I hear of the placards denouncing Lord Bothwell as a murderer and I remember William running to warn me only moments after the explosion. When I told Bothwell that William had been arrested, he went at once himself to have William freed, on a day when the whole of Scotland was in chaos and he was needed by the Queen.
I begin to think that while I only ever had the courage to lead the Queen into the snare of marriage with Darnley, Bothwell might have been brave enough to rid her of it. If he is a murderer, perhaps he has in truth been more loyal to her than I.
He comes to see the Queen often and ignores me, apart from the briefest of greetings and farewells. I am dressed as the Queen’s lady-in-waiting again, in mourning frocks. Though we are both at Holyrood, William and I never set eyes upon each other and I am too afraid to send any message.
Every night new placards are hammered up around the city and soon the people believe they are supernaturally placed. Bothwell is always named, but other names begin to appear too. One accuses Joseph Rizzio, Sebastian Pages, and Francis de Busso—another of the Queen’s foreign servants—as the murderers.
Then one night the first placard appears that dares to accuse the Queen.
Many of the burgh’s citizens cannot read, and this message is drawn so that even the lowest will understand it. A bare-breasted and crowned mermaid holding a whip above a hare, protecting it. Two swords, threatening any who would approach them.
The mermaid represents our Queen, as a whore. The hare is the same as the one that Bothwell uses on his heraldic standard.
Edinburgh’s citizens are not fools. Even those who cannot read the Latin are in no doubt of the meaning of the words beside the picture. Destruction awaits the wicked on every side.
Fifty-eight
When the King’s father, raging from Glasgow, at last openly names Bothwell as the agent of his son’s murder, Bothwell raises his cup to the tidings.
“An open accusation is better than an anonymous placard,” he says to the Queen. “I will go to trial happily to clear my name.”
He sends word to his supporters so that on the day of his trial the courtyard at Holyrood is crowded with men on horseback, bearing the colors and standards of their allegiance. The lords who are loyal to Bothwell bring their own men to bolster his two hundred harquebusiers.
The Queen, Seton, and I watch from the window of the presence chamber as Bothwell emerges into the courtyard with Maitland and mounts his horse. A cheer rises from the men assembled and he waves up at the Queen’s window. The harquebusiers step into formation around him as he clatters out the palace gates.
It is dark by the time he returns, buoyed by his supporters. He looks up to ensure we are watching for him, sweeps off his cap, and waves it in victory. His men give a cheer that roars across the city.
“I have been acquitted,” Bothwell says when he strides into the chamber and kneels before the Queen.
“But I heard word from the King’s father that he did not even come to the Tolbooth, as it contained so many armed men,” the Queen says.
Bothwell shrugs. “If he had evidence of my involvement, he would have come. It’s just an excuse, Your Grace. The court has cleared me of any association with the slaughter of the King.”
She gives a small smile. “It is good news that your innocence has been proclaimed.” She holds out her hand for him to kiss.
He stands and accepts a cup of wine from a servant. “My men are hammering up placards right now. They say that I shall fight in a single contest against any gentleman who dares to accuse me again of the murder. This will put an end to unjust accusations and evil rumors. Now we must continue all efforts to find the men who perpetrated this foul deed.”
≈ ≈ ≈
A mist comes over Edinburgh in the night, pierced by the voice of Bothwell’s crier walking the streets proclaiming his innocence. In the morning the fog hangs like a heavy blanket over Holyrood.
“Find me a daffodil, Alison,” the Queen says when we have dressed and breakfasted. “I feel as though winter will never end in this chamber. Bring me something with some color.”
In mourning, the court has become a place of no color and I am relieved to step outside in the mist, even though it is cold and damp on my skin. I walk around the palace garden, breathing deeply. I cross to the small stone building near the wall. There are stately trees all around it and daffodils usually spring up at the foot of them.
I am in luck. They are blooming and I gather a small bunch to take to her chamber. As I straighten, clutching the flowers, I hear the sound of footsteps coming across the courtyard. I keep still. French Paris emerges from the mist, his eyes wild, clutching something to his chest. When he sees me, he falls back with a cry.
I hold up my hand and he puts his hand on his heart. “Alison. I told your father we should have fled. Now it’s too late.”
“What’s happened?” I lower my voice and step close to him.
“More placards last night,” he says. “Bothwell thinks the trial has cleared him, but his enemies are closer than ever. Look.”
The placard is lettered in an educated hand. Its author has accused Bothwell of the murder and there follows a list of the names of his devisers and accomplices. Three of them jump off the page at me. Jock Blackadder, Edmund Blackadder, William Blackadder. It finishes with something akin to a poem:
Is it not enough the poor King is dead
But the wicked murderers occupy his stead
And double adultery has all this land shamed?
French Paris clasps his hands together. “We’ll be hung.”
“Your name isn’t there.”
“I was seen by the Queen, black as a moor with gunpowder!” he moans.
I step back from him. “Don’t say any more. You should burn these at once. Did you find them all?”
He snatches the placards from me. “I must take them to Bothwell. We will all wish we had run before this business is finished.”
