FROM THE END of February and into early March, much was going on without my knowledge. William Maitland, La Flamin’s lover, had dropped broad hints to Henry that I was having an affair with David Rizzio, my private secretary, whom Maitland despised. This was a complete fabrication and Sir William knew it, but he was not above making mischief. Henry, jealous of many people for many things, swallowed this lie. It had been easy to convince my dissolute husband that he had been betrayed by a man who had once been his close friend.
On a winter night in 1566, when I was six months’ pregnant with child, I was witness to an unspeakable event. I was in the small tower room hung with crimson and green just off my bedchamber, enjoying a late meal with several friends. Among them was David Rizzio. Henry appeared unexpectedly. We seldom dined together, he having no interest in my supper parties and card games and much preferringbn to go drinking in the town with his disreputable friends.
While we spoke briefly, in a not unfriendly way, a half dozen of Henry’s so-called gentlemen burst into the tower room from a secret circular stairway that connected my bedchamber to Henry’s directly below. The men, all heavily armed, boldly ordered David Rizzio to accompany them to answer to some unspecified charge.
“What is this about, my lord?” I asked Henry sharply. “Why are these men here? Who let them in?”
“I know not, my lady,” he said, laying his hand on my shoulder in a way meant to soothe me. I did not believe him. Henry surely knew what it was about and had a role in it.
When the intruders continued to insist, more rudely now, I rose, angrily demanding, “What is Signor Rizzio’s offense?”
“A grievous one,” growled one of the men.
I shook off Henry’s hand and ordered the men to leave. “Under pain of death for treason!” I shouted.
But one of the men drew a dagger and lunged at David Rizzio. Davy tried to evade the knife, crying out to me to save him. My guests moved to defend him, and in the melee that followed, the table and stools were overturned. Silver plate, goblets, and platters of food crashed to the floor. Ewers of wine spilled everywhere. Candles were extinguished, save for one, by whose flickering light the horrific scene unfolded.
The main stairway to my outer chamber had been locked; I was certain of that, for I had locked it myself, but someone—possibly even Henry—had unlocked it. That door now burst open and a much larger crowd of men surged through the outer chamber and into my bedchamber. They were armed with swords and daggers; one carried a pistol. My guests were quickly overpowered and watched helplessly as the assassins seized the terrified David Rizzio and dragged him into my bedchamber.
When I cried out and tried to protect my secretary with my own body—surely they would not kill their pregnant queen!—the one with the pistol held it to my belly and my unborn child. They stabbed Davy over and over until he stopped screaming. Finally, I did too.
Henry held a dagger but could not bring himself to use it. Someone snatched it away from him and thrust it into Davy’s throat, the final savage blow, leaving the king’s dagger in the victim’s body like the signature on a royal decree: Henry R.
“It was your wish that he die,” the murderer growled at Henry. “This proves that you were a part of it, and you cannot deny it and lay the fault on others.”
“You?” I cried. “You ordered this?” I stared at my husband, unable to say anything more. As I grasped that this was all his doing, that he was behind the plot to assassinate my secretary and friend, I seethed with hatred.
The assassins left, and Henry opened his mouth and closed it again, shaking his head, as though he could not believe it himself. He was plainly not accustomed to such violence and bloodshed.
“Why have you done this, Henry?” I asked in a low voice, stifling the revulsion I felt for him. “What has David Rizzio done to you to deserve this fate? What have I done, that you use me so ill?” When still he said nothing, I raised my voice. “Answer me!”
Henry was pale, trembling with a mixture of fear and rage. “I am your husband, and on the day of our marriage you promised to obey me. But you betrayed me with him,” he said, his voice breaking. “Everyone takes me for a cuckold, and they laugh at me and hold me up to ridicule.”
“I have not betrayed you, you fool!” I cried. But I realized that my life was still in danger. One shout from Henry, and the assassins would return for me. I must use some other approach with him, and I repeated my words in a placating tone. “Henry, I have never betrayed you. I am a loyal wife. What is it you want of me?”
“You pay me no attention,” he complained, pouting like a petulant child. “You preferred to play cards and make music with that foreigner rather than come to my bed.”
“It is not for me to come to your bed, my lord, but for you to come to mine,” I reminded him, for that was the way of husband and wife, no matter what their ranks. “Now I beg you, leave me in peace.”
