THE DARNLEY MARRIAGE was wrong and I opposed it. All I earned for my pains was exile and penury in England with Moray, until Rizzio was dispatched for his trouble and we came home. I kept to Fife and avoided Court. I had good reason to be at home, but equal cause to keep away. Violence breeds more violence; murder begets murder.
But the old cause comes round again. Government thwarted, the kingdom divided, and amity with England threatened. By sword and Book we steadfast stand. I can hear the good Treasurer urging at my shoulder – time for Kirkcaldys to be up and doing.
Who could rest with affairs as they stood? The King of Scots had been killed on his sickbed, or strangled attempting to flee. And Her Majesty, his own wife, made no haste to apprehend the culprits. The people were stirred up by dark suspicion. Placards demanded justice, accusing Bothwell and Mary herself of murder. Worse, of whoring herself to her own husband’s killer.
Then Moray left for France, and I decided to follow, not add to Scotland’s woes through civil war. I thought that was Moray’s motive too, but James Stewart was ever a closed book. How simple I was, content to live secluded on my estates, unaware that half the nobility of Scotland were complicit in the crime. Did Mary know that then? They called no witnesses, for fear their part might be revealed. Even though Lennox demanded justice for his slaughtered son and Elizabeth instructed law from distant London. She should have looked closer to home.
So Moray thought to make a clean pair of heels in expectation, or hope, of worse to come. And I was minded to go as well until things would mend or smash entirely. Then Maitland came between me and my intent. His messenger arrived, as we were packing to depart. The Queen was in great danger. Bothwell had seized her person and would now secure the crown. He must be stopped for sake of everything we held dear and had fought to maintain.
How could I refuse such a plea? I rode immediately to Stirling where some of the nobility were gathering to prevent Bothwell and rescue the Queen. Mar came down from the castle to pledge Prince James’ safety. That wee lad was our guarantee now of Scotland’s and England’s future, two Protestant nations.
Word came that Bothwell had already married the Queen, so we advanced to take Edinburgh. James Balfour was Castle Governor at Bothwell’s bidding, but turned his coat again. A secret Council was held declaring Bothwell the late King’s murderer, on Balfour’s testimony. This was most convenient for them all. Then, pretending still to hold the Castle for Mary, Balfour delayed the advance of her supporters, while urging Bothwell to leave Dunbar as Edinburgh was ready to receive them back.
In truth the Queen was blackened daily by pulpit and placard. But the deceit worked, drawing Mary’s forces as far as Seton Castle. Bothwell took position on Carberry Hill while we formed below, joined by Argyll’s reinforcements and the Ayrshire earls. Morton was principal, with
Argyll heading the Protestant interest, but there were Catholics too, such as Athol, who felt Her Majesty mishandled.
Bothwell came out and rode up and down with his banners defying us to single combat. Young Lindsay began to arm, swearing to avenge his cousin Darnley’s death, but Mary forbade the combat.
Further parley followed with messages to and fro while the day grew hot. Fortunately we had streams and a well behind us while they baked on the hilltop. I could see men at their edge and rear beginning to slip away, and sent a company of horse round their flank to block off any retreat to Dunbar. We wanted to settle it there to our advantage.
Concerned for Her Majesty, I offered to go up under a flag of truce. As I approached I saw Bothwell signal to a trooper to shoot, but Mary saw it too and stopped him, reproving the man for bloody treachery. I knew there could be no safety for the kingdom, or for Mary herself, until Hepburn was removed.
The Queen was wildly clad in a short petticoat that showed her bare legs, and a common bonnet. Yet her cheeks were fired, her hair loose and she seemed in command. I bowed and offered her safe conduct back to Edinburgh and restoration of her government, if she renounced Bothwell. But she refused saying he was her lawful husband and not to be cast off like a worn garment.
She charged us as rebels, demanding to know why we had risen against her. I said it was because her new husband was condemned for murder of the late King. She said he had been cleared of the charge by judicial process, and that any further matters should be investigated by Parliament not by armed combats or revolts.
I protested our loyalty and said that we would not depart until she was at liberty from Earl Bothwell’s forces and under the protection of the nobility of the realm. She mocked at that, yet even as we spoke her supporters were melting away into late afternoon. She withdrew to consult with Bothwell and then asked if he would be given safe passage from the field. I went back to Morton and Argyll, who reluctantly agreed since Mary would not yield unless this was conceded. He would have to await another day of reckoning.
So I rode back up the hill and, finally, it was concluded. Respective positions were held until Bothwell rode off with a small following. As she bade him be gone she wept, and he protested wanting to stay, fearful he would be taken and killed. But she assured him of the agreement. Still mounted, he took her hand between his, pressed it and then releasing her, he swung round galloping off towards higher ground with all the instincts of a reiver for survival.
She waited an hour to let him away, and then turned to me saying, ‘Laird of Grange, I give myself up to you under the terms agreed with the lords.’ I led her down under escort to where we were already forming up. Mary Seton, her only attendant, came behind on a pony. I was ashamed to accompany such distress. All men watched in silence as she joined the column still clad in the red petticoat, and some inclined their heads.
