The Wild Queen (33 page)

Lent was over, the official mourning period for King Henry had ended, and by custom it was time again for feasting and music and dancing. Slowly my deep melancholy faded. Gradually I began to feel brighter about my future. I sent nine-month-old Prince James off to Stirling, where I believed he would be safe, under the governorship of Lord and Lady Erskine. But I was stunned when I realized I could no longer count on the love of the common people of Scotland. Placards accusing Lord Bothwell of plotting the assassination of the king began to appear around Edinburgh. Women in the streets jeered at me as I passed by. The first time it happened I was so shocked by their rude shouts that I swooned. I would have to work hard, do everything correctly, to win back their trust and their support, but I felt sure I could accomplish that in time.

Henry's father, the earl of Lennox, was relentless in his determination to name those responsible for Henry's death and to see them punished. On the day after my mourning period ended, Lord Lennox demanded the right to accuse Lord Bothwell in front of Parliament of the murder of King Henry—just as Elizabeth had warned. I had no choice but to allow it.

Lord Bothwell himself seemed little disturbed by this accusation. “Have no worry over this matter, my queen,” he assured me. “I can easily put the matter to rest.”

The trial would take place in a fortnight. Lord Bothwell continued to be unperturbed—Lord Huntly was in charge of the court proceedings—and I marveled at his self-assurance. I was convinced of his innocence, but I was not as certain as he was of his acquittal. That the man in whom I had put my complete trust now had to face such a trial strained my nerves. I fell again into a state of despondency and was given to fainting fits.

If Lord Bothwell had enemies, he also had many supporters, and they began to arrive in Edinburgh by the hundreds until they numbered nearly four thousand. I watched from my window at Holyrood as he rode off to his trial. Mary Fleming stood beside me. “Never have I seen a man so confident of the outcome of his own murder trial!” she remarked.

“Of course he is confident,” I said. “He is innocent.”

“He rides the favorite horse of the man he is accused of killing. And is that not one of the king's suits, adjusted to Lord Bothwell's size?”

I did not reply, but I realized that even my closest friend was showing some misgivings. I glanced at her. Was it not possible that her husband, William Maitland, had been in some way involved with the murder?

James Hepburn, earl of Bothwell, was formally charged with regicide, the murder of a king. His accuser, the dead man's father, did not appear after he was informed by Lord Huntly that he could bring only a half dozen of his three thousand men with him into the city. No doubt Lennox feared reprisals at the hands of Bothwell's men.

Hours later, the jury acquitted the accused of the charges.

Bothwell was jubilant. I felt great relief, though the jury's verdict did not answer the question of who actually was the guilty party. When he swept into the courtyard of Holyrood, I went out to greet him. He leaped off his horse, and as he approached I held out my hand for him to kiss, which he did. Moments later he was gone. “Off to celebrate!” he shouted.

The change in Lord Bothwell's attitude was immediate and abrupt. He had always had a certain swagger; it suited his personality. He had also always been self-assured and something of a braggart; now that assurance took on a noticeable arrogance. He was notorious for his displays of temper, though I myself had never witnessed one. After the trial, that changed; he no longer tried to mask his true nature. He barked at servants in my presence and treated beggars and supplicants harshly.

He had begun to act as though he were in charge.

I saw it happen, and I was helpless to prevent it, but I also saw Lord Bothwell as my one reliable champion. He might turn on others, but I had persuaded myself he would not betray
me.

***

The memory of King Henry took on an almost holy aura among the Scots. He was becoming beloved in death as he had never been in life; he was now remembered—falsely—as a charming and beautiful boy whose days had been cut short by his terrible end. Most troubling, an ever-growing number of ordinary people believed that I was the one ultimately responsible for the king's murder. More scurrilous placards began to appear, these portraying me as a half-naked mermaid, the symbol of a prostitute. I, who until then had enjoyed the people's love and respect, had become an object of derision.

