Royal Road to Fotheringhay

by Jean Plaidy

  Darnley was claiming her for the dance, and she rose and gave him her hand. Thomas Randolph looked after them uneasily.

  As they danced, Darnley said: “How happy those two are—Sempill and Mary Livingstone.”

  “They are in love, and it is rather wonderful, is it not, to be in love?”

  “It is the most wonderful thing in the world. Madam… but I dare not say it.”

  “You must say it. Tell me. What is it? I insist.”

  “If I could but forget you were the Queen … if I might see you alone …”

  “It is difficult for a queen to receive a young man alone.”

  “If you were not the Queen, we could slip away from the ball.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I might try to explain.”

  Mary’s eyes were burning as she said: “I wish to hear these explanations.”

  “But alone, Madam? If it were possible…. But I could not trust myself…”

  “Why should you not? We are both free.”

  “Free, Madam?”

  “Free to say what we will.”

  “Madam, then you mean… Forgive me… but I cannot believe I have heard aright.”

  He knew that the Queen was in love with him—fiercely and passionately in love with him. He believed that if they were alone she would offer no resistance. And once she had surrendered herself to him the way would be clear; she would not wish to draw back. Once he became the Queen’s lover, he would be certain of the crown of Scotland.

  What a glorious prospect this was! She was young and beautiful; she was passionate; she would be the prime mover in their love affair. He would allow this to be so, for it was what she wanted; and just now everything must be as she wanted it. She had fallen in love with a young and—as she believed—inexperienced boy. He must play the part of callow youth, of lovesick boy, inexperienced yet eager to be led.

  She whispered: “If you would see me alone, come to my apartments this night. Beaton will let you in. When the palace is quiet… and all have retired …”

  She pressed his hand, but she did not dance with him again. She was afraid that she was betraying this great passion which was possessing her.

  She did not now want marriage with Spain; she did not care for dignity or pride, nor her rank as Queen. She cared for nothing but the immediate fulfillment of her love for Henry Darnley.

  BEATON SAID: “Madam, is it wise?”

  She turned on Beaton angrily. “Wise! What do you mean? He has something to say to me. Why should I not hear it?”

  “But alone, Madam, in your bedchamber?”

  “Beaton… you are insolent!”

  Seton, the calm, quiet one, the one perhaps who was most steadfast in her devotion, said nothing, but watched her mistress with a great anxiety in her eyes. Mary would not look at Seton.

  Flem could not hide her excitement. The marriage of Livy was responsible for this. It had made the Queen realize that she too was in love, that she too must have a lover.

  “Her Majesty will marry him,” soothed Flem, “then all will be well.”

  “You chatter too much,” said Mary. “Bring me my robe. The white velvet.”

  “White velvet becomes Your Majesty more than anything else,” said Flem.

  Mary scarcely heard; a feverish excitement possessed her. If he did not come… But he would come. He was knocking at the door now.

  “Quick, Beaton, quick!”

  Beaton was at the door.

  “Come in quickly, my lord. Let no one see you.”

  Mary stood up, the white velvet draped about her, her long chestnut hair hanging loose about her shoulders.

  “Leave us,” she said in a whisper; and silently and swiftly the three Marys left the apartment.

  “Madam,” began Darnley, and would have knelt and taken her hands; but she had thrown herself into his arms, her restless fingers caressing his face and neck.

  Darnley shyly put his arms about her.

  This was success beyond his dreams. He need not plead with her; he need do nothing but obey, for the passionate Queen was commanding him to be her lover.

  MARY WAS deep in love and determined to marry Darnley. She thought of little else. David advised caution. All the Protestant lords, headed by Moray, were against the match. Mary could wait for marriage, since she had now found a way to enjoy her lover’s society in private.