But as we moved off there were mutterings of ‘whore’, ‘adulterer’ and a few cries of ‘burn the murderess.’ I kept close by her mount while one by one the lords came to greet her. ‘How is this, my Lord Morton?’ she demanded. ‘I am told all this is done to bring justice on the King’s murderers, but that you are chief among them?’ He turned away with a black look. Most were respectful but when Lindsay tried to kiss her hand she burst out in a passion, saying she would have his head for what he had done today. She saw herself suddenly as a prisoner under armed guard, and raged that she would turn the tables to hang them all. Better to have kept silent had she known the enemies that surrounded her.
As we approached the men dispersed to camps, leaving only the Queen with the lords and a heavily armed escort. She was expecting to go to Holyrood, but instead we proceeded to the Netherbow Port. Here Her Majesty’s travails began in earnest, for warned ahead, the common sort were gathered at the gate, holding a banner of murdered Darnley with Prince James kneeling beside his father’s corpse beseeching justice. As we came near a great howling got up with screams of hate and bloody cries for Mary to be hanged or burned. I came level with her horse’s head in a vain attempt to screen her person. She kept upright in the saddle, though numbed by shock.
When we turned onto the High Street we could see the passage narrowed on both sides by mobs of folk pressing in and impeding our progress. The escort went in front to clear the path but I felt the spittle of their fury and feared the Queen might be torn from her seat. ‘Whore’, ‘murderer’ came at us like roaring waves of sound, and Mary’s head bent before the storm. Eventually we reached the Provost’s house where she was hurried up into a bedroom and I saw no more of her that night. The lords retired to feast and plan their next steps, but I was not party to their Council.
The next day Mary came to her window dishevelled and weeping, asking the people’s help in her distress. They began to gather around the house and to take pity on her state. She was not naked or distraught as some alleged, for I saw her with my own eyes. She was a queen even in her distress, and the mood of the town changed as their old love for her revived. I stood nearby, as did Maitland and others sympathetic to her cause, but when she called out to her good Secretary he pulled down his hat and hurried away.
The lords convened at the Provost’s house, and I went in to demand that the promises given to Her Majesty the day before be honoured. They agreed the Queen should go to Holyrood and be freely restored. When this had been publicly proclaimed I left them to their own devices. The crowd was satisfied, though some lingered on the street until she was taken to the palace by Morton and Athol, still half-dressed and under armed escort.
That night the Queen was roused from her sleep and hurried away with a wrap thrown over her nightgown. They rode hard all night to be received in the morning onto Lochleven Island. There Her Majesty was forcibly confined under the guard of Sir William Douglas.
I cannot clear myself of blame for these events. Queen Mary had been falsely handled and my own part appeared treacherous. But it was much later before I understood what had taken place. The depths of their deceit were not yet disclosed.
The Council resumed at Holyrood but without young Huntly, the Hamiltons, or, of course, Bothwell. I went there to protest at what had happened. Their men were all over the palace ransacking the apartments and taking control of government.
I said this was not what had been agreed. When she let Bothwell go, the Queen was to be restored to liberty and government. Then Morton drew out a paper and laid it on the table. It was a letter in the Queen’s own hand, written two nights before in the Provost’s house. I scanned it quickly before he pulled it back. It swore undying devotion to Bothwell – that she would go the ends of the earth for him in her petticoat if need be. I was shocked. Maitland sat to one side, silent.
Morton pressed his advantage and the others joined in. She was adulterous, passionate and deceitful, unfit to be queen. Lindsay was vehement, swearing she had refused to divorce Bothwell and declared she would not touch food again till reunited with him in the flesh. I asked them what was intended.
Morton pulled out another paper, detailing the charges against her. First that she had behaved tyrannously, breaching the laws of the realm. Second that she had incontinently indulged her passions with Earl Bothwell. Thirdly that she had connived at the murder of her husband the King, and falsely accused others of the deed. It was a sheaf of deadly accusations.
I could not muster my thoughts other than to protest they were threatening the Queen’s life. ‘No,’ said Morton quickly. ‘If she resigns her throne in favour of the Prince, not a hair of her head will be harmed.’
‘And who is to govern in her place?’
‘We have sent for our Lord Moray to come home.’
I should have seen the pieces falling into place. Moray with Cecil at his back. But what else could they do? It seemed better than Morton seizing Scotland by the throat and starting another war.
All I could think of was that Mary must be free of Bothwell, so I asked a commission to hunt him down. And they consented immediately. I continued unwitting, playing the game. Maitland appeared unfathomable neither dissenting nor consenting. He would not meet my eye.
I received a letter from Her Majesty in Lochleven, charging me with breaking her trust, so I replied pledging my opposition to the harsh treatment she had received, and stating my desire for her to divorce Bothwell and recover her honour.
But I was uneasy in my mind and returned to Fife relating everything to Margaret. Word reached us there by reliable testimony that Mary had renounced the Crown in favour of her son and that she had miscarried twins of Bothwell’s getting in Lochleven Castle. ‘Poor lass,’ was all Margaret would say. ‘No wonder she would not divorce him.’
I tried to consult with Maitland, but he remained at Court preparing for Moray’s government. I spoke to him once in Edinburgh about the commission to pursue Bothwell, when in his oblique way he said, ‘Of course anything to which the Queen consented under duress need not be held against her.’