STRETCHED AND SMOOTH, further and rounder. So fine under my palm and soft till the bump, the kick, poking through my skin, our skin. Feel it. Touch on the palm. This life is getting stronger, man child or woman. A kicking boy, or a leaping girl like Livingston, living and growing in my body, as I did in yours. You cannot imagine what this is like until it is happening. And then you cannot describe it because you are inside too, enfolded. The mothers, only they can understand.
What do we want for you, my little womb child?
A happy life in your own land. What do we want for you?
A kingdom secure and strong. What do we want for you, my little baby?
Skill, wise learning and courage. What do we want for you, my unborn treasure?
A loving father on earth as well as heaven. Amen. Amen.
He cannot spoil your future. You will be the tie that unites and reconciles. You are the bond of peace between families, queens and nations. And you are child of my own flesh, fruit of my womb.
I shall not allow your father’s ambitions to thwart our happiness, or his discordant boasting. He shall not receive the crown until he proves himself worthy to share in government. He will not make free any longer with our body. This is our land, your native place, and you are safe here and protected.
I shall make peace for this kingdom by my own right, and yours that is to come. I shall pardon the rebels in due course, but not yet. Let them wait a while on my good pleasure.
Your uncle Moray is obdurate. He is a Stewart, but must renounce all pretensions before he can return. My own good brother must acknowledge that kingship cannot be usurped. He drinks from Knox’s cup when it suits his purpose, unaware that he is spreading poison. Without authority there is only chaos and destruction, which is why God has appointed monarchs to rule and subjects to obey. ‘Beware the Bastard,’ Rizzio has warned, but this Bastard will remain in exile till his choler is cooled and his lesson learned.
Lady Moray though will have my personal protection and a place at my side. Hamilton was banished to France for his part in the rebellion but is pardoned without confiscations. I show mercy as well as statecraft. The old Duke has suffered enough, and his family is a counterweight to the Lennox claims. We shall always have Hamiltons close to the crown.
As for Argyll, he is loyal at heart, though earnest in religion. He shall be recalled and reconciled to my dear sister Jean. I know what aggravation she has endured amongst these Highlanders. You marry the clan and not the chief alone: we can confide in each other’s troubles. However, I shall take Bute from Argyll and give the island to Lennox. That will teach the Chief a lesson that he understands. And sweeten the bitter taste of Hamilton’s pardon for Darnley and his besotted father.
Bothwell should be rewarded for his part. He wants the rich acres of Haddington Abbey to join to Hailes and Crichton. But these lands were promised to Maitland and are the cause of some new quarrel. Were ever two men so unlike? Neighbours and rivals, there is no end to the bickering. Fleming will hear nothing said against her William, yet he is in the sulks with Rizzio and keeps his distance, gazing soulfully from afar at his true love. Is he still Moray’s man at heart?
When I turn twenty-five, I can revoke all grants of land to replenish the exchequer. That is what my father would have done, which makes these nobles sweat, unmoved by religion and its holy obligations. My Scottish lords, who believe they have the right to share the government and despoil the Church for private gain. With Rizzio and Balfour at my side I shall manage them, despite Cecil and all England’s interfering. Let them learn from Randolph’s ignominious exit and cease meddling.
I shall make God’s peace, my little one, and give the ministers their livings. But let each practice their belief free from persecution. If all faiths in these islands are tolerant, then our kingdoms can unite. Blessed are the peacemakers. This Parliament inaugurates a new age of harmony, heralded by your birth. I shall make the way smooth and glad for you and for our people.
Beaton will be missed. She was our eyes and sharpened wits. When all else failed we could be merry in her jests. Yet it was wise of Fleming to see the danger and avert it through this marriage. Her departure will close the Book of Marys. I can at least depend on Fleming. We shall see Beaton back at court ere long with Lord Ogilvie in attendance.
The poets will write of new dawns, new birth, and I shall be lightened of this blessed cargo. Together we make the age again.
We are here alone. My bedchamber in darkness and the whole palace eerily quiet. Old Lady Huntly has gone with the message, but I have no idea who is still here, who has escaped. All other attendants have been denied me. Calm. I must remain calm till this beating pulse lessens, this thumping of my blood around you.
He strolled in as is his way, coming and going as he pleases. Had he eaten? Will he join our little party – Jean, Rizzio, Erskine – round a supper table, there in the little chamber?
I can never sit in that room again.
