The Queen's Caprice

by Marjorie Bowen

  Moray had read with pleasure of the action of John Craig. He had not hesitated to face the man who was the master of Scotland. Attending the Privy Council he accused the Earl of murdering the King, seducing the Queen, and illegally divorcing Jane Gordon.

  It had been useless — the Queen had insisted on the marriage. The Lords banded together in Stirling, where Mar held the prince, and fortified the castle. This was the last news out of Scotland.

  By the middle of May, Moray had heard that the Queen had married Bothwell, whom she had created Duke of Orkney. He sent long and minute instructions to Maitland and Morton and his other minions. He was expecting his recall within a few weeks; he had not expected events to be quite so hurried as this. How long was it since Henry Stewart had been murdered? Looking at his calendar, he was startled to find that it was only eight weeks.

  He knew what people said in France about the scandalous divorce, the abduction, the hasty marriage. Poor fool, did she not understand that her husband was doomed without her interference? The men whom he had betrayed would have accounted for him, but still she must meddle. He understood her threefold motive — revenge for David, lust for Bothwell, desire for the child to be born in wedlock. What sort of creature had she become? He knew what was said of her; he had plumbed the depths of the filth that tarnished her name. He did not defend her, but he was uneasy with her shame.

  *

  “No one will come,” said the Queen smiling. “We are quite alone.” Softly, and as if she were talking to herself, she started to recite the state they were in. They had no money, only a few of his own men followed them. If she were to raise her standard she doubted if any would rally to it. Lennox was inflaming the country against her, even the Hamiltons held off. Everywhere there seemed to be distrust, suspicions, disloyalty. The people, she knew how they branded her, she knew what was said in the pulpits. England would help the Lords and France would not help her. Moray had come to Paris, he was waiting, she knew, to pounce. But what to do? What to do?

  The Queen’s husband did not answer these reproaches. He had his own case to think of. He had dared to shoot at a high mark and he believed he had missed. Behind him had been Moray. There was no dealing with such crafty, cunning, slippery rogues as that. He had thought that the Lords who had used him to murder the King and who promised him the Queen’s hand if he did so, would have stood by him. But no! As soon as he had married the Queen they had all withdrawn, and slowly every Scot was moving towards them so that he saw himself, with the Queen, abandoned. And there was no money, none.

  Nor could he see any hope in the future. Where could he find an alliance or revenues or armies? What use was the Queen to him if she lost her power, her authority, her country?

  He looked at her curiously. She was no longer even beautiful, she had neglected herself. Had she been anyone but the Queen he would have left her long ago, but he accepted his misfortune without reproach. He did not intend to give way until he was forced to do so. He still had confidence in his own courage and resources: he did not know what it was to be afraid of anyone or to pity anyone.

  The Queen, seeing that he took no notice of her, rose from the steps of the dais. Her eyes flickered across to the empty throne where she could visualize Henry Stewart, sullen, but splendid, frowning down at her perplexity.

  “Since you will not listen, I must save my words,” she said. “You have had everything of me, you know I would not have done it for my own vengeance, nor would I have married with you if it had not been for the child. See, I have set you up, and what gratitude do I get?”

  “Sweet madame,” he replied pleasantly, “it seems that all I should owe you gratitude for is a broken neck. I do not think we can hold this throne, you and I.”

  “You should have thought of that before.”

  “Perhaps I did think of it; perhaps it was the difficulty I liked. There is a challenge about attempting the impossible, and I admit to two mistakes. I thought the Lords would have used me better, and I did not think that there would be this outcry for that foolish boy.”

  “You promised you would not speak of that to me.”

  “Yet I do not think, madame, it much concerns you to hear the tale. You weep very much but your heart is not touched.”

  “My heart,” whispered the Queen. “What talk of any heart was there ever between you and me?”

  “Or between you and any man. Who had need to say more than — ‘Come to me,’ and you were in his arms?”

