by Jean Plaidy
“What means this?” she asked.
“Madam,” said her lover. “I must ask you to turn your horse and ride with me to Dunbar. You are my prisoner; but have no fear. No harm shall come to you if you obey.”
A young captain rode forward and prepared to do battle with Bothwell for the sake of the Queen.
“Put your sword away, my friend,” said the Queen. “I command you to do so.”
“I’ll take care of the young fool,” growled Bothwell.
“There shall be no bloodshed,” said the Queen.
The young soldier turned to Mary, his eyes alight with that devoted admiration which she so often inspired. “Madam, I would die to save you.”
She smiled, and her smile was her answer. The young man knew that she was by no means disturbed by this adventure, that she was Bothwell’s very willing prisoner.
Maitland cried: “What means this?”
Bothwell flashed a brilliant smile in his direction. “Patience, my lord Maitland. Soon you will know.”
He then dismissed most of her retinue, but kept Lord Maitland, Lord Huntley and Sir James Melville with him; and the journey to Dunbar began.
The Queen rode ahead and Bothwell was beside her.
MARY WAITED in the apartment at Dunbar Castle which had been prepared for her.
Soon he would join her. She could close her eyes and imagine that she was in the Exchequer House on that evening before it all began. It would be just like that. They would enact that scene once again, and the whole world should believe that it was the first time it had taken place.
Bothwell would stand exposed to the world as the Queens ravisher, and as his innocent victim she would declare that she must marry him. As for the unborn child—that would have to be explained later. It was imperative that she marry hastily, that the whole world should not be too shocked by her marriage, and that suspicions that she had been an accomplice in her husbands murder should be allayed.
It was a desperate scheme but their position was desperate. When she had glanced at his stern profile as he rode beside her from Foulbriggs to Dunbar Castle, she had reveled in his strength, in that power within him. How willingly would she surrender! How happily she waited for her ravisher!
In a room below, Melville was remonstrating with Bothwell. Maitland stood aloof; he knew too much. He understood that the Queen and Both-well were already lovers. He knew that this was just another bridge which they had to cross together.
Melville said: “Bothwell, know you not that this is treason? You are unlawfully detaining the Queen. For what purpose?”
“I shall marry the Queen,” said Bothwell.
“She will never consent,” said Melville.
“I will marry her whether she will or not. And it may be that by the time I release her from this castle she will be willing enough.”
Melville was aghast at the implication of those words.
Bothwell laughed and went to the Queen’s apartment.
Melville turned to Maitland. How could Maitland appear so calm? Had he not heard Bothwell express his intention to ravish the Queen?
Maitland’s smile was cynical. Should they be perturbed, it implied, because what was about to take place would be but a repetition of what had been happening for several months?
Maitland shrugged his shoulders. He was concerned with preserving his own life. He was secretly convinced that if he could keep alive for a few more weeks, he need never fear Bothwell again… nor the Queen.
BOTHWELL came to the Queen’s apartment and he stood on the threshold of the room, smiling at her as he had smiled in the Exchequer House.
She cried out in feigned alarm: “My lord… what means this?”
He smiled. As though she did not know! But he enjoyed the masquerade as much as she did. Of late she had perhaps been overeager, and a certain amount of resistance had always appealed to him.
So she protested but her heart was not in the protest, and she was glad when she could surrender freely to his passion.
For twelve days he kept her at Dunbar Castle—his passionate mistress and his most willing slave.
AT THE END of that time the Queen was escorted back to Edinburgh. She rode into the city with Bothwell beside her, he holding her horse’s bridle that the city might know that she was his captive.
Maitland was with them, plans forming in his clever mind. They would marry—those two foolish people—and they would ruin themselves. Morton was already in secret touch with Moray. The country was going to be roused against the King’s murderers; and the hasty marriage, the threadbare plot of abduction and seduction would be seen through; the Queen would have none but Bothwell to stand beside her. When she took Bothwell she would lose all else.
Bothwell and Mary could think of little beyond their marriage which would make him King of Scotland and her the wife of her lover. Neither of them could look very far beyond their greatly desired goals.
There was one obstacle yet to be overcome. Bothwell was not free to marry; but he had already set in motion negotiations which would bring him a divorce on the grounds of consanguinity. The Archbishop of St. Andrews signed the nullity agreement, but Jean was not satisfied with this. She had been truly married to Lord Bothwell, she declared; and that marriage had been entirely legal. She would not have it said otherwise. She would be happy to be free of Bothwell who had been no good husband to her, but she herself would seek a divorce on the grounds of adultery.
This caused a slight hitch. Bothwell had a reputation as a murderer, and all Scotland knew that he was an adulterer, but the whole world, including the fanatical Philip in his Escorial, sly Catherine de Médicis in the Louvre, subtle Elizabeth in Greenwich, would now see him brought low through his wife’s allegations. Jean was determined to have her revenge for the slights she had suffered. She named Bessie Crawford, the daughter of a blacksmith, as the partner in Bothwell’s adultery.