When he touched you at my waist I thought he was in a better mood, wanting to come up later to my bed. Everything seemed easy. Even when Ruthven appeared like a gaunt apparition in his grey flesh and armour, I thought he had wandered through illness. But then the nightmare was ours.
‘Let that man Davie come out?’ croaked Ruthven hoarsely.
‘Why? What has he done?’
‘He has offended your honour, shut off your husband from the crown, and come between you and the nobility of this realm.’
‘Is this your work?’
Darnley looks stupid and avoids my eye.
‘If my Secretary has done wrong then he will be tried in Parliament.’
‘Let him come out,’ Ruthven snarls.
‘Justice, Your Majesty, please, justice. Save my life.’
Rizzio is on his knees, clutching my legs. Ruthven starts forward. Erskine tries to stop him, then the furies break. Men crashing in, more crowding at the door. Morton, Lindsay, Kerr, gun in hand, and many more. Over goes the table with a smash of dishes. Jean grabs the candles, darkness sways.
‘Sir, take the Queen to you.’ I feel his arms hold me from behind. I feel a dagger pass my cheek and strike below. Screams, more blows as he is torn from my flesh. Cold metal on my womb, Kerr’s pistol at me. As he is dragged out, they fall on him like animals rending their prey, stabbed, slashed beyond bearing. Darnley keeps by me the whole time but his dagger is left sticking out of Rizzio’s bloody corpse.
My poor David. Soul of wit and music, a lifeless heap of rags.
The room empties. Ruthven slumps into a chair ghostly pale. Am I to be next? I shall show them no fear. My weak, stupid, vicious husband has spoiled everything beyond repair.
‘These are the wages of tyranny. Depriving the nobility of their rights, exiling some, and treating with foreign Catholic princes without our consent.’ Ruthven wheezes through his grey skin.
‘Are you not a member of my Council?’
‘It is because of this base servant, nestling like an adder in your bosom, that your husband has not been made King in his own right. Now the venom is drawn.’
‘I have been denied my rights.’ Henry finds his injured voice.
‘How can you say so much? I took you from a low estate and made you my consort.’
‘But that loathsome toad enjoyed your company. You played cards with him in your bedchamber into the night, while I am shut away without entertainment.’
Resentful jealous child.
‘Is this the conversation of a gentleman, of a king before his subjects?’
Ruthven has taken to studying the floor.
‘I dare not speak of such matters. I am not so bold.’
‘Whenever I come you are sick or unwilling. Is that the entertainment of a gentleman?’ Henry has found his usual vein.
‘Only when he lacks the loyalty and chastity of a husband.’
‘What have I done to disappoint you? Where have I failed in my offices? Are the fruits not plain to see? I am willing to do whatever becomes a good husband. Though I may be of low estate in your haughty eyes, yet I am the husband you promised to obey, and make me equal in all things. But that Italian vermin came between us and stained my honour. See my dagger sticking from his flesh. That wipes all clean.’
Do not weep, do not rage, Mary. Above all, show no hint of weakness.
‘My Lord, whatever offence has been done to me, you are the cause. I shall be your wife no longer, nor ever lie with you, nor ever like you more, until I find the way to make your heart as sorrowful as mine is now.’
Ruthven cannot bear this. The old brute is embarrassed.
‘Please, Your Majesty, be of good comfort. Receive your husband, and the counsel of your nobility. Then your government will be as prosperous as in the days of any King.’
‘Or in the days of the Queen, my mother. You had some hand in that too, Lord Ruthven.’
He claws at his throat. ‘Please God, some wine, a cup of wine, for saving of my life.’
‘Is that your sickness, to be quaffing wine in full armour?’
‘God forbid Your Majesty should ever sicken as I do.’
‘If I die through this child, or my kingdom perish, then my friends in France and Spain will take revenge on you and all your kin.’
‘Why would great princes meddle with a poor man such as me, a mere subject? As for your child or kingdom, they cannot perish except by your own hand since there is not a man in this palace who would permit harm to come to Your Majesty more than to their own hearts. If anyone is to be blamed for causing harm this night it is the King, your husband.’
Hauling himself painfully to his feet, Ruthven departs without even as a glance at Darnley. Then he follows the old man’s clanking footsteps. I sit on alone, frozen as my mind revolves.
Within the hour there is tumult in the palace yards: the Provost and his men are at the gates. Darnley is sent out to quiet them and assure them of my safety. He, not poor bloodied Rizzio, is the viper whose poison must be purged.