≈ ≈ ≈
The Queen decides to ride to Seton for the fourth time since the King’s death. She is breathless and dizzy, with constant pain in her side. She says the air at Seton gives her some release.
I am as ready to ride as she is. I cannot bear the enclosed chamber of Holyrood, the still mist that hangs in the valley over the palace, the feeling of danger from every side. Seeing my family’s name on a public placard, I feel the Queen’s cold terror of an unknown enemy waiting.
But she cannot outride the strife of the kingdom. Though we reach Seton by afternoon, before the day closes in, Bothwell, Maitland, and Patrick Bellenden, one of the pardoned conspirators in Rizzio’s murder, arrive to discuss urgent matters of state. Seton and I help the Queen into a chair and arrange her hair and clothes before they are shown into her chamber, and she greets them without standing. Bothwell glances at us coolly.
“There are important matters to discuss,” he says, as he and Maitland take seats close to the fire.
“I do not see anyone unattended in these wicked days,” the Queen says. “My ladies will play chess in the corner.”
“Indeed and it is this we must discuss,” Maitland says. “Your Grace, every day that the murderers are not apprehended is more dangerous for you.”
“What would you have me do?” she snaps, losing her composure. “I have held a trial, which the King’s father demanded and then would not attend. I have authorized the fullest investigation by those I trust. I would be pleased to hear your suggestions, as the whole of Europe is holding me responsible.”
“Madam, what the country needs is strong leadership,” Bothwell says. “I have spoken with your lords on this matter and they are all in agreement. You must marry again at once so there is a powerful man on the throne to enforce discipline.”
I must work hard to keep my mouth from dropping open in shock, but the Queen takes no such pains. She stares at him in astonishment.
“My husband is barely cold in his grave.” I can see her knuckles whitening on the edge
of the chair. “Do my lords have a suggestion what man I shall marry, now that the people are daring to accuse me of involvement in my own husband’s murder? Is there some prince that can right this dreadful situation, bring the country back to some stability, and perhaps even salvage my succession to the English throne, which this scandal has almost certainly lost? What savior do they suggest, my Lord?”
Bothwell looks at her steadfastly. “I am honored that they have suggested me.”
I wonder if she will rise and leave the room at the outrage of it, but to my surprise, she laughs, a sad and bitter sound.
“Do not play at such a serious matter.”
Maitland unrolls a parchment. “Your Grace, with respect, twenty-eight of your lords and bishops have signed this bond supporting the marriage of your good self to Lord Bothwell to unify the realm and bring peace. I urge you to give this your full consideration. Your kingdom needs strong ruling at once, to bind the people together again, and show a united face to those outsiders who would bring you down. Bothwell is all but ruling in your stead now as you recover from this dreadful event—but his abilities will be tenfold greater if you rule together.”
She stands and walks away from them and then turns. “Has it escaped your notice, Maitland, that Lord Bothwell is married already, that he is a Protestant, and that he has been under suspicion of the murder of my husband? Do you not think that any one of these factors would disqualify him? Let alone the fact that he is but a subject of mine without royal blood?”
Bothwell does not flinch. “My divorce is underway, Your Grace, and will soon be finalized. I have been cleared of involvement in the King’s murder by a legal court. You may be Catholic, but this country is Protestant now. The lords agree that it is time Scotland was ruled by one of its own, a man who has the knowledge of court and country in his blood, not some foreign prince.”
“It is of great value to have the support of so many of your lords in this matter,” Maitland says.
“It seems most hasty and ill-timed and I cannot agree to it.” Her voice rises. “If this is all you have come to discuss, then you must leave me.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Bothwell says calmly. “There are other matters we will speak of instead if this distresses you.”
A servant brings spiced wine and Maitland changes the subject. Seton and I pretend to study the chess board. Maitland appears anxious but Bothwell is expressionless and courteous, as though the matter is of no concern.
Now I know what I have seen in him. He has developed Darnley’s hunger to be King of this land. When was such a thing born in him? Perhaps it lies dormant in every man, arising when the chance of power is within grasp. I thought William had helped Bothwell rid this land of an unwanted king. But now I see there is much more to it than I had imagined.
As their audience concludes, Maitland makes one more attempt to persuade the Queen to consider Bothwell. She snaps and dismisses them. We take her into the bedchamber and begin to prepare her for bed, but she is agitated as Seton and I fumble over her ribbons and fastenings.
“Am I mad?” she bursts out at last. “Did one of my married lords really just bid me to wed him?”
“It does seem strange,” Seton says.
“Strange! My kingdom has fallen to such a state that any man who wishes it thinks he may marry the Queen! That is more than strange. It is treasonous.”
“He does much of the ruling at the moment,” Seton says.
“Do you think I should accept him, then?” The Queen’s color is high. “Do you think, as Maitland does, I have lost control of my kingdom?”
“I think it is a most dangerous time,” Seton says. “Perhaps you must take unusual steps to protect yourself and the Prince.”
The Queen sighs deeply as Seton draws the comb through her hair. A line of tears starts down her face.
“I thought, once, to marry for love,” she says, in a half-whisper. “I have been a fool.”