  “You were glad to lie in mine. And not only because I was the Queen.”

  They spoke to each other politely. His courtesy always overbore her outbursts and he never said anything about the low estate to which he had brought her. But she did not notice his omission. She had a carriage and generosity of spirit that made reproaches impossible to her for long.

  She began to speak of the child who had been the reason behind the farcical divorce, the impossible marriage. She could not conceal her condition much longer — where could she, married six weeks, hide to give birth to a full term child?

  “With Lady Reres at Inchmahome.” He was always ready with an answer. “I have those whom I could trust to send with you.”

  She was at once startled and comforted. Inchmahome! The lonely castle in the lonely lake, where she had been sent as a child to escape the English — yes, that would be a safe retreat. Lady Reres, with her bawdy talk would be good company, and Mary Seaton, who was almost a saint, would be there to make her peace with Heaven.

  The man, watching her, was pleased to see her smile. He was jealous about the child whom he wanted to see as future King of Scotland, instead of Moray’s protégé whom he believed to be the Italian’s son. He had paid Lady Reres very well to watch the Queen closely so that there was no chance for any tricks with the apothecary.

  As for popular talk, he grinned at that. Most people knew the truth, but he defied them to utter it. They took hope from their common courage, and laughed at each other. After all, much, perhaps everything, might yet be saved.

  “I do love you,” said the Queen, encouraged by his equanimity. She came to his side and rested her head on his shoulder. Bothwell suffered her with good humour, he intended to behave with dignity during what might be left of their life together, and he told her that she should put a brave face upon things, at least in public.

  “I see little hope for us,” he said, “but why should we give way before we must? There’ll be many a battle yet before they have us where they wish to put us.”

  “And where’s that?” she asked, looking up with a halflaugh.

  “Madame, did you not sign a decree of death against adulterers and fornicators and such persons?”

  “I was forced to it — Maitland forced me. He said it was expected — the people clamoured for it.”

  “The time was aptly chosen,” remarked Bothwell good-humouredly. But he said he had hopes of doing something yet; with the money that came from things he had sold he could get together some more men — he was a good soldier and knew how to do well with a small force.

  She kissed him and went quietly to her room. He told her that he would come to her presently, he had much to do. But when she made inquiries she found that he had ridden to Castle Crichton, where he still kept Jane Gordon, his first wife, so the Queen remained, restless, with the unborn child for company.

  *

  The Queen questioned Sir William Maitland curiously. She knew that both Bothwell and Huntly looked for a chance to murder him, so that while he stayed with her he was in peril of his life.

  She asked him with a detached wonder why he remained. “You might join the Lords or my brother who is abroad. I suppose you are really of their party?”

  “Of no party, madame,” replied Maitland.

  “Well, you cannot care for me,” she said quietly. “I have no friends left. I am quite discrowned, am I not, Sir William?”

  He replied softly: “I think so, madame—”

  Without surprise or offence sh
e gazed at him. For many days he had seemed sick, his face was slightly tinged with yellow. Some slow disease was weakening him, but he was still quietly magnificent in his attire, and, when amid her distractions she had spoken to him, still the splendid, witty companion.

  “You report to my brother all my doings, you are allied with these rebel Lords?”

  He bent his head without replying,

  “We shall come to a battle, Sir William. On which side will you fight?”

  “I would wish as long as it were possible to stay with the Queen’s Grace.”

  “My husband would like to destroy you, Sir William.”

  “I have to thank Your Majesty for my life. Perhaps it was not much of a gift, madame, for the doctors do not give me a good report.”

  “Oh,” she cried impatiently, “how little death matters! A battle! I should like that!”

  “You would be there?”

  “Yes, indeed”

  “What you fight for is of so little value, madame. Is Jane Gordon’s husband worth the ruin of a kingdom?” She looked at him steadily.

  “You have always understood me without any words.”

  “I love the Queen, madame,” he replied quietly. “I serve the Queen.”