Lady Huntly returns unchallenged. Bothwell and her son have escaped by leaping from the rear apartments. They stand ready to aid my flight if it can be contrived. Athol, Maitland, Balfour, Melville, have been let away; they are not needed for Morton’s brutal work, nor can they help me here.
I sit here through the hours of night to devise a way. I am on my own, with only wit to shield us from destruction. I am like my mother now, besieged in her own house. How she fought to save me from this. Why did we ever leave our France for these black shores? God preserve me through the dark. I will not lay down my head, lest these black events break back into my mind. I won’t go back into the nightmare.
‘Are you alright?’
The narrow head peers down over my couch.
‘The midwife is attending me.’ I thought that face was handsome and alluring once. ‘Are my ladies to be allowed through?’
‘Yes, it’s done, but you’re not to try and escape in disguise.’
‘How would I escape in this condition? ’
‘Will the child be alright?’
‘I have no idea. If you are so concerned for the child you should have spared me last night’s bloodshed. It seems peaceful enough, considering.’
‘We can have another. I don’t want it to die.’
‘Or put my life in danger?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve thought better of it then. If I die you’re nothing. Just another pretender to the throne of Scotland. You wouldn’t last six months.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘You’d be fleeing back to England with your tail between your legs, begging Elizabeth’s forgiveness, like Moray.’
‘No, I wouldn’t. My father will protect me. And anyway Moray is on his way back to Edinburgh.’
‘With all the exiled lords?’
‘Yes, to meet with me. And Morton’
This was worse than I had imagined, no casual brutality, but carefully planned, bloody rebellion.
‘A Parliament of all the rebels,’ I mocked.
‘Don’t twist everything round. That’s what you always do. We’re restoring the government. I’m dissolving Parliament.’
‘So all their lands are safe. And how will you get your precious Crown without Parliament? Don’t you see you’re being used?’
‘They need me to secure their pardon.’
‘And then your part is over. They’ll brush you aside if you don’t do their will.’
‘Shut up, you bitch; stop twisting it all.’
He goes off to the window to sulk. Shouts down for wine. But he’s turning it over, beginning to worry.
‘What about your religion?’
‘What about it?’
‘I thought you wanted to impress the world by restoring Scotland’s religion?’
‘Well I had to promise the Protestants to leave things as they are. What else could I do for now? At least I tried which is more than can be said for you. And don’t think that hasn’t been noticed by the people who matter, because it has. The Pope’s ambassador brought me a personal message.’
‘Your faith in exchange for your Crown – there’s a bargain. But you’re still Catholic. Do you really think they’ll let you continue in power? They’ll bring in their godly kingdom and make Moray its King.’
‘It’s Morton that’s in command.’
‘So why are they bringing back Moray?’
That hits home. He looks uneasy.
‘What should we do?’
‘Offer them the pardon, and then escape out of their power.’
‘How?’
‘I can get messages out of here.’
‘To Bothwell? I don’t trust him, or Huntly.’
‘Would you rather stay here with Morton after I’ve gone?’
‘You wouldn’t leave me behind.’
‘Of course not, Harry. You’re my husband and the father of my child. We can reign together as we always planned before these stupid quarrels. When our heir is safely born then we can inherit England’s crown as well. Your mother always wanted this.’
‘You make it sound so simple. How do I know I can trust you?’
‘Come to my bed tonight, my love, and I’ll prove my faithfulness But not a word to anyone. They must believe you are still with them, or we will both be ruined. And ask Moray to come and see me.’
‘I knew you would come round, when we had got rid of Rizzio.’
Finally I am able to wash and take refreshment. Lady Huntly brings messages urging me to escape over the wall in a chair lowered by ropes. I cannot flee until I have lulled their suspicions. By taking Darnley with me I remove their figurehead and excuse. They will be exposed as traitors without cause.
When Moray comes I throw my arms about his neck and weep. If you had been here, I would not have been treated in this way. He looks uncomfortable. Did he know? Even so I need him now to divide the ranks of my enemies. He retires believing his return is welcome.
We slip out through the wine cellars after curfew and creep past Rizzio’s newly dug grave. Their guards have been withdrawn, since the rebel had agreed to my departure tomorrow with their pardon sealed. Due to fatigue and nausea, and being early abed, I delayed signing until the morning. I would like to see their faces when they find the bird has flown with its quill.
And I have Darnley under my wing, for now at least. In his drunken stupor he failed to make his assignation, coming up the private stair instead at first light. It was easy then to fend him off with morning sickness. I will not sleep beside that man again. He makes my skin prickle with disgust and loathing.