The stresses of the past weeks were taking their toll on me. I could not organize my thoughts. My eyes were red and swollen from the fits of weeping that occasionally swept over me, leaving me exhausted but unable to rest. I felt ill. I decided that a few days at Seton Palace, where Henry and I had spent our wedding night, would give me a healthful change of air. On Saturday, the nineteenth of April, as Parliament ended its session, I left for Seton, little more than an hour's ride from Holyrood. From there I intended to proceed secretly to Stirling to visit my darling son.

The next day I was walking about in the fresh spring air at Seton with several of my ladies after hearing Mass when horses clattered into the courtyard. Lord Bothwell, Maitland, and their accompanying gentlemen greeted us genially, waving their caps.

“Great news, my lady queen!” Bothwell called out.

“Then tell it, good sir,” I called back. “We are always eager for great news!”

“In good time, madam, in good time! My friends and I are famished and parched, and it would be better if we were first refreshed.”

It was certainly not in order for a visitor, even an earl, to demand that the queen provide him food and drink. Nevertheless, I called for refreshments, and we retired together into the hall.

When the men had eaten and drunk their fill, Lord Bothwell asked that all others be excused from the hall, a request I granted, though I felt this, too, was out of place. Bothwell and I sat alone at the long table.

“You have all you have asked for,” I said, growing impatient as he continued to work his way through a large roast fowl. “If you please, what is this great news you bring me?”

Lord Bothwell pushed aside the remains of the fowl. The previous day, he told me, he had invited the lords of Parliament to a banquet at Ainslee Tavern. “A favorite dining establishment of all those gentlemen,” he needlessly reminded me. They had enjoyed a fine meal, he said, “and nearly drained the wine cellar with all the good cheer that was in abundance.” Reaching for his tankard of ale now, he continued, “There followed a long and interesting discussion on the well-being of our sovereign lady—you, my queen.”

I frowned, waiting for him to go on.

“It was noted that our queen is now without a husband, a solitary state in which it is not wise for her to remain if she is to control the rebel lords, and it was proposed that she should take a new husband without undue delay.” My mouth dropped open at this, and I would have spoken, but Bothwell hurried on, not permitting me to say a word. “I offered my hearty and affectionate service and said it might be very likely that our queen, dear madam, might see fit to choose me, a native Scot, to be her lawful husband.” He sat back, watching me as a hawk watches a mouse.

I was stunned. I took a moment to recover my wits. “Do I understand you correctly, sir? You and the lords of Parliament have decided that I should marry
you?”

“Aye, in sum, that is what was decided. And as I had already drawn up a bond to that effect, twenty-eight of your loyal subjects, nearly all of those present, signed it then and there.”

Lord Bothwell drew out a document—a bond, he had called it—and laid it in front of me. I read through it quickly. It set forth exactly what he had just described, and there were all the signatures. I pushed the bond away, too shocked to speak.

“My lady queen,” he said, leaving the document where it lay. “Marry me. It is the right thing for you to do. The
only
thing for you to do. You know that I am the one man in this kingdom who can control these fractious lords. Without me, they will trample you into the dust.”

“My lord Bothwell,” I replied as firmly as I could, though I trembled with indignation, “my answer is unequivocally no. My husband was murdered less than two months ago. I have not yet found those responsible, and frankly I do not think I ever will. You have been acquitted, for which I am heartily glad, but too much scandal is still attached to his death. And may I remind you of one thing more? You are a married man!”

“Lady Jean has agreed to a divorce,” he told me hastily. “On grounds of adultery with Bessie Crawford.”

How dare he! What effrontery!
I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “The answer is still no. You are dismissed, Lord Bothwell.”

“As you wish, madam. Perhaps you will reconsider.” He rolled up the parchment and brandished it. “When you realize how much you cannot do without me.”

The earl of Bothwell bowed and strode out, his swagger not in the least diminished.

***

Before dawn on Monday I left for my secret visit to Stirling Castle with only Lord Huntly and Maitland and some thirty horsemen to accompany me. In the best of times I could have made the journey easily in one day. But I had slept little the night before, and I therefore was weary when we left Seton and exhausted when my party reached Stirling late that evening. Lord Bothwell's marriage scheme whirled in my head and left me no peace. “What am I to do?” I muttered, over and over. “What am I to do?” Surely he could not be serious! Yet I knew he was, and I feared he would mount a campaign to wear me down.

