Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (128 page)

So Bothwell thought to surprise them. Well, he would be the one to be
surprised. Grange gave the orders for the army of the Lords to march
from Edinburgh at two in the morning and meet the enemy while it was
still dark and before they could even group themselves in the
confusion.

In the room set aside for Mary, since she was a frequent visitor to
Seton House over the past six years, Bothwell and Mary took their rest.
It had been a relief to join forces with Lord Seton, and to see Mary
Seton once more. She had not been with Mary in weeks. The other Marys
had long since scattered, but Mary Seton was still a faithful
attendant.

She had gasped when she first saw Mary. "Oh, Your Majesty, you are so
changed!" she blurted out.

"Much has happened to change me," Mary answered. Ordinarily she would
have probed to know exactly what Seton had meant, but now she was
beyond caring. She was hot, dirty, and hungry. They had not eaten
since that morning, and Bothwell was concerned because he had no
provisions for his troops.

"That is why we must fight tomorrow. I cannot sustain them in the
field, and a hungry army cannot fight," he said wearily. He flopped
into bed, barely able to move.

Mary climbed in next to him. He was lying on his side, with his back
turned to her. She attempted to lay her head on his shoulder and rub
his neck, which was gritty with road dirt. He sighed, with a sigh that
had a note of despair in it.

"Sleep," she said, kissing his cheek gently. "This time tomorrow
night, it will all be decided."

He did not respond. Was he asleep? She tried to see his face. His
eyes were closed.

"It will all be over, and our life can truly begin," she said.

Still no response.

She turned over on her back and lay looking up at the ceiling that she
had seen so many times before. Seton House had always been a refuge
for her, a place where she could act as young as she truly was, where
no hateful spy lurked to twist every natural action of hers into
something sinister and menacing. Here she had played golf and archery
and walked along the sea wall, had sung and talked to Mary Seton and
her brother, had been convalescent and stunned after the murder of
Darnley. The Setons had let her sit for hours in a chair staring out
to sea and not intruded on her private thoughts, but always let her
know they would not be betrayed if she chose to share them.

I have had good friends here in Scotland, she thought. But they have
been like an alternating pattern making up the fabric of life: friend,
traitor, friend, traitor ... it does not make a material one wraps
around oneself for comfort. The traitors and their daggers prick the
skin.

Bothwell gave a strange cry and turned over violently. He was
muttering to himself. A flood of feeling beyond gratitude or even love
washed over her. He was her life, a gift by which all others could be
measured.

He was thrashing around, and swung his arm down on the covers.

"Hush," she said, taking him in her arms. "You are troubled with bad
dreams." She kissed his forehead, which was sweaty. He groaned and
shook himself partially awake.

"Banish these night ghosts," she said. "You are not a man to be
affrighted by spirits."

"Nei, vi kom i fior," he said in a clear voice.

"What is this? What language is this?" she said, shaking him.

"Jeg venter pengerfra " he muttered, but he opened his eyes. "I
dreamed of Norway or possibly it was Denmark, I know not. I was a
pirate, only I was becalmed, my vessel was in a harbour and I could not
get free, could not sail away."

"How do you know it was Norway, or Denmark?"

"The way the houses looked, on a steep mountain. And the smell, a
smell of the sea that is peculiar to that coast." He shuddered.

"It is good that you could be so far away in your mind. And as for the
sea it is the smell that is coming in this window."

"Yes." His voice was trailing off again, and he drifted away in
sleep.

In the intense darkness later on, when the true dividing line between
day and night was drawn, he stirred and took her in his arms. The wind
had fallen, and even the sea seemed to be holding its breath between
tides. She woke up to feel him holding her, feel his private need of
her before the hour of reckoning. Never had his touch felt more
immediate, more pressing. Gladly she turned to him in the secrecy of
the darkness, exulting in his hands and body and soul.

Dawn came up. It stole into the room, lighting it gradually and
relentlessly. Bothwell groaned and sat up. "It is late." He swung
his feet over the side of the bed and shook his head groggily. "Pray
it is not too late!"

She got out of bed, and strained her eyes to see the little watch she
had left on the table. In the smudgy light it was hard to read. "Nay,"
she said. "It is but four o'clock."

"Late, late," he was muttering. He pulled on his clothes and kept on
shaking his head to clear it.

By five, they were on the march toward Edinburgh, the thirty-five
hundred men tramping along the path, with the few mounted riders and
the field artillery bumping on their wheeled carriers alongside. With
Mary rode Mary Seton, who had insisted on accompanying her. Bothwell
rode with his troops, who seemed tired even after the night's rest.
They had eaten little and had no prospects of finding food en route.