Even riding for Dunbar, he could not keep his nerve, whipping the horses beyond endurance, panic stricken that we might be overtaken. ‘Come on, come on,’ he screeches like one demented, regardless of my pregnant belly or pillion saddle. ‘Why don’t you ride ahead?’ I mock, and without a word he gallops away, leaving us to face pursuers. Must I always take the man’s part by myself?
Crossing a sea bridge between the massive towers, we pass into the castle yard. I feel the nightmare begin to fade. But I will not stop. I am lifted bodily from the horse. Bothwell is there. I am in the arms of Lady Hepburn, carried to the hall. Let me stand. I am well, the bairn unhurt. Let us warm ourselves by the kitchen fire; we can make eggs in the French style; let us joke and deride, and plan their demise. Where is Darnley? Good, good, within the walls. Yes, take my arm, yes let me lean, and slide, and fall in safety.
What has to be done is done. Within days it is accomplished. But there is no triumph in this, no satisfaction. I have been imprisoned, pursued in my own kingdom. A loyal servant is violently killed before my eyes, my life threatened. And the root cause is my own husband.
I am reconciled with the exiles. Argyll was first to come in – he is loyal to the crown in everything after religion – then Glencairn and Rothes, and of course Moray. Balfour was my emissary in this business; Maitland is in the north afraid to face me. Was he instrumental in the murder? Balfour is his match though in deceit.
I must endure these men as the price for driving Morton and the assassins out. Eighty conspirators led by the Douglas faction are forfeit and outlawed beyond the kingdom. Let them confer with their ally Cecil in England. Melville bleats on about reconciliation and harmony, but there can be no peace with murderous rebels.
His Majesty King Henry has made a proclamation, affirming his innocence of any part in the foul deed. No sooner issued than Ruthven sends me the conspirators’ sworn bond, signed by Darnley. He is a bare faced liar in addition to all else, never to be trusted or believed again. But it does not cancel the guilt of the rest. Ruthven died a few days later in England. They say he saw angels descending around his deathbed; they were coming to take him to hell.
Moray, Argyll, and Glencairn return to Council with Bothwell, Huntly and Athol. How the wheel turns. Only Morton and Ruthven are absent. Maitland will be reappointed. What was the last year for?
In future I will think more of castles and less of councils. Dunbar is granted as a royal fief to Bothwell so that I can count on safe refuge. I have furnished the apartments at Edinburgh Castle since Holyrood cannot be defended. I shall stay there until the child is born. If the baby lives he will go to Stirling. If I live. I have made Erskine Earl of Mar and guardian of my heir.
This swollen burden is my whole life. It has swallowed all else in is weight and pressure. My legs are sore and heavy, and I am breathless on the stair. Beaton has come back as Lady Ogilvie to stay beside me, but Livingston has given birth to her own little baby boy. I find comfort in Seton’s prayers.
Fleming looks after everything but is reserved, a little distant. She wants to marry Maitland, a strange match for such beauty. Yet who am I to advise on choosing husbands? Darnley is out of sight, out of mind for me, though carefully watched by Balfour.
I think that I will die in childbed. What is there left to live for? I will bequeath Scotland an infant as my father left me. There will be a Council of Regency once more; the papers are all drafted, excluding Darnley. If it survives this child will finally unite two kingdoms. Elizabeth will ensure my heir’s safety and upbringing. She will inherit the fruits of my labour.
What would have been my part had I gone to England as a bairn instead of France? Could we live different lives, or are we destined to one path? Would England have made me someone else, not myself? When Henry Tudor’s frail Edward died, I would have been at England’s mercy, pawn for a kingdom. One child may not be sufficient.
But I am the child of France. I can be no other. Without her I would have lacked life, joy, love. Every day I picture and long for that country’s gardens, rivers, woods. All my family is in France, and my heart aches for each and every one. I have remembered them all in my will. What playmates we were together as children. What young courtiers we became. Anne, little Charles, and poor lost Louis, and of course dear Francis. How pure and true our child love was. How innocent. He is gone but there are other children now, nieces, nephews and cousins. Each of them will have a gift from Mary; to recall her by when they have grown up into this harsh world.
I can still make a kingdom within my mind. I have my unicorn tapestries around me even in this gloomy fortress. Their flowers and fabled creatures recover for me a lost paradise when all was golden bright with promise. Tears come easily, but these are tears of joy not pity. In these rooms my body is confined but not my dreaming spirit.
