Strands of My Winding Cloth

by G Lawrence

  “Bothwell is slowly taking control of Mary’s household and military,” Cecil said. “There are rumours he means to marry her, and become King.”

  “He is married already, to Jane Gordon. He cannot wed Mary.”

  “Marriages can be set aside, if there is enough to gain,” said Cecil.

  “My father would certainly agree.” I tapped my fingers on the table. “She will not marry him, Cecil. I know it. She is not so foolish. Mary has no need to marry again when she can live as an independent queen and raise her son.”

  Cecil lifted his eyebrows, but I believed I was right. Over the next days, we had many ill reports of Bothwell: he had beaten a man in Mary’s household and killed him by accident; after his trial he rode about challenging all who opposed him to duel; he held supper parties and entertainments, vastly inappropriate behaviour under the circumstances, trying to win men to him. Cecil’s spies also discovered he had sounded his wife out about a divorce, and that he was trying to get other lords to sign a paper saying they would support him as Mary’s next husband.

  “He is after her,” I said to Robin. “He will chase her, but he will not catch her. She cannot fail to see his rashness, can she?”

  When Robin was silent, I glanced up to see him looking uncomfortable. “Do you compare yourself with Bothwell?” I asked.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “I can understand his desire to wed her, if he loves her.”

  “Cecil’s men say he shows little attempt to woo her,” I noted. “He woos her men but does not seek to pay court to Mary.”

  “Then I do not compare myself, for I wanted you and not your crown.”

  I slipped my hand into his. “I know, Robin.”

  I believed my cousin would resist Bothwell’s attempts to gain her hand, and was confident in this. What I did not foresee, however, was what that man was willing to do in order to claim his crown. At the end of April, Mary kissed her ten-month-old son goodbye as she left for Linlithgow. She would never see James again.

  On the ninth anniversary of her marriage to François, her party was intercepted on the road to Holyrood by Bothwell and hundreds of his men. Riding to her side as she was surrounded, Bothwell ripped her reins from her hands. Mary screamed to her servants to ride for Edinburgh and get help. They tried, but Bothwell’s men were too many. He took her captive at Dunbar and surrounded her with his guards. He kept her under lock and key.

  And then he raped her.

  It was treason and it was sacrilege, but Bothwell knew it was a good method to make Mary marry him. There is a hideous belief that if a woman is raped then marrying her rapist will wipe the stain of that act from her abused honour. Because, as we all know, another, an equally repulsive myth exists that if a woman is raped then it must in some way be her fault. Mary was held at Dunbar for twelve days. Bothwell was only there some of the time. For the rest he was arranging his divorce from his wife. His wife filed for divorce on the grounds Bothwell was an adulterer. Something he admitted to keenly.

  Mary and Bothwell appeared in Edinburgh together at the beginning of May. They rode into the city, and were surrounded by sullen, displeased masses. The same day, their banns of marriage were read to Mary’s country. Mary stated she had never been held captive by Bothwell, nor raped, but only wanted to be joined to him for love.

  This was the worst thing she could have said.

  All suspicion that she and Bothwell had long been lovers and had murdered Darnley to remove him from their path was now confirmed. There were others who did not believe it, and knew their Queen had been forced into this match, and was now attempting to save what little there was of her reputation by marrying her attacker. They urged her to make this known, and abandon Bothwell. Mary did not seem to hear their pleas. Bothwell was made Duke of Orkney and Lord of Shetland. On the 15th of May, they were married.

  After the wedding there was no banqueting, there was no dancing. On the night of her marriage, a placard was nailed to Holyrood Palace gates. It read

  “As the common people say,

  Only harlots marry in May.”

  But three months had passed since the death of Darnley. Mary’s people now either believed their Queen to be a murderous whore, or a pawn to the power of Bothwell. Her lords were all vastly opposed to her marriage. Mary and Bothwell were seen arguing only days after their wedding. He refused to allow her to hold power over him. She was depressed, and so listless that at times she did not rise from her bed.

  And all the while, her men were gathering arms against her.

  War was stirring in Scotland.

  *

  “I can no longer offer my full and unquestioned support for the Queen of Scotland,” I said without pleasure to my Council. “In the matter of her marriage, I find much to be suspicious about. I still believe her innocent of the murder of Lord Darnley, and I believe she is the chosen ruler of Scotland. I will not abandon her request that I become protector of her son in the event of her death, but I cannot support her actions after the death of her husband, nor her marriage to the Duke of Orkney. I must therefore inform you that I have set aside the talks of Mary of Scots becoming named as my heir, and will do so until her innocence is proven.”

  There were rumbles of approval. They sounded like a death dirge in my heart.

  “The Earl of Lennox has arrived back in England, Majesty, and wishes us to take up the case for his dead son,” Cecil said. “He does not trust the findings of Mary’s men and wishes us to investigate instead.”

  “And I suppose next he will claim he was ever a good and loyal subject to England, Cecil.”

  “He indeed protests such is true.”