  “I think you have betrayed me many times, sold me to the English and the rebels.” But she smiled. There was between them real friendship. “The Earl of Moray also loved the Queen.” Her smiled deepened as she added that.

  “You had done well to take that love, it was the most worthwhile of any ever offered you — that and mine. We would have made you Queen and kept you Queen. But you, madame, rejected that.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Why, so I did, Sir William, and so it has come to this.”

  “Yes, madame, and you have lost everything.”

  “Am I come to that — nothing left, nothing at all?” He was silent. She accepted this answer and said:

  “I suppose my brother will return? He counts on that — that and the child?”

  “I think so, madame. You must foresee what will occur. Earl Bothwell has no friends in Scotland nor in Europe”

  “Save only one. I shall be faithful to him.”

  A change came over the sensitive face of Maitland. “You will do that, whatever happens? You would fall with him?”

  “To any depth,” she said.

  “I am so glad,” said Maitland. “Yes, that pleases me. I hope you will do it.”

  “Even though you loathe the man, even though he has ruined me and would murder you?”

  “What does that matter? Be faithful to this man who is not faithful to you, madame. That is your only chance to redeem any of it.”

  *

  That night Maitland left Holyrood secretly and joined the rebel Lords at Stirling.

  The desertion of this subtle, cautious man. who had been faithful in spite of insults and danger, was like a signal. In twenty-four hours the palace was almost empty, so the Queen and her husband withdrew hastily from Edinburgh and went to the great fortress of Borthwick, where the Queen bade her subjects rally to her standard against the rebels, but few or none came to fight in such a cause.

  *

  Dressed as a cavalier she escaped by night from the castle as the Lords marched on it. In the attire of an Edinburgh citizeness she rode beside her husband at Carberry Hill, with such as could be induced to fight for her, behind her, and the banner on which was the Scottish Lion in his lilied border borne before. On the other side of the little stream that trickled across the summer fields was gathered the strength of Scotland. All day long the armies faced each other. The Queen’s men did not want to fight, and little by little, some furtively, some openly, they went over to the Lords. The French Ambassador negotiated, challenges were passed, accepted, disputed, rejected, and at the end of the tedious, weary hours there was a conference.

  Eventually the Ambassador came to the Queen and told her that the Lords would be satisfied with nothing less than vengeance on the murderers of the late King. Then they demanded the custody of the Prince, in whom the hope of the future lay; and thirdly, they insisted that the Queen should leave Earl Bothwell (they ignored his new title of duke), and deliver him and his more notable followers, such as Huntly, up to justice.

  “M. du Croc,” said the Queen, “you must see that this is fantastic. My husband has been cleansed of the crime of which he is accused, he has been selected by the Lords themselves as a suitable husband for me. And as for my abandoning him, I married this quarrel with him.”

  “This is what they think. Will not Your Majesty have peace?” cried the Frenchman in despair.

  “Let these rebellious subjects of mine,” said the Queen, “acknowledge their faults and ask my pardon, and I am ready to receive them.”

  At this point Bothwell rode up with a little troop of horsemen. He had been engaged in riding round the scattered ranks and endeavouring to put some spirit and organization into them. In a loud voice he asked of Du Croc:

  “Am I the one they want?”

  “Sir,” replied the Frenchman, coldly, “the Lords assure me they are the very humble subjects and servants of the Queen.”

  “And what for me?” cried the Queen’s husband. “And what for me?”

  Du Croc lowered his voice as he replied:

  “Sir, they are your implacable enemies.”

  “There is none other like my lord on the other side,” said the Queen. “If our men were faithful we should have the best of it, do not you think?”

  “Truly, I think so, madame, but your forces melt away.”

  At that Bothwell said:

  “For God’s sake, sir, think no more of me, but have pity on the Queen. For the honour of God, sir, see the trouble she is in.”