She is silent again and I bring across the heavy armful of her nightgown with its handsome stitching. Seton and I help her out of her dress and, raising her arms, we lower the warm, soft fabric of the nightgown over her head. It has become one of the measuring points of the day, this evening ritual. Another day has passed, the Queen lives, no one has been murdered.
“I will not consider it,” she says, as her head emerges. “I will be like my cousin Elizabeth and never marry. I will devote myself only to Scotland’s rule and raising my son. That is all that shall lie in my heart now. Scotland and the dear Prince James.”
She sits, then stands again restlessly. “I must see him.” She takes a few steps, then falters. “We must ride at once, make me ready. He is in danger.”
“It is too late to ride tonight,” Seton says. She steps to the Queen’s side, takes her hand and squeezes it. “We will set out for Stirling tomorrow, if you are well.”
“We will leave at first light. I must see him by nightfall.”
During my fitful sleep on a pallet on the floor of the Queen’s chamber, I dream of Bothwell’s painful hold on my arm. I try to cry out, but no sound will come.
Fifty-nine
It is not an auspicious meeting between the Queen and her son. She snatches him from the arms of the Countess of Mar and holds him so tightly that he squirms and begins to cry. The Queen tries to restrain his struggles but he becomes more frantic and opens his mouth in a wide wail. The Countess takes him back from his mother’s hands and calms him.
The Queen cannot see that she frightens him. Until lately no one, except perhaps Seton, would have dared to speak of such things to her. But I see her lip tremble and I take her arm and lean in close so none can hear my words.
“Do not clutch him so, let him have time to accustom to you again,” I whisper, and when the Countess brings the babe to her lap a second time, the Queen is more controlled and he tolerates her affections.
The Earl and Countess of Mar have ordered a fine feast for the Queen, but she stamps and paces and fidgets, gets up and down, and asks her son to be brought again to her, no matter that he has been bedded for the night. He comes, sleepy and irritable, hitting her on the face with his small fists, and I pity the nurse who takes him away to bed afterward.
“Do you wish to stay here with him a little while?” the Earl of Mar asks as we dine. “It is a terrible time and perhaps he will bring you some comfort.”
“I wish to raise him myself so that he does not reach for his nurse rather than his mother,” the Queen says.
Silence greets the remark. She looks up at the cautious faces of the Earl and Countess and forces a smile.
“It is a foolish fancy, of course. I speak out of grief. A few months ago I had a family. Now I feel so alone.”
“You are not alone,” Maitland says, patting her hand. “Your son is safe here, your loyal subjects dine with you in the best-defended royal stronghold in the country, and your personal guard is ever alert to your well-being. We shall spend a few days here with your son and perhaps you can forget these dreadful events for a time.”
“The murder of my husband is not something to be forgotten or put aside.”
“Of course not,” Maitland says, sitting back, but he is undaunted. “I mean only that you can take comfort in your beloved son, until you are ready to take the comfort of a husband once more.”
“Know you of this, Mar?” she asks, turning to him. “I am told by Maitland that my lords and bishops are for once in agreement that I should marry from within their own ranks, a man not of royal blood, who is indeed already married. A man cleared of involvement in my husband’s murder, who is yet the subject of gossip about the same. What think you?”
Everyone drops their eyes and Mar quickly swallows his mouthful of food as he gathers his wits.
“I am certain Your Grace will make the wisest decision,” he says at last, and dabs his mouth with a napkin.
“What of you, Lord Huntly?” She turns her attention to his downcast eyes. “Bothwell is married
to your own sister. What do you make of this?”
Huntly puts down his goblet with care. “My sister is divorcing Lord Bothwell, Your Grace.”
“For what cause?”
“He was adulterous with a serving girl.” I can almost see him squirm.
“I see.” She takes a dainty mouthful. “He is an adulterer as well as a heretic, according to my religion.”
Maitland steps in with his customary smoothness. “Your Grace, these are desperate times and Lord Bothwell may not be your husband of choice. With the greatest respect, a man’s hand is needed to bring the country back under control. You are, quite rightly, stricken with fear and grief and desperately worried about your son. No one expects you to manage the business of ruling in such a dreadful time. But consider your lords. Who else can you trust the way you can trust Lord Bothwell?”
She glares at him until he drops his gaze.
“Bring me my son,” she says at last, laying down her fork. “I wish to see him before I retire.”
≈ ≈ ≈
We spend three nights at Stirling, a breathing space before the Queen must be moving again. The Prince tolerates being on her knee but does not show her any special affection. I leave him strictly alone lest he remember our former closeness. I do not think she could bear to have him favor someone else.
The days are lengthening, the weather warming, the cycle of the year turning as though spring has every right to appear as usual. There are flowers everywhere and a babe to dandle. There are no angry mobs in Stirling; the people go quietly about their business. We can almost forget the strife of the country here and the Queen becomes a little calmer.
On the fourth day we set out for Edinburgh with the Queen’s retinue of guards. Thirty armed and mounted men, plus Huntly, Maitland, the courtier James Melville, and a small party of servants. The Queen leaves her son with reluctance, holding him in the courtyard until he squirms and struggles.
At last she hands him back to Mar. “Guard him well and I order you, yield him to no one except myself, no matter what happens.”
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