My wee bairn was asleep when I arrived, but I stole into the royal nursery to look at him. He slept sweetly, tiny fists waving in a little dream.
What a beautiful lad he is, and what a handsome man he will be someday!
I thought, gazing down at him in his cradle. He was growing to resemble his father—already he had a full head of golden curls—and that was a knife twisting in my heart. That our marriage, begun in such ripeness of passion, had ended in such violence saddened me deeply, for all that could have been and all that was lost. My tears dropped on the babe's coverlet until I turned away.

The next morning I rose early, not wishing to miss an hour of my precious time with Prince James. I watched the changing of his napkins, his bathing and dressing, his suckling at the breast of his wet nurse. I rocked him and sang to him and played with him, little games I made up as I went along, just to see him smile. It was a perfect day. That night my sleep was disturbed by uneasy dreams of France and poor Fran^ois—it was the ninth anniversary of our marriage—and on Wednesday morning I kissed my babe before he was yet fully awake and rode off toward Edinburgh.

We stayed the night at Linlithgow, continued on the next day, and were within a few miles of Edinburgh and about to cross the River Almond when a large contingent of horsemen appeared suddenly out of the surrounding forest. There were hundreds of men, all with their swords drawn. My small escort of thirty was surely no match for them.

The earl of Bothwell stepped boldly forward and laid his hand on the bridle of my horse.
What does he think he is doing?
I wondered, horrified by this unseemly behavior.

“What do you mean by this, sir?” I demanded. “Do you intend to take me prisoner? What you are attempting is treason!”

“I mean only to protect the life of my queen,” Lord Bothwell replied easily, as though he were joking. Then he continued seriously “Madam, you are in danger of an armed insurrection in the capital. As the high sheriff of Edinburgh, I have a duty to remove you to a place of safety.”

Was it true, that an armed insurrection was brewing in Edinburgh? “And where do you believe I will be safe?”

“Dunbar Castle. We shall go there directly”

“Dunbar! A long day's ride, Lord Bothwell.”

“But necessary, madam.” He made to lead my horse away.

My mind was racing. Bothwell had once helped me to escape from David Rizzio's murderers. But I did not now feel that the high sheriff was my savior—quite the contrary. I stalled, wondering if I could bargain my way out of this situation. “Do allow me a word with my men, and I will come willingly.”

Bowing slightly, Lord Bothwell let go of the bridle, and I rode back to where my escort waited uneasily, aghast at what was happening. “This is nothing short of abduction, my lady! We are ready to defend you to the death,” declared the captain, plainly frightened at the prospect of his thirty men against Bothwell's hundreds. Huntly and Maitland were ashen-faced, their expressions unreadable.
Are their signatures on the bond?
I wondered.
Are they complicit in this abduction?

“There is no need for bloodshed,” I told them. “I will go with Lord Bothwell as he wishes. I do not know his intentions, but one of you must ride hard to Edinburgh and tell the citizens what has happened to their queen.”

I turned and rejoined Bothwell and rode off with him, having no notion of what lay in store.

H
AD
L
ORD
B
OTHWELL
used the black arts to bend me so easily to his will?

I pondered this as we moved swiftly from the bridge at the River Almond and then skirted Edinburgh to the south. The guns from the castle boomed out—the message of my abduction had reached the commander—but the cannonballs fell far short of Lord Bothwell's men and did not deter them.

“Did you order that, Mary?” Lord Bothwell asked rudely. I was startled to hear him call me by my Christian name, and not at all pleased. Only my Four Maries and my two husbands had shared that degree of intimacy, and then only by my invitation. He shook his finger at me as though I were a naughty child. “And I suppose you asked the men of the city to take up arms to rescue their queen? Did you? But we are on horseback, and they are not. Small chance of their catching up with us, I will wager!”