  She was continually thinking of fresh gifts to bestow on him. She sent for her tailor William Hoppringle, and commanded him to make the finest suit which had ever been made; he was to work immediately on black velvet and silver lace. Then he was to make garments of taffeta and silk—and all these were for Lord Darnley. Johnnie Dabrow, the finest hatter in Edinburgh, was to make Darnley’s hats, and he was to put as much care into the making as he would if the Queen would be wearing them. Fleming Allyard must get busy making shoes. Shirts and ruffs were ordered; all were to be made of the finest materials available.

  The jewelers were called in. The Queen wished rubies, emeralds and diamonds to be set into the most perfect patterns to enhance the fair beauty of the young man she loved.

  As yet she believed that her determination to marry him was her secret.

  Darnley grew a little impatient. For the crown he did not care, he assured her; he but wished to let the whole world know that he was her lover.

  She believed him. He was so young, so naïve and, as she was, a stranger to passion.

  There was one unfortunate incident which occurred to mar the joy of those days.

  It was brought about through the Borderer, Lord Bothwell. He had given up the post for which he had so earnestly begged, that of Captain of the Scottish Guard in France, and had come back to Scotland. He now sent a messenger to the Queen, begging her to grant permission for him to return to the Court.

  “And why should he not come back to Court?” asked Mary. “He was imprisoned for implication with Arran, but now we all know that Arran was mad. We have been unfair to Bothwell.”

  Her brother Moray, who was now becoming very uneasy indeed about her relationship with Darnley, assured her that it would be the utmost folly to bring Bothwell back to Court.

  “The man is a born troublemaker,” he said. “He sows discord. Scotland has been a more peaceful place without him.”

  But the Queen was no longer to be dominated thus. She made her own decisions—with the help of Rizzio; and although she deplored the conduct of the Borderer, there was something in his character which appealed to her.

  “I think I shall grant him the permission he seeks,” she said.

  Moray was furious. He had loved his sister when she followed his advice and allowed him to rule Scotland; he could come near to hating her now, for it seemed to him that she was fast becoming his enemy. His resentment flared up against her. Why should she—a foolish lass—wear the crown when he, their father’s son, was far more suitable to do so? The incredibly bad luck which had attended his birth was a chafing sore that ate into his character, corroding it, destroying his finer qualities, breeding within him a treacherous determination to take the power from his sisters hands.

  He would not have Bothwell back at Court. Bothwell was his enemy. Bothwell might have discovered that he had tried to have him poisoned; clearly there was scarcely room in Scotland for Bothwell and Moray.

  But to keep Bothwell out of Scotland was not so difficult to accomplish after all, for the rogue, Dandie Pringle—now dismissed from Bothwell’s service and living in Scotland—was the very man to help in this.

  Moray commanded him to come to Edinburgh and had him brought before the Queen.

  “Before Your Majesty recalls Lord Bothwell,” said Moray, “I thought you might care to hear the testimony of this man.”

  “Who is this man?” asked Mary.

  “One who served Bothwell when he was in France and knows something of his private life. He will tell you that the Hepburn is one of the greatest libertines in Scotland.”

  “There are
many libertines in Scotland, great and small. Should one more make so much difference?”

  “No, Madam,” said James, “it should not. But this man is more than a libertine. He has spoken cruel slander against persons of high degree.”

  “You, brother?”

  “Perhaps, my dear sister, but I have not heard of it. I meant against you.”

  “What has he said?”

  “I have brought Pringle here to tell you how he spoke of you before his servants.”

  “Am I to listen to the tittle-tattle of servants?”

  “If it concerns yourself, you undoubtedly should.”

  “Bring him in then, and let me hear him.”

  Dandie Pringle knelt before the Queen.

  “So you served with my Lord Bothwell in France?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “And he spoke often of me in your hearing?”

  “Not often, Your Majesty, but now and then.”

  “And he spoke ill of me?”

  “He did, Your Majesty.”

  “What said he?”

  “Among other things that you and the Queen of England would not make one honest woman between you. He said that the Queen of England had for paramour Lord Robert Dudley, but that if Your Majesty had taken any other than the Cardinal, your uncle, the matter could have been better endured.”

