The Wild Queen (31 page)

“That is a dilemma,” Maitland agreed, “but let me think on it. There must be a way to release this beautiful bird from her iron cage without damaging a single feather of her good name or her honor.”

***

For the first time since David Rizzio's murder, more than nine months earlier, I returned to Holyrood Palace. In my absence, everything had been made new—tapestries, carpets, bed hangings. I wanted nothing to remind me of the horrific events, though they still haunted my dreams.

On the eighth of December I observed my twenty-fourth birthday Henry's twenty-first birthday had fallen the day before mine. In better times I would have arranged a great feast for a joint celebration, but I was in no mood for that. Henry was not even in Edinburgh, having left for Dunbar after another of our loud arguments. We had fought, as always, about two principal subjects: the Crown Matrimonial and conjugal relations, both of which I withheld.

“I have every right to the crown, and I demand it!” he fumed.

“You can demand all you want, Henry, but only Parliament can grant you the right to reign equally with me,” I reminded him. I did not remind him that the lords were unlikely to do such a thing without my full approval.

“Parliament granted the Crown Matrimonial to François before he even became king of France!” Henry said, his voice rising. “You cannot deny me any longer!”

From there it was only a short leap to the second subject: my refusal to share his bed. He demanded, and I demurred. Had he not considered wooing me with acceptable behavior and kind words?

The conversation ended, as always, with his furious exit. The situation was going from bad to worse. I was thoroughly sick of this man, and I was also becoming more afraid of him, fearful of what harm he might do. There was no celebration of the king's birthday, and my own observance was muted: a procession through Edinburgh and gifts distributed to the poor in my name.

The next day I left for Stirling for the christening of Prince James.

***

I was surprised, and not at all pleased, to find that Henry had already arrived at Stirling. Soon the foreign ambassadors would begin to gather, and I wanted to keep Henry away from them, as I did not know what schemes he might be brewing. I was told that he was brooding in his apartments and still threatening to leave. I made no effort to see him, nor did he try to see me. I thought it best to leave things as they were.

Gifts poured in, including a solid gold baptismal font, enameled and bejeweled, sent by Queen Elizabeth. The queen wrote that she hoped to meet with me soon to confer about my claim to the succession. She had apparently reconsidered, and it seemed we were approaching some sort of agreement. I was overjoyed to receive this message. My world would have been nearly perfect were it not for my detestable husband, whose behavior threatened to spoil everything.

On December 17, 1566, the little prince was christened in the royal chapel at Stirling with all the pomp and ceremony and majesty that a prince deserved and the Catholic Church could offer. The countess of Argyll stood as Queen Elizabeth's proxy. My son was named Charles, in honor of the king of France, his godfather, and James, in honor of my father and grandfather.

I spared no expense for three days of celebration. My chief nobles wore splendid new suits of clothes that I paid for. There were banquets, dances, masques, and fireworks. Though it had required raising taxes and borrowing money to finance the festivities, everyone agreed it was worth it; Scotland had never seen the like.

But my husband, the father of the smiling and gurgling little prince, chose not to appear.

C
HRISTMAS
E
VE
is a time for forgiveness and reconciliation. Believing this, I decided to pardon all those who had been involved in the plot to murder David Rizzio—even the assassin who had held a gun to my belly and threatened to shoot my unborn child. Henry now feared that his life was in danger, that the men I had pardoned would return from exile and seek their revenge for his refusal to take responsibility for his part in the murder. He went skulking off to Glasgow to his father, dropping hints that he would sail shortly for the Continent. I did not know if he was telling me the truth or plotting something else.

I put aside my worries and determined to enjoy one of the most rewarding hours of my life. The wedding of the chief of my Four Maries, Mary Fleming, to Sir William Maitland took place in the royal chapel of Stirling on Twelfth Night. The other Maries were present; Mary was radiant in a gown of my own that I had given her—there was no time to have a new one made—and all of us tearfully shared in their happiness. We recalled many previous Twelfth Night celebrations in which La Flamin had contrived to find the bean in her slice of cake, entitling her to rule the festivities as queen and to choose the king to rule with her. On this occasion she found the bean and pretended to debate her choice, at last throwing her arms around the neck of my blushing secretary of state.

