she would have little recollection of that nightmare journey in the dead of night. But the sight that greeted her eyes upon her arrival at the burning house was one that she would never forget. It was to haunt her sleep for the rest of her life.
It seemed that the people of Edinburgh were of two minds as to what to do in the confusion. The houses she passed as she ran were either empty, their doors flung wide and left open, their inhabitants having run out into the street to see what was to do; or they were shut up tight, their occupants cowering in the dark, wondering if the town were besieged, and if so, by whom. Pale, frightened faces peered out of dark windows. People ran through the streets in the direction of the conflagration carrying torches that flickered wildly in the wind.
When she finally arrived, breathless, exhausted, it was to see Darnley being carried through the outer gates of the house on a door. His eyes were open wide, but they were vacant. He did not scream or writhe in pain. There seemed to be no mark on him, but there was no doubt that he was dead. Mary shrank into the shadows lest she be recognized. The house was ablaze, the wind whipping the flames; it was an absolute ruin, demolished. No one even attempted to put the fire out. What on earth had happened?
It was beginning to grow light; she must steal away and get back to the palace before anyone saw her. She turned and walked away slowly, as one stunned, as if she had been pole axed. Her mind repeated the same refrain over and over again; Darnley is dead, Darnley is dead… But how? Why? Could this be a spectacular blunder? Was it possible that this was the solution she had been promised by Bothwell and the Scottish lords? Could it be that this was the method that they had devised to rid herself, and Scotland, of their unsatisfactory king? She thought once again of her assumption about a charge of treason; a trial; a verdict of guilty and an execution. It would have been just! Or barring that, a knife on a darkened street. On his good days, Darnley was still known to visit the stews of Edinburgh in search of entertainment. And what about a fatal fall down a flight of stone stairs, when he was drunk and insensible, as he often was? Any of that would have served. All plausible, all feasible. So what on earth had happened at Kirk O’ Field?
It was just before a gray dawn when she finally gained the palace. Out of habit she entered through the abbey. Numbly she knelt and prayed for Darnley’s soul; they were both Catholic and old habits died hard, even in the face of disaster. After a few moments she arose and made her slow way back to her bedchamber. The palace seemed deserted. The sun had just peeked up over the horizon when she wearily pushed open her bedchamber door.
Bothwell was standing at the window with his back to her, overlooking the expanse of land. At the sound of her step on the floor, he turned.
“We are betrayed,” he said softly. “Already there are placards on the Tolbooth declaring our guilt in the murder of the king.”
Mary just stood and stared at him.
“I have allowed my ambition to cloud my judgment,” he said. “The Earl of Moray has wasted no time in openly accusing us, and the people, who are easily led, have taken up the cry. Those placards must have been prepared long before the deed was done, made ready for this day.”
Mary sat down heavily in a chair. There was no need to ask why. She had not wanted to believe that blood could betray blood, but now she knew that her brother could not be trusted.
She narrowed her eyes. “Do not worry,” she said quietly. “We are not undone yet. Nor will be, whilst I am queen!”
Chapter 10
“She has said t
hat she cares not if she loses France, England or her own country of Scotland for Bothwell, and will go with him to the
world’s end in a white petticoat ere she leave him.”
- Sir William Kirkcaldy of Grange
Cecil House, London, May 1567
T here are many traps that a man…or a woman…may fall into in this life. Two of the vilest are lust and ambition. Both blind their victims so that they cannot see their danger. But in the hands of the righteous, these dangerous emotions can be useful tools. Trap or tool, then; what makes the difference? To Cecil’s mind, the difference was intent; he sought only what was best for England. He sat by the hearth, staring into the fire, contemplating these truths. He had never suffered from either lust or ambition; but he had used them as tools, most successfully. This time, most successfully.
That he had connived with the Queen of Scotland’s brother against her bothered his conscience not at all. The idea that England might someday fall back into popery because Mary Stuart was named heir to the throne of England was a potential circumstance that had always been anathema to him. And in the final analysis, he was simply willing to shoulder responsibilities from which the Queen of England shrank. Hence his usefulness!