  Mary flushed scarlet with anger. “Take this man away!” she cried. “How dare he utter such wicked slander? How dare he even think such things!”

  Moray signed to Pringle to hurry away.

  “The man but repeats the words of that rogue,” he said as soon as they were alone.

  “It is so… monstrous!”

  Mary, overcome with fury and shame that such a thing could be said of her, threw herself into her brother’s arms and wept bitterly.

  Moray soothed her. He had won this round. Bothwell would not be allowed to remain in Scotland.

  THE SOUNDS of revelry burst forth at intervals from the palace of Holyrood. The Queen had never seemed so healthy, nor so happy. She must have her lover continually beside her; she could not bear to lose sight of him. The pain in her side had not troubled her for weeks; there was a delicate color in her usually pale cheeks, and the sound of her laughter frequently rang through the apartment of Little France.

  It was true that clouds were gathering about her, but she refused to notice them. She could not spare time to look at them; she had at last let loose her slumbering passion, and it had overwhelmed her, so powerful was it.

  She did not realize that she was betraying herself. She would not listen to David’s warning that Moray knew the state of affairs between herself and Darnley, and would do his utmost to prevent their marriage. Maitland was back from his English embassy; he was anxious that she should marry to please the Queen of England, but Maitland had one other matter on his mind now for there was one marriage which seemed to him of more importance than the Queens. His wife had died and he was courting Flem.

  Flem and the Queen were closer than the others now. They were both deeply in love; they shared little jokes together; their mingling laughter filled the apartments. Neither would concern herself with what was unpleasant; they were determined to be happy.

  David begged the Queen to heed his warning. Moray was gathering together an army for the purpose, he said, of driving Bothwell from the country. A whole army to drive one man from Scotland when that man had already fled back to France? Why did Moray not disband his army? David knew. He wanted Mary to know too.

  But if Mary was reckless, if she was almost submerged in the deep seas of her passion, she had attained an even greater dignity than before. In her love affair with Darnley, she was the leader. She was the Queen; she would protect him from such as Moray who, David said, sought to destroy him. Mary was determined to show all Scotland that she was Queen.

  At this time Darnley was confined to his bed with an attack of measles. The Queen was distraught—although he was not seriously ill—and insisted on his staying at Stirling Castle so that she could nurse him herself.

  She did not leave the sickroom, and if any had doubted her intentions, they could no longer do so.

  John Knox, who had called the godly to witness the black mummeries and wickedness that went on in Holyroodhouse, now commanded his flock to observe that the Queen attended her lover in a most immodest manner in his sickroom.

  God, he declared, was recording Mary Stuart’s sins. They should be paid for… every one.

  The Queen of England heard the news and publicly declared herself shocked by it. She, being a virgin, she said, could scarcely bear to speak of it. A Queen … in a sickroom… nursing a young man! It was wanton behavior.

  “The Queen of England,” said Mary, “protests her virtue continually. It is understandable that she should protect what is left to her, for that virtue has been much besmirched by rumor.”

  Mary did not know that in private the Queen of England exulted at the success of her plan to bring disorder into Scotland. She laughed with Cecil and Dudley at the accounts of Darnley’s good behavior. “Let her wait,” said Elizabeth. “Soon that long lad will begin to show himself in his true colors, once let him be sure that he has secured the Queen in his net.”

  It was true that Darnley did become a little peevish during his convalescence. Mary noticed that some of his servants bore bruises; she heard rumors that the spoiled boy beat his servants unmercifully. But she paid little attention to such gossip; she was far too happy to let that happiness be spoiled.

  And when he was finally recovered, the Queen was so elated that, with some of her women including her three Marys, she dressed up in the humble garments of citizens’ wives and roamed the streets, stopping all the men they met and asking them to give coins toward a ball they intended to give that night.

