In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  Elizabeth shook her head in disbelief. “How could a worse choice be made for my cousin’s honor than to marry in haste a subject, and one who has been publicly accused of her own husband’s murder?”

  She was thoughtful for a moment. “My cousin, the Countess of Lennox, distraught over Darnley’s sudden death, is beside herself with grief; I released her from the Tower so that she might mourn her dead son in peace and comfort. In her anguish, she accused the Queen of Scots of complicity in Darnley’s murder. As revenge for Rizzio’s death, or so she reasons. I dismissed her ravings at the time, knowing her to be nearly demented with grief. But I begin to wonder, could such a thing possibly be true?”

  “I pray not,” replied Sir Nicholas. “But the Scots lords claim to have letters, written in the queen’s own hand, that implicate Her Grace beyond all doubt in the murder of her husband. If they are genuine, then I fear me that the Queen of Scotland may be beyond redemption.” He set his cup aside and held his head in his hands, then after a few moments, lifted haunted eyes to Elizabeth and Cecil. “The people of Scotland openly shout abuse day and night at the queen and Bothwell at the very gates of the castle. Who can say what is true, or where this will end?”

  Elizabeth stared at the flames, thinking her own thoughts. She grieved less for Mary and Darnley than for the people of Scotland. But more than that she mourned the damage this debacle was doing to the whole idea of female sovereignty.

  Cecil sat and sipped his ale. All in all, he felt little save relief at the idea that Mary of Scotland was a murderess. If it were true, then the chances of her leading a revival of the Catholic faith in either Scotland or England were absolutely nil; and there was no chance whatsoever that she would be accepted as the heir to England. Indeed, she may not even be able to hold onto her own throne.

  “How say the lords of Scotland to this fantasy?” asked Elizabeth.

  Sir Nicholas sighed. “All of Scotland is in a quagmire, Your Grace. I fear me that civil war may be the result.”

  Elizabeth finally expended her nervous energy and sat down. All three of them sat sipping their ale. Their thoughts were all different, but their conclusions, had they but known it, were remarkably the same; civil war in Scotland might be of great benefit to England…but only if neither France nor Spain intervened. Catherine de’ Medici had already declared that she would wash her hands of Mary if she did not prosecute the murderer of her husband; Philip was deeply embroiled in his own problems in the Netherlands. Even the pope had denounced her after learning that her marriage to Bothwell had been conducted using Protestant rites. Yes, the mad recklessness of the Queen of Scotland might very well prove good for England.

  Dunbar Castle, June 1567

  Mary awoke to the sound of birdsong. The windows were just beginning to show an outline of gray. She found it interesting that songbirds always sang their loudest just at dawn. The sun would be high in the sky and it would be full daylight before the sea birds would begin their endless wheeling and their plaintive cries could be heard.

  Every morning, just for an instant, she awoke feeling happy; and then memory would flood and the cares and woes of her life would rush over her in an almost overwhelming tide. She flung an arm out to Bothwell’s side of the bed. It was empty, as usual.

  She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the great bed. A knife lay across the edge of a plate piled high with oranges on the table beside the bed. For a moment she felt an urge to seize it and draw it across her throat. She had seen men die in battle, their throats spurting their life blood. It was usually a quick end. Why not just do it and have done? Then there would be no need to face Bothwell yet again and have the same quarrel; there would be no need to don her battle gear and go to fight her own countrymen.

  For this was a day unlike any other; today she would face her own people across a divide, and Scotsman would kill Scotsman in her name. It was true that the Scots had, for time immemorial, fought against each other, clan against clan. Clan Gordon had rebelled against the crown when she married Darnley. But this was different. This time, fully half the lords were ready to fight the other half. It was to be civil war, and all her fault.