He had always been adamant that the succession must be decided for the state to be safe. But lately he was not so certain of that. He was not, indeed, he had never been, conceited of his ideas. He was more like the willow than the oak; he was not above abandoning any course of action that might prove harmful to the weal of the state. And he had begun to wonder of late if a foreign marriage for Elizabeth was, after all, the best solution. A Catholic husband would never do; if the queen married a papist, there would be civil disorder with the first Mass said on English shores, even if that Mass was said in private. On that score alone a French or Hapsburg match was out of the question, and there were no other viable foreign candidates. That left only the Earl of Leicester, God forfend! Yes, his conscience was flexible where England was concerned; and so he would continue to support the Council and the Parliament’s demand for the marriage of the queen. But privately, he would begin to pursue a different strategy. From now on, his goal for English policy would be the creation of a united and Protestant British Isles, the first step of which would be a permanent alliance with Scotland. But he much preferred that such an alliance be one in which the papist Queen of Scotland would play no part.
So immersed in his thoughts was he that he did not hear the persistent tapping upon his door. Therefore he was startled when the door opened and a young page knocked on the inside of the thick oaken door.
“Yes, Thomas, what is it?” asked Cecil, turning from the fire.
“Forgive me, sir, but Her Grace the queen and Sir Nicholas Throckmorton are without.”
It was very late; a spontaneous visit from the queen was most unusual. More often Elizabeth simply sent for him to come to her. And Throckmorton’s unexpected arrival from Scotland surely boded no good.
“Well, pray do not stand there gawking, Thomas. Show them in.”
“We are here already,” said a weary voice. “No, child, no ceremony,” said Elizabeth to the awestruck page. “Just go and leave us be.”
Cecil arose and led the queen and Sir Nicholas to chairs and a settle by the fire. The days were warm, but the nights were still very cool. The fire blazed on the hearth; a purring tabby cat was curled up cozily on the hearthrug. “Would Your Grace care for a sup of ale?” he asked.
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, and mulled, if you please.”
Cecil thrust his mulling poker into the flames and set about gathering his spices; there were cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and ginger; and honey to add sweetness. All were silent as he poured ale into three sturdy mugs.
Elizabeth shifted in her chair and turned to watch Cecil as he went about his task. He thrust the red-hot poker into the queen’s mug, allowed it to cool for just a moment and then handed it to her. She took the proffered mug from Cecil’s hands and blew on it. Addressing Sir Nicholas she said, “Tell him,” in a flat tone.
Sir Nicholas drew a deep breath and then blew it out, puffing his cheeks. He placed his hands on his knees. “The Queen of Scotland has married the Earl of Bothwell.”
The rumors had been rife ever since Darnley’s death, but such news was still shocking to hear. Suddenly Elizabeth set her mug down on a side table with a bang, jumped up from her chair and began pacing the small room, an elbow clasped in each hand.
“I tried to warn her,” she cried. “Did I not? And she followed none of my advice! Was I not in the same situation when Amy Dudley was found dead at the bottom of the stairs at Cumnor Place? Did I not immediately banish Dudley from my presence and order a full investigation? What ails the Queen of Scotland? Is she daft? Will she actually look through her fingers at this vile act, even if she believes Bothwell to be guilty of Darnley’s murder?”
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but the Queen of Scots has proven herself to be an impetuous fool time and time again,” said Cecil. “This is no more than I expected.” And how glad he was to hear it! Mary Stuart was proceeding down a path that was almost certain to end in her utter ruination. All believed Bothwell to be guilty of Darnley’s murder; but instead of acting prudently, Mary had supported and embraced Bothwell and kept him close to her, in defiance of all reason. And now she had married him!
“That, alas, is not all of it,” sighed Sir Nicholas. “The queen refused to place the Scottish court into mourning for the king. Indeed, Her Grace attended the wedding feast of one of her ladies on the very day after Lord Darnley’s death. And then she ordered that His Grace be buried in Holyrood Chapel without any ceremony whatsoever, leave alone that due to a husband and a king.”