  I grimaced. “I cannot say I have much faith in such an assertion.”

  “We should request that Prince James is brought to England to be raised by you and Lady Lennox, Your Majesty,” Robin added. “There is clearly much peril for him in Scotland since it is in such disarray, and the boy is the heir to your throne and to that of Scotland.”

  I nodded, but I knew even then that the Scottish lords would not release their Prince. Should I even put forth such a request, seeing as my cousin, his mother, was still the Queen? Margaret Lennox had already visited me, asking for Prince James to be brought to England, and for justice for her son. I had received her at Richmond and looked upon her with no small amount of horror. Margaret had always been a handsome woman, but her son’s death had aged her. Shadows hung under her eyes and her shoulders seemed slumped. She looked smaller; wizened by her grief.

  “Cousin,” I had said as she approached me. “Know that I sorrow with you for the untimely passing of your son.”

  “Your generosity and clemency have been great comforts to me, Your Majesty,” she had said in a meeker tone than ever I had heard emerge from her lips.

  “We will do all we can to bring about justice for my cousin, Henry,” I had continued on. As I spoke, I saw vengeful fire leap into her eyes.

  Margaret had left with my assurances that I would aid her and her husband, but I wondered what I could do. I had told her she could visit me whenever she wished, and her son, Charles, and her husband were greeted at court and shown favour. I had told the bitter Lennox that I would help with money, men and all he needed, but I could not act against Mary herself. Mary was the Queen in Scotland. Were I to act directly against her it could put my own position in jeopardy. But it seemed my intervention would little be needed, for Mary’s lords were determined to remove her themselves.

  But a month had passed since the marriage of Mary and Bothwell and Scotland was in turmoil. Mary’s lords had risen against her and she had fought for control of her country. She had been captured at Borthwick Castle, but escaped in the guise of a man, and ran straight back to join with Bothwell, who was, by then, her sole ally. She had mustered an army of perhaps three thousand, but this was nothing to the forces her nobles were bringing together. They had offered twenty shillings a month to all who would join, a staggering sum, and one which bought many a man’s loya
lty. Their armies met at Carberry Hill, but hesitated to fight. It was one thing to attack Bothwell, quite another to face their Queen. Mary was called upon to set Bothwell aside for good, and yet she did not. She had the chance then, to make peace honourably, and yet she chose to remain with her husband. There was a good reason for this.

  Mary was pregnant with Bothwell’s child.

  Their armies had met in battle, but many were unhappy to be fighting their Queen and so single combat was proposed under a flag of truce; Bothwell against a lord named Kirkcaldy. Bothwell had rejected the duel, saying his opponent was not worthy of him. He demanded to face Lord Morton, who had been suspected of playing a part in Darnley’s murder. But Morton was fifteen years older than Bothwell and knew he would not survive. Lord Lindsay, a relative of Darnley, volunteered in his stead, but as the combatants made to fight, Mary intervened. She knew that whatever happened, she would become the prisoner of one side or the other. She offered to surrender if Bothwell was allowed to escape. When this was refused, she had given the order for her army to attack.

  Did she want to save the father of her child? Had she truly fallen for this man who had so abused her? Was she seeking to protect the only man still allied to her? How can we ever know?

  Her army lost the battle. Bothwell fled. Mary parted from him in tears, and became a prisoner of her own lords. She rode towards them with her head held high. At first, they were respectful, but cries of “Burn the adulteress!” and “Burn the whore!” soon erupted. Mary was stunned. She looked to her lords to discipline their men. They looked away from her.

  As she was led to Market Cross in Edinburgh, her people turned out to add their insults to those of her lords. Mary was taken in the dead of night to the island castle of Lochleven in the Firth of Forth as her men worked to depose her.

  She was their prisoner, and soon they would take her crown.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Richmond Palace

  February 1603

  How could it be, that we, two women so unlike in character, and yet so alike in fortune, could suffer an experience so similar, and yet emerge with such different fates?

  I do not deny I was the more fortunate. I had never been subject to the violence Mary’s lords had showed to her. She had lived an easier youth than mine, and perhaps that was her downfall, in the end, for she did not have the skill I had when I came to the throne.

  Mary had little choice but to marry Bothwell, and when she stepped in to save him? He was her only ally, and she was carrying his child. Was she to leave herself friendless and unsupported? I like to think that if I had been treated as she was, I would have resisted marriage with him. I like to think thus, but I know not if it is the truth. No one can know, until we are put in the same situation.

  But now, my cousin had chosen her path. It was opposite to what mine had been in a situation so similar. It steals my breath to consider how close-linked our fates were. Mary married the man suspected of killing her husband, where I had refused Robin, suspected of murdering his wife. However much she had been forced, the deed was done, and she lost her throne for it.

  For me, it was as though when I looked on Mary’s life, I looked into a glass which showed what my own life might have been. Had I married Robin, when his wife was found at the bottom of those stairs, would my people have called me a whore too? Would they have screamed for me to be burned? Would they have taken my throne, as they took my cousin’s?