  And not even worth it, a part of her cried! For she knew where Bothwell had gone, and it brought a taste to her mouth as bitter as gall. As with Darnley, everyone had tried to warn her, but she would not listen. And now there were few besides Bothwell’s Borderers and the retainers loyal to the crown who were willing to stomach Bothwell as king of Scotland. The Lords of the Congregation had rid themselves first of Rizzio and then Darnley; they were in no mood now to bend the knee to arrogant Bothwell.

  A step sounded outside, and the door swung open on creaking hinges. Bothwell insisted that all the castle doors make such a noise; there should be neither goose grease nor oil to silence them, for he needed the warning should the assassin creep in whilst he slept.

  Mary turned. She could just make out his form in the half-light.

  “How good of you to come,” she said acidly.

  Bothwell ignored the taunt. “It is time to make ready,” he said. “See to yourself.” He turned on his heel to go, but Mary leapt up from the bed, ran to the door and grabbed his arm. She was a tall woman, taller than Bothwell, athletic and powerfully built; when she swung on his arm with her full weight, it turned him.

  “And how is the Lady Jean on this fair morn?” she hissed.

  Bothwell was a man of few words, even in an argument; his contribution was usually a mere statement of fact. “I divorced my wife to marry the queen,” he said simply. “I never said that I would give her up entirely.”

  That there was an erotic attraction between herself and Bothwell was undeniable; and it was true that he had never failed her in that regard. He ended every day in their bed. François had been unable to fulfill, and Darnley oblivious to her needs; but with Bothwell the satisfaction of a bed partner, be she queen or commoner, was a point of pride. But instead of then languishing in love’s aftermath and drifting off to sleep together in each other’s arms, from the very first Bothwell would slip out of bed, dress, and absent himself for the rest of the night. He had offered neither explanation nor excuse.

  Mary at first assumed that some urgent business of ruling called him; unlike Darnley, Bothwell had not sat about drinking himself insensible and lamenting that his wicked wife refused to bestow upon him the Crown Matrimonial. Bothwell had simply assumed power as if he already had it. For a time that had sufficed, but when she tried to ask him questions about what was being done in her name, she was, after all, the queen regnant, he had simply brushed her aside as if she were of no importance. Women did not rule, men ruled, and her own reign had so far not been so successful that she should not now be content to relinquish her power to him, who was so obviously capable.

  Mary had then set men loyal to her, and some women as well, to observe Bothwell’s doings. What she discovered appalled her. For Bothwell was spending his nights with his divorced wife. She was consumed with jealousy; the Lady Jean was a black-haired beauty with a white skin, a pink bow mouth and startling blue eyes.

  “I am the queen!” shouted Mary. “You will treat me as such! You shall not have both the queen’s bed and the Lady Jean’s!”

  Bothwell flung her arm away and said quietly, “Make yourself ready. We ride within the hour.” With that, he turned and strode away. Mary stood at the door, tears welling in her eyes, until the sound of his spurs on the stone floor of the passageway died on the air.

  Carberry Hill, June 1567

  The sun was high in the sky; it was the noon hour and they had been on the road for more than six hours. June was usually one of the few pleasant months in southern Scotland, but this June had been hotter than any Mary could recall. She felt a trickle of sweat roll slowly down between her shoulder blades. It caused her to itch, and she shuddered. The sun beat down mercilessly upon her helm; it was so heavy on her head that she longed to remove it, even if just for a moment, but she dare not show such we
akness before her men. The sweat poured down her face, stinging her eyes.

  In that moment, she longed, she yearned, for France. Oh, to be at that refined, cultured court, enjoying the pleasant weather that lasted from early spring until far into the golden autumn! And she would have given anything at that moment to be in Paris, the adored queen with no responsibility except to love François and be admired by all.

  Instead she was on a dusty road to Edinburgh on her battle charger. She wore riding boots and breeches as usual, but no breastplate; she was with child and dare not risk the confinement of such a device. Instead she wore a shift of chain mail, and over it, a silken tabard bearing the royal arms of Scotland. As heavy as a breastplate was, the shift-like garment of metal rings was even heavier. Between the chain mail and her helm, she was certain that if she had been standing on the ground instead of mounted on her horse, she would have sunk to her knees, unable to rise.