“Surely that cannot be true!” blurted Cecil. He handed Sir Nicholas a steaming mug and then proceeded to mull his own cup.
“I fear me that it is,” said Sir Nicholas. “I was there and saw this with my own eyes. That is why I felt it prudent to return to England; I feared that none would believe such a fantastic tale if told only by a mere messenger.”
“I cannot credit it,” said Elizabeth, shaking her head. She set her mug down and began to pace the small room like a restless lioness.
“I fear me that there is more,” said Sir Nicholas.
“What else could there be?” cried Elizabeth, flinging her arms wide. “To what other heights of folly could my queenly cousin possibly aspire?”
“She has given all of Darnley’s possessions, even his stable of horses, to Bothwell, and all of his rich attire, too.”
Elizabeth snorted. “Aye, that was meet! It is the perquisite of the hangman to have the victim’s clothing, after all!”
“Bothwell’s trial was a travesty of justice, a hopeless sham,” continued Sir Nicholas. “The Earl of Lennox and his witnesses dared not even show their faces for fear of their own lives. Edinburgh swarms with Bothwell’s retainers, and on the day of the trial, he rode to the Tolbooth flanked by four hundred of his Borderers. All knew what the queen expected; she waved Bothwell goodbye from her palace window as he rode off to court on Darnley’s charger! With the queen herself so obviously on Bothwell’s side, there was little choice but to find him not guilty.”
“Jesu, she must be mad!” cried Elizabeth. The Queen of Scots was her cousin and shared blood with Elizabeth’s own father; Mary was Henry the Eighth’s great-niece. What madness seized them and made them turn on those whom they had once loved? Or if it was not love, those whom they had desired so much that they had defied God and the Devil to have them? Suddenly a thought struck her. “Did I not hear, Sir Nicholas, that my cousin has been ill? Is it possible that whatever ails her has addled her wits? For if she is not mad, then she is most certainly grievous wicked.”
Throckmorton himself was in great misery; he knew what wild passion could seize one and turn one almost mad. He had been sick with jealousy when Mary married Darnley, and now a similar emotion had seized him and held him fast in its grip in regard to Both
well. But he must never by word or deed reveal these feelings to anyone. Ensuring that such shocking news reached the Queen of England and was properly and correctly conveyed to her was not his only reason for fleeing Scotland; he could not bear to stand by and watch what Mary was doing.
Elizabeth frowned, her delicate red brows drawn downwards like sword points across the bridge of her nose. “But is not the earl already married?” she asked, a puzzled expression on her face. “Did he not marry the Lady Jean Gordon last year?”
“Indeed, yes,” replied Sir Nicholas. “But it was the queen herself who petitioned the Archbishop of St. Andrews for an annulment of Bothwell’s marriage to that lady. Barely a week after the archbishop complied, the banns were called and Their Graces were married. An act, maintains the queen, rendered necessary by her ravishment.”
Elizabeth stopped her pacing in mid-stride and said, “Forgive me, her what?”
Sir Nicholas seemed to shrink back into his chair. Here was the crux of the matter, after all. “It all started, Your Grace, when the Queen of Scotland went to Stirling Castle, where the infant Prince James is in the keeping of the Earl of Mar. Her Grace desired greatly to remove the prince back to Edinburgh. But Edinburgh Castle is now in the possession of the Earl of Bothwell. The Earl of Mar refused to release His Grace into the custody of the queen for fear that the Earl of Bothwell was indeed Lord Darnley’s murderer, and that he might therefore do some harm to the prince. And so the queen rode empty-handed away from Stirling.”
“Her Grace had gone barely five miles when Bothwell appeared with a host of men. It is claimed that the earl then abducted the queen and took her to Dunbar, where he ravished her. Her Grace vows most emphatically that it is true, and therefore renders marriage between them necessary. Hence the appeal to the archbishop for an annulment of the earl’s present marriage. The queen adamantly maintains that she was given no choice in the matter and that for her honor’s sake, she must marry Bothwell; and so she has. But all this mummery has deceived no one.”
In High Places Page 32