I cheat long afternoons with the Marys still around me. We read aloud and play at cards, and sometimes Beaton sings. No dancing for me now. We eat early and I take some wine to lull me into fitful sleep. Then I do not think of mother’s swollen body laid out in Margaret’s Chapel, or of Rizzio clutching at my legs, or of riding frantic through the night. Always riding somewhere in the darkness, whipping on my horse, pursued by faceless fears.
***
Weightless. A cloud In the sky. White floating, unbound. Free from pain, at last, free. Are these gossamer veils the air breathes through? Will an angel part them, or just faithful Seton. It is wonderful without pain.
Did I die? The doctors say I was all but dead, for some minutes at least. What did I experience? Nothing. Then they bound my limbs and bled and purged. And I am unconscious, finally emptied of the fever and the stabbing furies. Peace at the end. Can I begin afresh now, come home to my body? Or shall I just be dead.
It is so different from birth, alive through all the struggling sweating hours, surrounded by anxious faces, the washings, wipings, bathing of my lips and brow. I felt the burden and the pain, till finally the red fires tearing, the unbearable pressure, the voice screaming from my roots. The agony, the joy. I was delivered of a healthy boy. But the pain went on in my wounds, my side, my aching breasts.
I have not been well since then, not my own self. Those weeks and months are like a blur. Was I in my right mind? Shouting and swearing at Darnley, fearing his every conversation. And when he stood by the cradle, I blush at my frankness.
‘God has given us a son, begotten by none but you. Let everyone here bear witness. So much is he your son that I fear for him hereafter.’
And why did I let him back to my bed? And when he raged and threatened, say I was with child again?
‘We can always get another,’ was his curt dismissal.
Get another – he was too soused with whisky to know where he was or what he did. Never again will I let that foul drunkard corrupt my flesh. I am inviolate now. My body is my own again.
I know him so well, his low deceit and baseness. He is bereft of manliness or virtue, a child turned vicious when he cannot have his will in everything.
Yet his pretensions are dangerous. I was right to send my infant to Stirling, where he is well guarded. Darnley wants to treat with Catholic princes and masquerade as the champion of faith. That cannot be for us now, not for Scotland. I need the lords around me, Moray with Bothwell, and Argyll with young Huntly, all Protestants. And Maitland to steer the government. They will not have James to set up against me; he is safe, especially from his own father.
That is what I must live for, to see my child succeed. He is my god-given purpose. Elizabeth sees that. ‘The Queen of Scots is lighter of a bonny boy, while I am but a barren stock.’
Yet I nearly died within these floating curtains.
I shall write to Elizabeth and ask her to be my son’s guardian in the event of my death. That will seal our bond of kinship and affection. She too will have her share of the bairn. We will deal with each other as mothers and as queens.
He will secure the succession for us both. It is no longer me, but James, that is the fruit and issue. I will withdraw my claim as long as Elizabeth lives and take my place after any child she bears, for she will bear none. So I am no longer a threat and I have provided an heir for England as well as Scotland. Elizabeth understands her duty as a queen. The child changes everything, and can bring us together. Not even Cecil can prevent it. I shall write to her as soon as I am able, and correspond directly without the intermediary of secretaries. Melville will assist me and keep everything discreet in London.
It is a relief to see things clearing. I can begin to leave these obscure months behind. Today in my weakness I feel some stirring. I am not forsaken. Our Lord has restored some part of me to a better prospect.
One cursory visit, through my long days of illness, and then back to Glasgow Darnley goes. Next he appears again unannounced. For a whole day I reason with him in the presence of my counsellors. If he could tell me how I had offended him. But again he recites the same old tale – the nobility show him no respect and I refuse to make him King. Yet all the remedies are in his own hands, and have been from the start. Can his foolish father not put him on the right path?
Finally he departs, saying he will go abroad, I will see his face no more, he will live in exile, and so forth. He could be anywhere, intent on any mischief, but Balfour has cunningly kept in his confidence and informs us of his whereabouts. And of his mad schemes to fortify Scarborough Castle, or invade the Scilly Isles in aid of a Catholic claim to the crown of England. God help him, but is my husband mad? A brain diseased, poisoned by malice and suspicion.
Will anyone attend to such ravings? He has written to the Holy Father complaining of my lack of zeal for true religion. Lennox remains in Glasgow surrounded by a large following. The garrisons at Stirling and at Dumbarton are increased as a precaution. More expense from my own purse, when all my revenues are already stretched by the main business. We have spent three days in Council planning the Prince’s baptism at Stirling, between times discussing what to do. In twos and threes, privately. Nothing must be allowed to reflect on James. The talk goes round in circles. Moray, Athol, Bothwell, Huntly, consult by turn.