  Her back ached; every step of the horse’s gait was agony to her. But there was no stopping on this march, they went to meet their foes, and there was no way of telling at what point the two armies would finally encounter each other. Necessary errands were managed as the need arose; foot soldiers simply fell back in line where they would; mounted men galloped to catch up to their peers. Mary was the only woman, and was riding in the vanguard in the view of all; she could not have dismounted and remounted without assistance. And so she added physical discomfort to the list of sufferings she must bear on this awful day.

  Suddenly the incessant swaying of the horse’s gait took on a new and sinister effect. She was becoming nauseated. Oh, God, of Thy mercy, she thought, do not let me be sick in front of all these men! The bad moment passed; she offered up to Heaven a silent prayer of thanks. She had known very little sickness during her pregnancy with Prince James. Indeed, she had lived her life almost as if she had no such affliction as a child growing in her womb. She had lived through the devastation of Davey’s murder, she had walked in the frigid cold and then ridden thirty miles to Dunbar from Edinburgh, all whilst in a condition that rendered most women immobile.

  But this time was different. She was sick every day, sometimes several times. And she felt none of the exaltation that went with having conceived an heir to Scotland. She felt only utter desolation that her idyll with Bothwell had come crashing down almost as quickly as it had with Darnley. To add to her misery, she had become much larger much earlier in this pregnancy, and was much more unwieldy than when she had carried Prince James. And she tired more easily. Several times on this endless trudge in the blistering heat she had jerked awake to realize that she had almost fallen asleep in the saddle. Would this grueling, arduous march never end? And when it did end, as it must, it would be in a bloody battle. For the first time in her life she felt exhausted, unable to continue. And yet she knew she must.

  As the horses labored up yet another rise, Mary’s sharp ears caught sounds on the wind that was blowing towards them. A jingle of harness; the low roar of a mass of men on horseback. Bagpipes, not in tune or in time with those that played behind her. When they crested the hill, there below her lay the vast army of the rebel Scottish Lords. She recognized the standards of Morton, Mar, Arran and Lennox, and many more besides. Some of whom she had expected to be marching with her! And then she spied a banner unfamiliar to her. It was plain white, and on it was painted a tree. On the ground below the tree lay the figure of a man, presumably dead, and a small child depicted in an attitude of prayer kneeling beside him. It was all too clear that this new banner was meant to depict Darnley’s death, with his infant son kneeling beside him. How dare they bring her child into this? They had all hated Darnley to a man and now they had the temerity to make war on their anointed queen under a banner depicting his death! The hypocrites!

  As the mass of men came into better view, it was painfully evident that the forces loyal to the crown and to Bothwell were vastly outnumbered. For the first time since she had departed Dunbar in the gray dawn, she turned in her saddle and looked behind her. What on earth had been happening? There were far fewer men marching with them now than had fallen out that morning.

  The army stopped at the top of the hill, awaiting the arrival of the opposing force. When there was barely a distance of a few hundred feet between them, the rebel army stopped. The bagpipes ceased. An eerie silence reigned over the thousands of men that stood facing each other atop Carberry Hill. The only sounds were the snapping of banners in the stiff breeze, the nickering of horses and the errant jingle of harness.

  A rider broke away from the rebel force and rode towards the royal standard, which was borne by a rider just behind her right flank. She was ready! There would be no terms. They would fight to the death if necessary.

  And then to her surprise, she recognized the rider as Philibert, the Sieur du Croc, the French ambassador to Scotland. There was no surer sign that the rebel lords were in charge of the country than that the ambassadors were flocking to them instead of to her and Bothwell! If only they had stayed in Edinburgh and not decamped to Dunbar!

  The terms offered were no surprise; the rebel lords demanded that she turn Bothwell over to be properly tried for Darnley’s murder in exchange for keeping her throne.

