Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (180 page)

The bees had been drawn to it, too. She was astounded at the motion of
so many bees changing places around each flower, making a drowsy hum.
It was a soothing lullaby of spring.

She did not hear any footsteps until Shrewsbury was almost ten feet
away. Her first thought was how sour, worn, and altogether out of
place he looked against the brightness of the day. Human beings did
not always fit the season as easily as animals, she thought.

"Good day, dear Shrewsbury," she said. She smiled and hoped to make
him do likewise. But he just kept trudging forward, his mouth set.

He then looked intently at the honeysuckle bush, as if there were
something hidden in there he sought. Mary could not help looking
herself, but all she saw was a bright blue-and-black winged butterfly
hovering and about to light.

"I have received some news that will sadden you," he finally began.

Suddenly she knew what it was and wanted to say No, no, do not tell me
that, I cannot bear it. Instead she said nothing. The butterfly
seemed to hang, motionless, above the bush.

"The Earl of Bothwell is dead," he said, with dull finality.

She saw him reach out to take her hands, to comfort and steady her,
then withdraw them. It was not his prerogative to touch her.

"I received word this morning from Cecil. King Frederick had informed
them as soon as he was notified by the authorities in the pri at
Dragsholm," he continued.

Everything seemed to pass under a great stilling hand. Everything
stopped. Even though the butterfly's wings quivered and it swooped
gently down and alighted at last, it seemed no real movement. It was
nothing at all.

"How did he die?" Mary asked.

I said these words before. I said, How did he ... in what manner was
he mortally injured? And the boy told me and I died then too.
Atjedburgh, so many years ago. But he was not dead, he was not, and by
some providence he was restored to me, restored and then our life
together truly began.. .. Can there be two restorations? Or was the
first only a dream as well?

"Peacefully, my lady. Peacefully in his sleep. When his guards
brought his food, they found him stretched out on his bed, a smile on
his face."

Thank God, thank God, thank God.. .. "Had he been ill?" she asked, in
a small voice.

"Not that anyone knew, no."

"Is he ... has he been buried yet?"

Those words, those words, the same questions, and now I must hear
another answer, another answer. He must be sent here, here, where I
can visit his tomb.

"Yes, he was buried in a little cnurch near Dragsholm."

She gave a cry. He was gone, taken. She could have no part in his
funeral, or even behold his tomb.

Shrewsbury could not help himself; he broke protocol and put his arms
around her, holding her as she shook with sobs.

"Comfort yourself, my lady," he said. "He did not suffer. He was well
treated, well fed and looked after. His quarters were near his beloved
sea, and he is buried where he can hear its roar. He can hear the sea
singing for eternity."

May 15, Anno Domini 1578. I sit here, holding the pen, staring at the
paper, about to write the words, but not able to. To write them is to
fix them and make them real. Not to write them is to have to carry
them in my mind every second. If I write them, will it lift the
burden? Or will it double it, the knowledge now being contained in two
places?

Eleven years ago, this was my wedding day to my Lord Both-well. We
lived together as man and wife only one month. The rest of our
marriage ten years and eleven months we have been separated, lying in
different prisons, in different countries, held for no legal reason,
save that we are who we are. We vowed to be faithful unto death, and
now it has come, and we are sundered forever.

My lord and love and husband, James Hepburn, Earl of Both-well, is
dead.

There. I have written it.

But it does not make me feel better, it lifts nothing.

Shrewsbury told me two days ago He came and spoke to me himself. He
was very gentle and I could see that it distressed him, but I am
thankful he had the courage to do it It is true, it has been confirmed
by Denmark. He said Bothwell left no personal effects, and there was
nothing he could bequeath me. He said he did not suffer, but died in
his sleep.

How could Bothwell die in his sleep? I cannot imagine that he would be
so meek, I always thought he would meet Death like a warrior. But
Death is a sly knave and takes us unawares. He delights in cheating us
of the end we have planned for ourselves. To warriors he imposes a
sleep-drugged departure, to the trusting, a cup of poison or a knife in
the back, to the robust, a wasting away,-to the man of words, silence.
Martyrs at the stake hope for brave words and a good example, but often
they are robbed of it and perish ignominiously, or even recant and
thereby refute their lives.

Bothwell is dead.

Can he see me now? Is he nearby, in this room, watching? Has his
spirit, freed now from prison, flown here? O, would that it were
true!

When Shrewsbury told me, I felt a creeping cold paralysis come over me,
as if the very life in my own limbs was stopped. My teeth started
chattering, even though it was a warm spring day. Death himself has an
icy grip, fingers of icicles, hands of leaden cold, and I felt his
presence around me and in me. I took to my bed, and lay there,
staring, shaking.