Coming to Craigmillar usually raises my spirits. It is so lovely here with the wooded slopes, the sweeping view over Edinburgh and out onto the river. Gardens and orchards climb the southern slopes, where some of my own servants have settled. It reminds them of France. October sun has made the colours red and gold. But today these surroundings bring no comfort. This lovely castle seems more prison than pleasure ground.
In every chamber of the great tower they come to and fro with darkening brows. They look at me as if I were an invalid in need of urgent remedy. I wish I were dead, for then I would be quit of them all. Some argue for divorce, but if the marriage is questioned then James’ rights are put at jeopardy. Did this island’s troubles not flow from Henry’s first divorce, and his denial of legitimate succession?
Others say Darnley should be imprisoned or tried for treason. Maitland insinuates it can be done without harm to my honour, or my son’s position, and that Moray will look through his fingers at it. What can Maitland contrive? I cannot be compromised when my accord with Elizabeth is so close. Nothing unbecoming to a queen shall besmirch my name. They must understand that, even if their own reputations shrug off such qualms.
What is to be done? Nothing until the baptism is performed and James acknowledged by all the ambassadors. Then we shall see. The baptism will be the most magnificent event in Scotland since my mother’s royal entry. I am sparing no expense and it will be by Catholic rite, whatever may follow. This ceremony and its attendant celebrations will resound through Europe, and be remembered as long as the Kingdom of the Scots endures.
I must not give way to melancholy, but play the part for which I was born. ‘Be a queen, ma petite, and do your duty, then nothing can befall that God does not intend. Courage, Marie, ma perle, toujours courage’. And we parted never to meet again in this world. But the mothers do not forget, on earth or in heaven. My hands were inside Grannie’s lined palms clasped in her prayers. And today I have a petit garçon who will put his hands in mine and pray for me always whatever befalls.
Elizabeth sends a golden font, as godmother. The ambassador brings letters confirming her agreement to my proposals. All that is left is to review her father’s will and restore our place in England’s royal line, James’ and mine. Elizabeth will insist, whatever objection Parliament makes. It is not a matter of religion but of lineage.
Even Cecil, it seems, has agreed, though on condition that Morton and the murderers are recalled from exile. What does that matter now? It can be done after the baptism. All should be united since the crown is firmly established, succession secured, and peace made with our neighbours.
How grown James already is. A lusty child, with the auburn colour of the Stewarts. I have his nursery fitted out with every convenience, a rocking cradle at the centre. I wish my illness had allowed more time to sit and fondly gape and hold him in my arms. He will be shown off to the ambassadors, called one by one into the nursery to hear him bawl and wrastle, proving he will live to reign.
Our little Prince will be carried from the Palace to the Chapel by the Comte de Brienne, on behalf of King Charles of France. He is followed in procession by the Catholic earls bearing the basin, the salt, the laver and holy cross. My courtiers line the way resplendent in full dress beneath the blazing flambeaux, some cloth of gold, some in silver according to degree. I have selected the materials for each costume, and each and every one will shine, by royal command.
Archbishop Hamilton will receive us at the door surrounded by the lesser clergy. So even the old Duke is represented on this auspicious day. The Countess of Argyll, my dear Jean, stands in for Elizabeth. She will take the baby in her arms and hold him at the font. In the name of Father, Son and Holy Ghost, a goodly Prince for both our kingdoms. James by the grace of God, King to be of Scotland, and in time of England.
As we process out of the Chapel Royal, the Protestant lords accompany me to the great Hall where the feasting and masquing will begin. Musicians and players are ordered from the three kingdoms, and Maister Buchanan has all in hand for royal tableaux. The final act is a masterstroke – fireworks positioned round the castle and the surrounding hills illuminate the night skies in a myriad of colours, putting Nature herself to shame. I remember such displays in my childhood, but nothing like this has been seen in Scotland. Bastian, my designer, has excelled himself in the art of theatre. This triumph shows a new age of monarchy has dawned, hailed by signs in the heavens. Birth is to women what men gain through war.
Everything goes perfectly. Even the faults turn to advantage. When the stage machine breaks, and French satyrs wag their tails, the English take offence. But they ascribe these insults to England being so favoured. What could mar my triumph? The fireworks provide a matchless finale. I am able to dance once more, feeling strength and pleasure return to my body. Health is reborn with some fragments of my beauty, as everyone remarks. I wear black no longer.