Bothwell planned to march directly into Edinburgh and fight the rebels
there, with Balfour firing on them from above to drive them out. The
castle, in royal hands, was the bulwark that assured the royal success,
as it had after the Riccio murder.

But as they approached the city, he suddenly saw, to his horror, that
the rebels had taken command of a hill outside the walls and were
already waiting for them there. They were positioned on the slope, so
that any soldier charging uphill would be a ready target.

"Betrayed!" he said. "Someone has betrayed our plans to them, so they
anticipated our early march." He reined his horse and spurred over to
Mary. "They knew our plans," he said. "Someone told them our
movements, and now they have dug in and are blocking our way."

She felt a stab of surprise, followed by anger and disgust. "Is there
no one we can trust?" Who could it have been? There were no other
commanders in their ranks, only Bothwell. It must have been a regular
soldier, one of the common people who had hitherto always been loyal.

"Evidently not," he said. "Now we must take up position on the
opposite hill." He pointed to the rising ground on the other side of
the little stream that ran between the two hills. "Do you know what
this ground is? The Lords have chosen it well, since they are so fond
of allegories and omens."

"It is ... it is Musselburgh. Pinkie Clough," she said slowly.

"The site of the battle that made it necessary to send you to France as
a child," he said. "I remember it well. I was twelve at the time, and
itching to see a real battle. I looked on, but I did no fighting. Oh,
had things gone differently, who can say where we would be at this very
instant? Cecil was there, on the English side, and he narrowly missed
being hit by a cannonball. If he had been killed, rather than the man
next to him, history would be different. Old man Huntly was captured
and transported back to England 'twas most likely there that he learned
to be a traitor after he took the English gold. The English mowed us
down ten thousand fell on this very hillside."

The early sunshine was slanting across the dewy green meadows, creating
an iridescent sheen. The rebels were sitting calmly, eating their
breakfast.

"Black Saturday," she said.

"Aye. And because we could not withstand the English, we had to sell
ourselves to France. And you were part of the bargain." He waved his
arm across the field. "And had you not gone to France "

"This is pointless. Had anyone not done anything he has done, his life
would be different," she said. "Had you not come to Exchequer House,
we would not be standing here today, called to fight. So let us fight,
because we did come to the Exchequer House, though not by design." She
lifted her chin. "Whether by purpose or design, I accept all that I
have done, and all I will ever do."

A slow grin spread over his face, and for the first time that morning
his features relaxed. "Then let us fight, and fate decide the rest."
He saluted her, and fell back to his men.

Mary and Mary Seton took up their position at the foot of the far hill,
behind the front lines. Bothwell positioned his troops all the way up
to the summit of the hill, with his brass field guns studded halfway up
to fire on anyone rushing the hill. The two hundred harquebusiers were
stationed near the foot of the hill, the six hundred horsemen scattered
throughout the ranks, the thousand Borderers guarding the flanks and
front lines, and the other two thousand poorly armed, untrained
villagers covering the rest of the ground.

A royal standard was planted near where Mary watched, and its red and
yellow lion flapped in the parching wind blowing toward the water only
a short distance away. The rest of the troops fought under the cross
of St. Andrew.

Bothwell rode back to her, a changed man. He was crisp and almost
quivering with energy. He pointed over to the rebels, staring at them
across the two hundred yards' distance. "Now here's the sum of it," he
said, sounding almost gloating. "Our numbers are evenly matched
although they have more trained cavalry and better weapons. But there
are too many leaders. They will never get their orders straight."

She looked across at the groups of soldiers, each wearing livery of a
different colour. But her heart grew heavy as she saw that the
Highlanders had arrived, and were drawn up under the earls of Atholl
and Glencairn. And there seemed to be thousands of horsemen.

"The earls of Morton and Home command the cavalry," he said. "The same
ones that besieged us at Borthwick."

"Erskine," she said sadly, pointing to him. She recognized him even at
this distance. "My son's keeper. So even he has turned against me."

"Not turned against you. He was always against you."

The hurt was very great. He had been a friend, someone she had known
since childhood.

" "Even my close friend, whom I trusted, he who shared my bread, has
lifted up his heel against me," " she said.

"In Scotland, that is just about everyone," he replied. "Look, over
there are the young Lord Ruthven, son of the warlock, and Lord Lindsay.
Riccio's murderers have reassembled. But aside from Kirkcaldy of
Grange, there is not a notable or seasoned commander amongst them. Lord
James would be the one to fear."

"Perhaps he is here."

"No. I have it on good authority that he is in Normandy, waiting for a
signal. He will not cross until he deems it safe which I intend to be
never. I hope he likes eating French tripe & la Caen, for he may be
eating it the rest of his life!"