Several days into the new year of 1567, I heard fresh rumors of Henry's plot to kidnap Prince James, make himself regent, and imprison me. I was deeply worried. I decided to return to Edinburgh and take little Prince James with me. Stirling Castle was too close to Glasgow for my peace of mind. I knew that Henry's spies watched me at all times and everywhere, but I had no spies to supply me with information about his whereabouts and doings. I felt that my son would be safer at Holyrood.

Then word reached me that on his way to Glasgow Henry had fallen dangerously ill. At first his illness was thought to be from poison. I sent my own physician to see to him, then prepared to journey to Glasgow myself to convince Henry to return with me to Edinburgh, where he would be better cared for.

Lord Bothwell and Lord Huntly tried to dissuade me. “What you have in mind is foolhardy and dangerous, madam,” Bothwell argued.

“What can you gain by going to Glasgow and bringing King Henry to Edinburgh?” asked Huntly.

“To have him close at hand where I can keep him under my watch and be prepared if he puts in motion a plot to overthrow me. And if he plans to sail off to the Continent and engage in who-knows-what mischief against me, then to thwart those plans as well.”

I did not tell them that I also wanted to prevent him from causing any scandal that would interfere with my negotiations with Queen Elizabeth for my succession to the English throne.

“If you insist on doing this, we shall accompany you,” said Bothwell.

“Along with a large party of musketeers on horseback,” added Huntly.

I gratefully accepted their offer and we set out, but once in Glasgow, I felt myself in the midst of so much danger that even my musketeers were not enough protection. I took refuge at the nearby home of Lord Livingston, father of Mary, the same Lord Livingston who had made the journey with me to France almost twenty years earlier. He welcomed me like a daughter.

I sent word to Henry that I had come to visit him. Surrounded by my bodyguard, I arrived at the Lennox family castle. My physician, who had been attending Henry for the past weeks, came out to meet me.

“How does my lord the king?” I asked.

“Not well, madam.” The physician grimaced. “He suffers from the pox.”

“The pox!” I exclaimed, though I should not have been surprised. It was a terrible illness common among the low women with whom he consorted.

“His appearance is shocking. You must not touch him. It can be passed from person to person by way of the pustules that cover his body.”

There is no danger of my getting close enough for that,
I thought as I climbed the stair to his bedchamber.

A taffeta mask covered Henry's face. I greeted him and inquired about his sickness. It was not easy to keep a civil tongue when he replied, “It is you who are the cause of it.”

I did not argue but used my most persuasive powers to convince him that I truly wished him well. At times he seemed genuinely sorry for his failings, though I did not believe his repentance would last. He finally agreed to travel back to Edinburgh to receive the treatments he hoped would cure him.

“You are too sick to ride a horse,” I explained, “so we will provide you with a horse litter to ease your travel.”

He first protested, and then yielded, insisting upon certain conditions. “You must promise me, Mary, that when I am cured, you and I will lie together again as husband and wife, and that you will not leave me.”

I felt nothing but revulsion for him, but I promised that I would do as he asked. “First you must be purged and cleansed of your sickness so that you are not a danger to me.”

Toward the end of January, when we were fairly certain the winter weather would not endanger him further, we began the slow journey to Edinburgh. Ominously, a raven accompanied us every mile of the way, circling overhead, stopping when we stopped, flying on as we moved forward. I noticed it but chose not to comment, though others did, and I brooded upon its meaning. When we reached Holyrood, the raven was still hovering.

My original plan had been to lodge Henry at Craigmillar Castle, where the owner could be counted on to keep him under control. Certainly he could not stay at Holyrood, for I believed there was grave danger he might infect the infant prince. But at the last minute Henry refused apartments at Craigmillar, eventually agreeing to lodgings near an old church known as Kirk o'Field, a quiet, pleasant house surrounded by orchards and gardens just inside the city walls.