  The Frenchman was surprised at these words from the man of whom he had heard nothing but evil. He felt a deep pity, not only for the Queen who had tears in her eyes as he turned to bid her farewell, but also for the man who sat beside her, who seemed to take this great disaster almost as a joke.

  Then, looking about him, he saw that the two armies were intermingling, and that the white standard with the body of the murdered man and the praying child painted upon it, was advancing slowly under the fading light. He said:

  “All goes badly with you. Make what terms you can. Sir, if you have any pity for the Queen, my lord Duke, you will withdraw.”

  “I have offered,” said Bothwell, “to fight any of them in single combat, but none will accept.”

  “It is too late,” said Du Croc, with bitterness, “for such feats of arms. You will soon be in their power, and then nothing can save you.”

  “Oh, Jesu!” exclaimed the Queen, “is there not some means of making an agreement for the safety of the Duke?”

  Du Croc shook his head.

  “I have spoken to them for the space of three hours, but they have resolved to show no mercy there.”

  Then the Queen repeated in bewilderment:

  “But they urged this marriage on him, on me!”

  Du Croc smiled ironically. Poor woman, she had thought herself so clever with her tricks and subterfuges and lies. Had she not foreseen that trap?

  “I think, madame, you scarcely know with whom you deal.”

  “With whom do I deal?”

  “With these rebels, and Maitland and Moray.” He bowed, and moved his horse away, weary from that long day’s work.

  “Moray,” repeated Bothwell. “You should have allowed me to kill him. And his spy, Maitland.”

  The Queen looked round and saw an increasing disorder in her army. Her men were parleying with the Lords’ troops, and over the rough ground the banner with the picture of the murdered man was advancing.

  She sent a message imploring Sir William Maitland to come to her, but he would not. He sent a message to say that he was not with the Lords and therefore he was not able to treat for them.

  She turned to Bothwell. He was putting on his helmet; framed in the visor his face still seemed amused, as if
he found some humour even in his own failure.

  “Madame,” he said, “there are twenty-five or thirty who will follow me, and if I leave the rebels have promised to make fair terms for you. You will be the Queen again and they your humble servants. I can do nothing for you — I would have led your armies, but they have melted away. I would have fought for you in single combat, but no man will come forward.”

  “You are going?” she cried.

  “To leave you free — to give you a chance.”

  “But I would like to come too, let me ride with you, even if I have nothing in the world but these clothes I stand in.”

  “Madame, it is impossible. I shall have to go to the Border, perhaps to the Islands.”

  “Well, then, I too,” she thought. The force of her love was such that she closed her eyes and the tears ran down her face.

  She felt him take her hand and kiss it. They had so little time — the banner with the body of the dead man upon it was being carried across the brook.

  “Farewell, Mary. Maybe we shall meet again. Be faithful to me.”

  When she opened her eyes he had already turned his horse and was gone, with those thirty men closing behind him, towards Dunbar.

  The Queen, on a violent impulse, turned her horse’s head to follow him. It seemed to her that with him went all that she had left in the world, but those beside her caught her bridle and checked her and led her towards the army of the Lords so that the Banner of Scotland that followed her, came side by side with the Banner on which was depicted the naked body of Henry Stewart lying strangled beneath the bare orchard trees.

  *

  The Lords did not keep their promise to receive the Queen as their Sovereign. When she surrendered and disarmed, they made her their prisoner and without giving thought to her dignity or comfort turned towards Edinburgh. The man who had particular charge of her was Earl Morton whom she had always detested.

  She kept her courage, trusting always to the future — her people of Edinburgh would not allow her to be treated with ignominy. When they reached the capital she would be lodged in the palace and Mary Seaton and the French girls, perhaps Lady Argyll, would come to her; there would be rest, comfort. And when she had lost her fatigue and her terror she could send for Bothwell. Erect, smiling faintly, she rode amidst her enemies. She encouraged herself by thinking of Bothwell. He would be able to rescue her.