My husband did not attend our son’s baptism but sulked in his chamber, because he said the English would not recognise his place. Perhaps they perceived it all too plainly. Still believing in his power to hurt, he creeps off again to his father’s house in Glasgow, where he feels safe and cherished. In truth he is ignored by all. I could weep for such a husband, but shall not give way to pensive thoughts or fears. Darnley will be dealt with in my own way soon. For now let him gang his ain gait, and be satisfied with the leavings. He will have nothing more of me.
Bothwell and Moray come together and press for Morton’s pardon. It is unusual to see those two united on any matter. At another time it might arouse suspicion, but, after Elizabeth’s assurances, I have my own reasons for consenting. This is the first day of Christmas. Let the holy season bring amity and goodwill to our land. Over seventy conspirators will be forgiven though bound by strict condition to maintain the peace.
As I read the papers prepared by Maitland, I see the name Kerr of Fawdonside and for a moment sense cold steel against my stomach.
A shadow passes over and then I sign.
The whole Court is moved again to Holyrood. There we have the first wedding after Christmas. Fleming finally has her Maitland. Morton will be back in Scotland within days and my accord with Elizabeth sealed. So this marriage binds the Court together in one party, and Fleming will remain in my service with her husband. What abundant beauty to rest in the arms of such a learned man. Even beside his father, gallant old Sir Richard, Maitland looks like a schoolmaster. Yet Fleming has always been earnest like the eldest daughter with a gaggle of wayward sisters.
Word comes from Glasgow: Darnley is gravely ill with a fever of the pox. A few days later I set out to visit my ailing husband. The town is packed with Lennoxmen, so Bothwell and Huntly bring me as far as Falkirk where I am given a bodyguard of Hamiltons. The numbers here are proof, were any needed, that despite his illness Darnley intended new harm to James and to my throne. Now any attack on Stirling will be in vain: the chick has flown his coop.
Darnley is lying in the castle, secluded in an upper chamber. I do not fear the pox since I had it as a girl, but this is worse – a putrid fever. The smell is overpowering and I have to force myself to the bedside. His breath stinks but he does not want me close enough to see the sores; his face is covered with taffeta to mask his vanity.
‘How are you, Henry?’
‘The doctors say it’s past the worst. You could have come sooner. I might have died.’
‘I came as soon as I could. Have the eruptions ceased?’
‘Yes, but they’re all over me – foul black things. Will I be left scarred, Mary?’
‘Not necessarily; my skin recovered without blemish when I was a girl. How have you been treated?’
‘With mercury. Can you not tell? I’ve lost my sense of smell.’
‘It kills the poison.’
‘What poison? Who wants me dead?’
‘The disease, I mean, the infection,’ I reassured.
‘They do want me dead though, don’t they, plotting at Craigmillar.’
‘I will not allow anyone to harm you.’ For someone so withdrawn from Court he was still well informed.
‘Yes, I heard you put a stop to it. You can’t divorce me.’
‘I don’t want to divorce, for the sake of our son.’
‘But you do still love me.’
How strange that sounded from behind his mask; only the eyes seemed alive, glinting with suspicion.
‘That is why I am here,’ I countered. ‘You will see that I still care for you.’
‘How long are you staying?’
‘For the rest of the week, and as soon as you can be moved I want you to come to Edinburgh, where I can look after you till you are fully recovered.’
‘And my powers restored in every way.’
‘As you please.’
‘I am your husband.’
‘That is undeniable, Henry, though it has not always appeared so.’
‘I will have my rights.’
‘Don’t upset yourself. I have come to make sure you will get better. For now you must rest.’
‘When will you come again?’
‘I will be here tomorrow, after you have had the sulphurs.’
‘You must keep your promise.’
So back I go each day, with inconsequential talk, winning back his ever wavering trust, showing him affection and concern. I even touched his hands, and saw the pustules drained and scabbing.
It is the only way to go on. I shall keep him where he can be watched and harm prevented. First I will take him to convalesce at Craigmillar, where we shall see. It can be his home, or a spacious prison if he chooses.
Perhaps if he is pampered and indulged he will settle down to be a dependent child again. Sitting by his side I could be a tender caring mother. Perhaps he has suffered the fantasies of a fevered mind and is now returning to a calmer frame. Was he deluded by this strange disease? Can he find peace in my bed?