  Fate, like history, likes circles.

  Strands of stories never resolved touch ends and play out their tale. Perhaps, like Death, stories do not like to be cheated of their endings. Perhaps, like Death, when they cannot resolve themselves in one life, they steal from another.

  Circles upon circles. Never-ending threads of fate dipping in the darkness and dancing through the light. I felt as though these strands had fallen from my fate, and bound themselves instead to Mary. As though the destiny I might have had, had not wished to be so easily set aside.

  From my path, that strand of fate fluttered out, hanging in the breeze, until it found Mary.

  Where it failed to steal from me, it took instead from her.

  Sometimes we do not control the stories. Sometimes the stories control us.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Windsor Castle

  July 1567

  “Do you not think there are strange echoes, here, Robin?” I asked him as we rode out into the summer sunshine. Dog roses bloomed at the edge of woodlands and the fields were bright and lush. Sparrows chattered over our heads and the air was fresh, warm, sweet. The scent of my horse, earthy and deep, mingled with the smell of flowers opening their buds to the sun, washing against the scent of rain, recently fallen, seeping into the earth.

  “Of Amy, you mean?” he asked and then sighed. “I do feel them.”

  “My cousin chose to marry the man who all suspected of having killed her husband,” I said, ducking my head under a low branch as we rode past some trees. “She has lost her people’s love, and her nobles have taken her crown. Now perhaps I will see what might have been in my own life, in the path hers will take in the future.”

  “Do you regret that we did not marry?”

  “At times… but Mary was put in a different situation, was she not? Kidnapped, carried off to some low castle and abused.” I shook my head. “She would never have married Bothwell had he not raped her. I was not handed such an ill fate.”

  I breathed in as our horses walked over the field. “More and more, Robin, I see what I have made of my life and I bless it. I am fortunate. I offered my heart to you, and for all we have done to one another, I rest safe in the knowledge you would never have acted as Bothwell did.”

  “It is not in my nature to do so,” Robin said. “And his actions disgrace the name of all men, all decent men. No man of honour would ever do as that man has done. Although many now say that the Queen must have loved him, for choosing to marry him.”

  “What other choice did she have?” I asked, pulling my horse to stand as we rose to the crest of a hill. “Once her honour was so abused, the only remedy was to try to make the act itself honourable, and marry her rapist. Although I do not understand the idea, many seem to think that an act of honour outweighs one of dishonour.” I sniffed. “It is not true of course. It punishes the woman for the act done against her. It takes the victim and says they were to blame for the actions of the criminal. It is another part of that evil we maintain; that a woman is always to blame for any ill done to her. Bothwell did not love her, he loved the crown she wore, and cared not for the woman underneath. Mary acted as she believed was right, and she was wrong. But all the same, he was the one who brought about her destruction; for ambition.”

  Mary had been taken to Lochleven where she had delivered still-born twin girls. Lying in her bed, grieving and weak from loss of blood, she had been forced to abdicate her throne in favour of her thirteen-month-old son. James VI had been crowned five days later. Her brother, James Stewart, Earl of Moray, had been made Regent of Scotland. I had refused to recognise King James, as he was now known, and had demanded the Prince be brought to England to be raised by me, his protector and godmother. I wanted to aid Mary in escaping her prison and recovering her throne, but I had few supporters. It was not only for Mary’s sake that I wanted her restored, but for mine. I little wanted my enemies getting any more notions into their heads about replacing me.

  Robin sat for a moment without saying anything. His eyes moved over the hills and dales, over the pockets of woodland and the fields bursting into new life below us. “I will not push you anymore, Elizabeth,” he said softly, looking ahead. “Perhaps now, more than ever before, I understand why you were so distraught when I sought to make you marry me through subterfuge and trickery. You thought that I was seeking to force my will upon you, just as Bothwell has done to your cousin. And perhaps that evil was within me, although I swear to you that I recognised it not. I did not see what I was doing. I did not see I was killing
the love between us with my wish to make you mine. Now that I have had the chance to look my actions in the face, as they are done to full and evil effect by another, I see the sin in them. And I am sorry for all that has come between us.”

  “As I am too, Robin,” I said. “And you were not solely to blame. I, too, acted wrongly, seeking to punish you. I acted out of spite and jealousy. I, too, ceased to talk of our troubles, and drove a hard wedge between us. I was not brave enough to tell you that I did not believe we could marry after the death of your wife. That first confusion and all that came with it was my error, not yours. Had I been more courageous, we might have saved ourselves all the troubles we have had, over these years.”

  I breathed in. “But if you look on Bothwell and compare yourself to him, then you should desist,” I continued. “For he is no man, when compared to you, and he has no heart when his is brought against yours. Never would you have done to me as he did to her, I know that. The thought would not have crossed your mind, and for all the ambition in your heart, Robin Dudley, I know now, more than ever I did before, that your love for me is more important to you than a crown. The same was not true of Bothwell.”