“It is a place of good air where King Henry can best recover his health,” promised Lord Bothwell, who had procured the house. Henry's physician concurred. There Henry would receive the curative baths he hoped would erase the pockmarks from his face and body.

Everything possible was done to ensure his comfort. Furniture was hastily hauled the short distance from Holyrood, and within a day there were hangings on the walls, carpets on the floor, a velvet-draped bed that had once belonged to my mother, and other luxurious furnishings to satisfy a man who was never easily satisfied. On Saturday, the first of February, my husband took up his temporary residence in the dwelling known as the Old Provost's Lodge.

Relieved to have him settled, I returned to my apartments at Holyrood, though I promised Henry I would come often to visit and even to sleep there in a bedroom on the ground floor. He spoke of his love for me and assured everyone we were about to be reconciled, boasting that he would soon be enjoying the pleasures of the marriage bed.

That unnerved me, but I realized that perhaps the only solution to my disastrous marriage was no solution at all: If I had any hope of Elizabeth's naming me as her successor, I would simply have to endure it as best I could. Divorce or annulment would create a scandal and put an end to all my hopes; I would never rule England and, more important, neither would Prince James. Securing my son's future was worth everything I would have to bear.

The next few days passed quietly. A welcome calm settled over us.
Perhaps,
I thought,
Henry really is trying to be conciliatory. There may be no plot to overthrow me, imprison me, crown our son, and make himself the regent of Scotland until James is of age.

Henry began planning his return to Holyrood. “I shall spend Sunday here, and on Monday I shall move to my apartments at the palace to be with you again, my Mary,” he said fondly.

I forced a smile, for though the past days had been completely amicable, I dreaded having him again in the apartments connected to mine by the secret stair.

The ninth of February was the last Sunday before Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent. In the morning I attended the wedding of my valet Bastian to one of my gentlewomen, Christina, in the royal chapel at Holyrood. The bridal gown was my gift, a lovely creation of silver tissue and rich embroidery. I left in midafternoon after the wedding dinner, promising to return later for the masque and dancing. The celebration could be expected to go on past midnight.

I changed one gown for another to attend the formal dinner given by a bishop for a departing ambassador. Lord Huntly and Lord Bothwell accompanied me, but when I looked for my brother, he was not to be found.

“Where is Lord Moray?” I asked.

“At home in Fife. He went this morning to tend to his wife's illness,” Bothwell said. “She has suffered a miscarriage.”

I thought it odd that Lord Bothwell knew of the loss she had suffered but I did not.

And where were Sir William Maitland and his new wife, Mary Fleming? No one had seen them.

Once my official duties were done, I made another change of dress into carnival costume, and with the ladies and gentlemen of my court I rode to Henry's lodgings at Kirk o' Field to visit him on his last night there. He no longer wore a taffeta mask, and he looked completely recovered, his face smooth and unscarred. The gentlemen congratulated him on his return to health, and Henry himself had a compliment for our carnival dress, particularly Lord Bothwell's elegant black velvet and satin with trimmings of silver, even down to his hose.

The evening passed pleasantly enough until Henry, who had been drinking heavily, began to pet and fondle me and to make suggestive remarks that some thought amusing and others, including me, found embarrassing.

“Tomorrow I shall be mounting our stairs once more!” he roared. “But we do not need to wait for tomorrow, do we, my Mary? You intend to stay here tonight, do you not, good wife? And I shall come down the stair to find you!” He clutched at my bodice, making as if to unlace it or rip it from me, but I contrived to slip away.

On and on he ranted and made boisterous jokes while I tried to think how I might quiet him and put him off for tonight and then deal with him tomorrow. Many eyes were upon us, Lord Bothwell's in particular; he was observing the scene with his usual keenness.

I pulled a ring from my finger and presented it to Henry “A token!” I cried gaily. “Tomorrow, my lord! But now I must leave you, for I have given my word to my valet Bastian and my lady of the bedchamber Christina to attend their wedding masque. Bastian wrote it himself, and you know how clever he is.”