The remains of handsome youth. What will come, will come; if that must be the price. I hardly know or care any longer for my flesh. I am a stranger in this body. It seems to be only what other men desire. Or wish to destroy. Is that what it costs to be a Queen? Only my heart is my own. The casket is foreign to the jewel it houses.
After four days he agrees to come with me. He is much better, the doctors say, and after more baths the cure will be complete. I order a horse litter so he can travel with my escort slowly back to Edinburgh.
On the way he announces he will not go to Craigmillar, which rouses his fears. He has taken a house at Kirk o’ Field, belonging to the Balfours. I know the place. It is a quiet lodging by the old church, looking south from the town onto gardens and orchards. The priests chose well, for it has a pleasant open air, a short ride from Holyrood along the edge of the royal park. It will do as well as any other.
I send ahead and have the house quickly furnished out of the palace. He can live quietly there and I can visit until he is fit to come to Holyrood. All being well, the worst may be over for us both.
The pustules have cleared. A last round of bathing and he will come back to Holyrood to climb the private stair. The mask is gone. His face is healing.
This is a day of bustle and distraction. We attend the last Mass before Ash Wednesday and, changing quickly, go straight on to Bastian and Christine’s wedding. What fun there is when my servants marry within the household and remain part of the family. I wonder if Bastian will wear one of his satyr costumes with the tail, but all his conduct is decent and merry. Christine looks her best in the dress I had made. Her husband may be the best stage designer in two kingdoms, but I am still Queen when it comes to judging a bridal gown.
The party will go on all day and I promise to join the dancing later. ‘If Your Majesty do not dance the marriage is nothing,’ chides the groom with shoulders raised and hands outspread with Gallic indignation. But I must go on to a banquet receiving a new ambassador. Bothwell, Argyll, and Huntly are there along with the chief courtiers and, after dinner, I take them with me up to Kirk o’ Field. Better with company to smooth over any ill-temper. Lady Moray is about to go into labour, so my brother has left already for Fife.
Wine has been sent ahead with a musician to celebrate Darnley’s return to health and humour. The lords roll dice at the table while I remain beside the invalid.
‘I have written today to my father.’
‘He will be very glad of your news.’
‘He will be curious as to how I have recovered so quickly.’
‘It is because of rest and good treatment. You have been a good patient,’ I soothed with half a mind on the clicking dice.
‘But I am better through the kindness of those who for a time concealed their goodwill. That is what I said to father. I mean you, my love, the Queen, who has treated me like a natural and loving wife. What do you think of that, Mary Stewart?’
‘I am glad of your good opinion.’
‘Not everyone loves you, Mary, as I do. There are those who would plot against you even now.’
‘I fear that is true. And against our son, Prince James.’
‘I know nothing of that. But there are devils who whispered something else in my ear. Shall I tell you what they said?
‘If you want to, Henry.’ He had my full attention.
‘They said that I should kill you and take the throne.’
‘Were they wise?’
‘They are evil, as devils are.’
‘Then you had best ignore them.’
‘When you are loving to me, I do not hear those voices. Stay with me tonight.’
‘I cannot stay tonight.’
‘Why not, you slept downstairs last night.’
‘I have to go to Bastian and Christine’s wedding party. The horses are waiting in the yard.’
‘Send them away. You make too much of base servants. Stay tonight if you value my life.’
‘I promised, Henry, and anyway tomorrow you will be at Holyrood.’
‘Alright if you must. Maybe it’s better that way. I will come up our stair when it is dark. Promise that you will be waiting for me. Promise, Mary, I can be your King again.’
‘Till, tomorrow, then. See, take this ring as a pledge of our friendship. Good night, and sleep well.’
I held out the ring, unable to touch his finger, and he snatched it from my hand.
‘Tell them to leave the wine.’
‘To horse, gentleman, hurry, we must see the new bride to her bed.’
So we go out into the court with grooms milling round and torches lighting our party into the saddles. French Paris is there with a face like a guiser. Hooves clatter out into the night, and down to Holyrood we go to drain the marriage bowl to the lees. And so to bed.
At two o’clock noise like a battery of guns wakes me from deep slumber. I send messengers to find out what has happened. The guards are up and arming. Erskine is by my side. Where is Bothwell?
They return quickly to tell me that the house at Kirk o’ Field is reduced to rubble. Darnley, laid out in his nightshirt, is in a field beyond the wall. His manservant stretched beside him. Dead.
They have tried to kill me. And Henry has been murdered.
Everything undone. Ruined. All ruins.