It was as it had been at Jedburgh long ago, when my life was despaired
of. Then I also lay cold and immobile, and worsening by the moment.
Would that I had died at Jedburgh!

But instead God spared me for all this misery. I have only had a few
happy moments since, and most of them with Bothwell. Now he is gone,
and we shall never see each other again upon this earth.

Does he see me now? Will I see him again, when I am dead?

The shadowless sun of high noon lies over the land which I see from my
window. Death seems most pitiless in the bright daylight. At dusk, at
midnight then, perhaps, I shall write more. I cannot bear it now.

The household sleeps, and I have the little candle over my bedstead
lighted. I am writing in bed, a difficult thing to do, but I do not
want to leave it. I feel safe only here in bed. The window is open
and a cool wind steals in, touching me with a chill certainty. Now
Death is at home, this is his hour. I should welcome him, sing
Ronsard's "Hymn to Death." If I welcome him, will he be kind to me?
Will he grant me the presence of my beloved, release him from his
silent grip, and let him slip away to my side?

Death is the crudest gaoler. There is no bribing him, no persuading
him, and he never softens.. .. O Death, please, just one moment ... I
lost him once before to you, and you relinquished him into my keeping
Do so again!

I felt the presence of my husband in this room calling me, bidding me
rise up from the bed and follow him. But when I felt it, never was I
more afraid. I told myself it was only Bothwell, Both-well who would
never harm me, but somehow Death might have changed him into something
else, and that I could not bear. And so I waited, my knees drawn up,
my arms around them, trying to get either the courage to follow the
calling or the sense that it was all my imagination, and calm myself.
But I could do neither. He was here, he called, but I was frozen and
could not move. I saw nothing, there was no movement, the presence was
speaking directly to me, inside my own mind.

Bothwell, I failed you. Forgive me. I am mortal, and afraid.

She closed the book gently. She was frightened, badly frightened. Her
heart was pounding, even after writing the words in her journal. She
had thought it would calm her and it did, after a fashion. But the
room and its horrible darkness were oppressive, closed like a tomb
itself. She did not want to stay in bed, where she would either lie
rigid and sleepless all night, or be haunted by nightmares.

She made her way slowly and carefully over to the chair by the
fireplace where Mary Seton usually kept a shawl to wrap around her
shoulders. It was indeed there, and she draped it around herself and
made her way to the doors of her outer chamber. Her bare feet made no
sound on the floors, which were not cold enough to warrant her
returning to her bedside and searching for her slippers. She decided
to seek out the private chapel to pray. There the dark would not seem
so threatening.

As she entered an adjoining chamber, she was surprised to see a glow of
light from yet another connecting room, and to hear the faint sound of
men's voices. She had thought everyone was asleep. Were the guards
bored and restless on this warm spring night?

Above all, she did not wish them to see her; she wanted to be alone!
She tiptoed up to the doorway, planning to cross it stealthily, when
she heard the word: BothweU.

She stopped as if a rock had been thrown at her. His name, his name
itself seemed to crash all around her. It was as if no one but she had
permission to use it.

How dare they? was her quick, angry response. She stood stunned.

"Been dead for days, they said," a familiar voice was saying.

"Who found him, anyway?"

"Some boy who changes the straw. They had him so isolated in that
dungeon that nobody came near him normally." It was Babington Anthony
Babington's voice! "He had completely lost his wits, and lived chained
up like an animal. But then, I suppose it was the dark that did it.
Locked up in the dark for five years!"

"How do you know?"

"I have a friend who assists Cecil in his correspondence. It's being
whispered about court to all concerned everyone but Queen Mary. Poor
lady, who would have added to her sorrows?" said Babington.
"Shrewsbury pretended he died peacefully in a comfortable bed. Tis
better that way."

"But what exactly happened to him?" the other voice persisted.

"I told you, they just found him dead! Sitting up and stiff! But he
had gone mad long before that. They say" the voice grew low and
confidential, and Mary had to hold her breath in order to hear the
words "he used to struggle and dash himself against the restraining
post. But that was in the beginning. In the end, he had been utterly
and completely abandoned, and he sat still. They say he was all
overgrown with hair and filth "

Mary ran back to her chambers, clutching at her head as if that would
drive out the pain and banish the words.

O my love, I cannot bear this knowledge. She wept as she ran, bowed by
desolation. I cannot, I cannot. Would that I had died in your stead!
My love, my life, my soul!

FIFTEEN

July 15, Anno Domini 1579. Saint Swithin's Day. They have a belief
here, that if it rains on Saint Swithin's Day, it will rain for forty
days. It has something to do with there being a downpour when the
saint's body was moved on that day against his wishes, back in the year
971. They have many charming beliefs like that here. Anthony
Babington told me this morning about this one, when everyone awakened
to driving rain.