The scandals grew. The story of Bothwell and Bessie became common knowledge. A Haddington merchant explained how he had one afternoon, on the instructions of Lord Bothwell, taken Bessie to the cloisters of Haddington Abbey; there he had locked her in and given the key—on Lord Bothwell’s instructions—to his lordship. There Bessie and the Earl had remained together for a considerable time.
Is this the man who would be King of Scotland? people were asking each other. There were many ready to pry into the affairs of Bessie Crawford and Lord Bothwell and ensure that the whole world should know of them.
His enemies were already at work, but the bold Earl cared nothing for this. What mattered it how the divorce was brought about as long as his marriage with Jean was severed? He had the lords’ consent on a document; he was free; Mary was free; and they would wait no longer.
John Craig, the preacher who had taken Knox’s place in the Kirk when the latter, after the murder of Rizzio, had thought it wise to go to England and remain there, was loath to publish the banns.
Bothwell threatened him, but the man stood his ground. He begged the Earl to consider the Church’s law against adultery and ravishment; he warned him of the likely suspicion of collusion between Bothwell and his wife, the too sudden divorce and above all, his and Mary’s complicity in Darnley’s murder.
“Read the banns!” roared Bothwell. “Or by Jesus I’ll have you strung up by the neck.”
But John Craig turned away. His courage was high. “There is only one thing which would make me do it—a written order from the Queen.”
Bothwell laughed. A written order from the Queen! What could be easier?
But he was disturbed. The preacher had boldly stated what was being said in secret.
According to the law, rape was punishable by death, and it was alleged that as Bothwell had raped the Queen, she felt in honor bound to marry him even though it was such a short time since her husband had died.
There were no ends to the twists and turns which must be made to extricate themselves from the position in which they found themselves.
&n
bsp; Now Mary must declare that rape was forgiven if the woman subsequently acquiesced; and this, she declared, was what had happened in the case of herself and Lord Bothwell. To show her feelings for him she gave him fresh honors. He was made Earl of Orkney and Lord of Shetland. But the whispers were becoming louder throughout the land, and all were discussing the loose behavior of the Queen and her paramour. The Queen was no better than Bessie Crawford, and nothing she could say or do would make the people believe that the man she proposed to make their King was anything but a seducer, an adulterer and a murderer.
The night before their marriage was due to take place, a placard was pinned on the door of the palace. It ran:
“Mense malas Maio nubere vulgus ait.”
It was alarming to be reminded through these words of Ovid’s that wantons married in the month of May.
Nevertheless on that May morning, accompanied by Huntley, Glamis, Fleming, Livingstone and others—all of whom attended her with restrained feelings—Mary was, in the chapel at Holyrood, married to Both well.
BUT WHERE was that bliss for which she had looked? He had never pretended, but now he had no time to play the lover. Now he must consolidate his position, and already the lords all over the country were making their animosity felt. He was ready. He loved a fight. And now he was preparing to fight for the crown of Scotland.
Mary began to realize the enormity of what she had done. She had married her lover, notorious as the seducer of Bessie Crawford; she had debased her royalty—an unforgivable sin in the eyes of all those who were royal. Her relatives in France were numbed by the shock. Catherine de Médicis in public declared herself shocked and saddened beyond expression, but in private gave full vent to her delight and satisfaction; Philip of Spain had nothing to offer but contempt, and that he showed by silence. Elizabeth of England, while pleased at the prospects of the inevitable result, was genuinely shocked that the Queen should so betray herself and her crown. Elizabeth could not help but remember how near to disaster she had come in circumstances so similar; but she had been wise; she had known when to draw back.
There was less contentment now for Mary than ever before, since she could not help knowing that her lover was outgrowing his passion. To him she was but a woman with a crown—and now the crown was his. If she could have fallen out of love with him as she had with Darnley she would have suffered far less. But she could do no such thing; his indifference could not turn her from him.
He neglected her and absented himself for long periods, during which she believed he saw Jean Gordon. She would lie awake at night picturing them together. She believed that sly sandy-haired Jean merely pretended not to be in love with him.
She reproached him on his return but he merely laughed at her, neither admitting nor denying that her surmise was correct.
“You can talk of Jean Gordon when we are in such danger!” he cried. “Do you know that our enemies are massing their forces against us?”
“But you have visited her. I believe you still think of her as your wife!”
“There is that in her which makes me think of her so. You have always seemed as my mistress.”
Did he mean that or was it part of his brutality? She did not know.
She was exhausted from sleepless nights. Darnley’s ghost seemed to mock her. “You have changed husbands. I died that you might do so. But has it proved to be a change for the better?”
She could not bear his indifference, his cold matter-of-fact passion.
Once she withdrew herself from his arms and, half clad as she was, rushed to the door of her apartment calling to Jane Kennedy to bring her a knife.
“A knife, Madam? A knife?
“That I may pierce my heart with it. I cannot endure to live this life. I would rather be dead.”