  Laughing through the streets they went and, when it was known that the party of supposedly loose women was headed by the Queen, the gossips increased their scandalous talk, John Knox ranted more than ever, and the Queen of England collected more tidbits to gloat over in private and condemn in public.

  NOW THAT Darnley had recovered, Mary was determined to wait no longer for her marriage.

  It was May now—three months since Darnley had come to Scotland. Mary passionately desired to regularize their union now, for she felt it very wrong that Scotland’s strict moral laws, laid down by the Kirk and to which she had given her authority, should be broken by Scotland’s Queen.

  She called her brother to her and told him that she had determined to marry Lord Darnley. She had prepared a document which she asked him to sign.

  “A document?” cried Moray.

  “It states that you will give your consent to my marriage with Lord Darnley and do all in your power to bring it about.”

  “Madam, this is impossible. It will split Scotland in two.”

  “Why so?”

  “There are many nobles in Scotland who will not stomach this marriage.”

  “You mean yourself.”

  “I am one, Madam.”

  “Because you fear that we shall bring the Catholic Faith back to Scotland and the Reformed Party and yourself will no longer be in power?”

  “You are young, Madam.”

  “I am of age now, brother. When you were my age you were planning to rule Scotland. That is what I am planning to do now.”

  “You cannot do it through marriage with Darnley.”

  “I will be Queen and choose the man I marry.”

  “You cannot ignore the nation and your ministers when you make that choice.”

  “As Queen, the nation will follow me in my choice.”

  “Never!” cried Moray in a fury.

  “You forget yourself, brother.”

  “It is you who forget yourself, sister. You behave like a slut with this pretty boy of yours. He shares your bed. The whole Court knows it. I beg of you, if you prize your crown, give up this evil life while there is yet time.”

  “You quo
te Master Knox. There is another who will find his claws clipped.”

  “You do not know what you say.”

  “I know very well that I say what I mean. Sign this paper and I shall think of you as my good subject.”

  Moray’s answer was to fling out of the room.

  David came to her later to tell her that Moray had an army gathered about him. Argyle, Châtelherault and Kirkcaldy of Grange were with him. These were the most important noblemen in Scotland; and there was not a general to match Kirkcaldy. Moray had been astute; this was not the sudden move he had intended it should appear to be; he had looked ahead and this was his answer to the suggested Darnley marriage.

  She paced up and down the apartment. Civil war threatened, but she was not afraid. She was not a frivolous girl now; she was a woman of deep emotions which brought her great courage.

  “The English are with him,” said David. “Elizabeth has promised him arms and men.”

  “I care not if the whole world comes against me!” said Mary. “I will be Queen of Scotland at last.”

  “The Highlanders might well stand by Your Majesty,” said David. “Bring George Gordon out of prison. Create him Earl of Huntley. Then you will have a new Cock o’ the North to stand at your side. And there is one other whom you could trust. Recall Bothwell. He is only waiting for the summons and he will relish the opportunity to take vengeance on your brother. He will willingly serve you—if only for the opportunity of being back in Scotland.”

  “That man! Do you not remember what he has said of me?”

  “Forget old grudges, Madam. The need is desperate. He is a foul-mouthed ruffian but a good fighter—the most courageous in Scotland.”

  So Mary sent for Bothwell and created George Gordon Earl of Huntley. The new Earl came down from the Highlands with thousands of followers—all brave men and bold, longing for a chance to settle scores with Moray and rally to the standard of the Queen.

  They camped about Edinburgh, and the sound of their pipes could be heard in the palace. Along the streets the kilts and steel bonnets could be seen. From all over Scotland warriors were coming to fight for the Queen against Moray.

  John Knox watched the growth in numbers of the encroaching Highlanders with apprehension. In vain did he threaten them with eternal damnation; they played jaunty airs on the pipes in answer to him. Most of them were Protestants, but they believed in a wee bit of fun and laughter, and John Knox’s talk of his God’s delight in vengeance was losing its appeal.