  “Never!” she cried. Despite his faithlessness, she would not, could not, live without him.

  Back and forth the sweating ambassador rode between the two forces. With every parley it seemed that the royal forces dwindled. The soldiers supporting the crown seemed to melt away; many openly changed sides. It became clear as the hot, endless afternoon wore on that no one had any stomach for battle except for herself and Bothwell.

  While waiting for yet another response, Bothwell turned his horse to face her. “We must raise more soldiers, or regain those who have deserted us. We cannot fight as things are. Have I your leave to ride?”

  She was still the queen; it was only proper that he should ask. But if he left the field, and her soldiers would not fight, she would have to surrender.

  Bothwell’s piercing green eyes bore into her own. “I will come back for you,” he said.

  There was nothing more to be said. She turned to watch as he rode down the hill in the direction from which they had come. Her eyes followed him out of sight. When she was certain that he had enough of a head start, she asked to speak with Sir William Kirkcaldy of Grange. A venerable greybeard, he was one of the few lords who had stayed loyal to her through all the vicissitudes of her life in Scotland, even when he was against her policy. They had not always agreed, but she knew him for a loyal Scotsman who had only the good of the realm at heart. Both forces would heed him.

  The sun was low in the sky when, her offer of surrender accepted in lieu of battle, Sir William lashed her horse to his and led her down the hill towards Edinburgh.

  Loch Leven Castle, July 1567

  It took several minutes, as it always did, for her to realize that it was her own screams that she heard. It was always the same; she would dream, reliving over and over again that nightmare ride into Edinburgh, her hands tied to her pommel, for fear that she might attempt to escape. She was no longer wearing her helm and chain mail; the lords had refused to enter Edinburgh with their queen dressed in men’s gear, a practice of which they had never approved. And so when the rebel army finally reached the outskirts of the city, they stopped at a crofter’s cottage and made her change, under guard, into a borrowed dress. Mary was exceedingly tall, and the dress was too short. Her belly was too extended for her to wear such a garment around her waist, and so she had to hitch it up even further, under her breasts. It was extremely unfortunate that in addition to being too small and ill-fitting, the dress was also red.

  While such adjustments could be made to an ill-fitting garment, the same was not true of shoes; for the first time in her life she was barefooted. For some inexplicable reason, this shamed her more than all the rest of it.

  And so she had ridden into Edinburgh flanked by armed men. It was dusk before they arrived; she rode
into the city to the wavering light of torches, held by the people who lined the streets. The wind had never died down that day, and in the flickering firelight the people, who yelled and shouted abuse at her, looked devilish in their hatred.

  Then someone noticed her distended abdomen. It took no time at all for them to realize that the queen was pregnant, and that the child she carried could not possibly be Darnley’s. Therefore it must be Bothwell’s! The people of Scotland were by and large an ignorant, uneducated lot, but they could count; the size of her abdomen finally gave the lie to the story about a forced abduction.

  Suddenly a roar went up. “Burn the whore! She is not fit to live! Drown her! Kill her!” If it had not been for the reluctant protection afforded her by the soldiers who flanked her, the mob would have dragged her from her horse and torn her to pieces. The angry populace shouted that this was what came of having a Frenchified whore for a queen! She was shocked by the sheer malice aimed at her. Never before had she been anything but loved and admired. Her charm, which could be depended upon to work such alchemy at close quarters, was not perceived by a frenzied mob intent on slaughter. The daughter of kings and noblemen, she was not afraid; but she was very angry and hurt. She had never before experienced such blatant hatred, even when she married Bothwell.

  It seemed a small thing at that moment, but she was also profoundly embarrassed; never before had she appeared in public as anything less than sumptuously dressed, bejeweled and carefully coifed. In that dreadful red dress, her hair hanging down in strings, lank with sweat, she reflected that she must indeed look like the whore they called her. She had never swooned in her life, but at that moment, she felt very close to it.