Then she flung herself onto her bed and gave way to passionate weeping.
ALL OVER the country the lords were gathering. Moray was watching from some distance, waiting to leap forward and seize the Regency when the Queen was defeated. Morton called together Argyle, Atholl and Mar, and told them that Kirkcaldy of Grange was ready to lead an army against Bothwell and the Queen; and that Glencairn, Cassillis, Montrose, Caithness, Ruthven, Lindsay and others were with them. Maitland was still at Holy-rood, but waiting his opportunity to escape and join the rebels. Maitland had made up his mind. Mary was unfit to rule. Her conduct of the past year had shown that clearly. The woman who had gathered an army together at the time she had married Darnley and marched against Moray with the country rallying to her, was not the same woman as this lovesick creature. At that time Mary could have risen to greatness; her future might have been assured; but alas, steadily she had taken the downhill road which could only lead to eventual defeat.
Bothwell was aware of the forces gathering against him. He left Sir James Balfour holding Edinburgh Castle and departed with Mary for Borthwick.
It was not for love of her that he was with her constantly now, but because he feared that the rebels might seek to capture her. She reproached him for this, but he made no effort to console her.
Before they had been many days in that solid fortress which was built on a steep mound, surrounded by a moat, and possessed towers so strongly fortified as to discountenance invaders, Lord Hume arrived and demanded the surrender of Both well. Awaiting the arrival of his Borderers the Earl roared forth his defiance, but as the days passed and his men did not come he began to calculate how long he could withstand a siege. The castle, with its central fortress, its winding passages, its low arches, its windows which were thirty feet from the ground, was a stronghold, but he had no intention of starving to death. He decided he must break out of the castle.
“Take me with you,” begged Mary.
He shook his head. “Impossible. One of us might get through. Two would surely be caught. If I can break through the guards I shall ride with all speed to Dunbar. Then I shall muster my men, and, by God, I’ll have Hume’s head. I’ll have the heads of all rebels.”
“Oh my dearest, make sure that it is not they who take your head.”
“My head and shoulders are as firmly wedded as we are!” he cried.
She clung to him, all tenderness, begging him to take care.
He put her from him and, in spite of the enemy guard surrounding the castle, he managed to break out.
Those who had been set to guard the castle, on discovering that Bothwell had eluded them, were afraid to touch the Queen, and they started off toward Edinburgh believing that Bothwell had returned there. Then, dressed in the clothes of a boy—for she dared not attract attention to herself—Mary was lowered from the window of the banqueting hall on to the grass some thirty feet below, and hurried down the mound where she found a horse, saddled and waiting for her. Then began her ride through that wild country of glens and swamps, moorland and mountain. It was many long hours before she reached Dunbar. Bothwell, hearing of her approach to the castle came out to meet her. He lifted her from her horse and held her at arms’ length.
“You make a bonny boy!” he said. And he slung her across his shoulder and carried her into Dunbar Castle.
For the rest of that night she was ecstatically happy. Everything seemed worth while. They made love and afterward they made plans, and then made love again.
He said at length: “We cannot remain here. We shall have to ride forth to meet them.”
“We shall win, my dearest,” she cried. “We shall win and be happy together. You could not fail. Anything you desired you would win.”
“Thrones are not such easy prey as queens.”
“Queens are not easy prey,” she answered, “except for those whom they love. And to those whom Fortune loves, thrones may come more easily than the love of a queen.”
He kissed her and they were fiercely passionate lovers again. She wondered whether it was because he feared there would be little time left for loving.
SHE DETERMINED to ride with him at the head of the army.
She had come to Dunbar
dressed as a boy and there was none of her own garments at Dunbar Castle. No women’s clothes could be found for her except that of a citizen’s wife. She put on a red petticoat; and the sleeves of her bodice were tied with points; a black velvet hat and a scarf were found for her. And so, dressed as a tradesman’s wife—she rode out to meet those who had rebelled against her. Her spirits were high, for beside her rode Bothwell.
The armies met at Musselburgh and the Queen’s encamped on Carberry Hill close to that spot where some twenty years before the famous battle of Pinkie Cleugh had been fought; but now that the two armies were face-to-face they both appeared reluctant to fight.
For a whole day inactivity reigned, each side anxious not to have the sun facing them during battle, and now that they had come to the point, the rebels had no wish to fight against the Queen nor had the Queen to fight against her own subjects.
So the long day passed—each side alert and waiting, watching each other from opposite hills across the little brook which flowed between them.
In the afternoon Du Croc, the French ambassador, rode to the rebels and declared his readiness to act as mediator between the two forces.
“We have not,” said Glencairn to the Frenchman, “come to ask pardon but to give it. If the Queen is willing to withdraw herself from the wretch who holds her captive, we will recognize her as our sovereign. If, on the other hand, Bothwell will come forth between the two armies and make good his boast that he will meet in single combat any who should declare he is the murderer of the King, we will produce a champion to meet him, and if he desires it another and another, ten or twelve.”