***
I sat in my bedchamber, weak and speechless from shock. Blood was everywhere. In the outer chamber David Rizzio lay dead, his furred damask gown and blue satin doublet slashed to shreds. There were, I learned later, fifty-six stab wounds in his poor body Shortly, several of the assassins returned. I nearly fainted, for I thought they had come for me. Instead, they dragged the body away and flung it down the staircase.
I did not yet realize that guards had been posted all around; I could not leave, nor could any of my friends come to help me or offer comfort. I was a prisoner.
No more tears now, I decided. I must think upon revenge. But first—escape!
The assassins allowed only Lady Huntly, George Gordon’s elderly mother, into my apartment, along with two servants. I was surprised to see her there, for we had once been adversaries. Lady Huntly was the widow of old George Gordon, who had denied me entrance to Inverness Castle, and in the confrontation that followed I had ordered the execution of two of her sons. In an odd twist of fate, Lady Huntly and her son George had later become my supporters. But now, unnerved by what had just happened, I wondered if she might have changed her allegiance once again, and I was on guard.
When the servants cautiously entered the supper room to clean up the disarray caused when the table was overturned, Lady Huntly quietly delivered a message sent by her son and Lord Bothwell.
“Earlier this evening in another part of the palace, they heard the shouts and screams coming from the tower,” she whispered. “They had no idea of what was happening, but they believed they too might be in danger and made their escape by a rope let down from a window. They are on their way to Dunbar Castle, but they asked me to assure you that they have vowed to rescue you. We must speak no more of this now.” In a voice intended for the ears of any eavesdroppers, Lady Huntly announced, “Time for you to rest, madam, for the sake of the child as well as yourself!”
Sleep was surely out of the question. While Lady Huntly dozed, I passed the long night pacing through my chambers, sometimes weeping in sorrow, sometimes barely suppressing my fury.
In the small hours just before dawn, I heard a timid knock at the door to the secret stair. “Mary, unlock the door.” It was Henry! How dare he come here now! “I have something to say regarding your safety—yours and mine,” he said softly “We must talk. Let me in.”
I considered for a moment. I despised this man for his cowardice, his arrogance, his treachery He had used me. Now, I thought, I had best use him. I needed to win him over, at least until he publicly recognized the child I carried to be his own. If he insisted it was David Rizzio’s, and he was certainly cruel enough to do so, then my child would be born a bastard.
I swallowed my loathing, pushed aside the tapestry that concealed the door, and opened it for my husband.
I had never seen a man appear so frightened and so sorry for what he had done. I believed the fear—his eyes were filled with it. But I was less convinced that he was truly contrite, no matter how much regret he professed. I vented my anger at him without mincing words.
“Do you have any idea of the wrong you have done me?” I demanded. “Do you really think I can ever forgive you, let alone forget? I find it difficult to believe that you are sincere in your apologies or in the affection you claim to feel.”
Henry whimpered and repeated again how much he repented of all the harm he had caused. “Perhaps if you were to pretend that you are in labor and about to give birth prematurely, they will take away the guards,” he suggested. “They refuse to listen to me.”
I was reluctant to trust him, but I did grant that since he claimed to recognize the evil he had done, it was up to him to find a way to get us both out of it.
I agreed that later I would cry out with pain and we would summon the physician and the midwife. I would send messages to my loyal friends to help me escape. After we settled on a plan, Henry left, and I was about to take some nourishment when my brother the traitorous earl of Moray shoved past the guards and into my outer chamber.
“Sister!” he exclaimed. “Has any harm come to you?”
I still harbored a great deal of anger toward him, and I had no reason to trust him any more than I did my husband, but my strength suddenly deserted me. I collapsed, sobbing, into his arms. “Oh, my brother, if only you had been here! I have never been so heartlessly treated!”
Taking my hand in both of his, Lord Moray knelt before me. “If I had only known, I would have come to you sooner,” he said. “I would have done all in my power to prevent this horror.”
I did wonder at this, for with so many people engaged in the conspiracy to murder my poor friend Davy, it seemed unlikely that my brother had known nothing about it, and it seemed even more unlikely that he would have done anything to prevent it. Yet I badly needed his support, and it seemed better to leave some things unsaid, at least for now.
***
Later that day I put Henry’s plan into action. I cried out and called for a physician to attend me. After a cursory examination, the physician informed the lords that I would surely miscarry if I did not leave Holyrood. The lords promised to remove the guards if I agreed to sign papers pardoning them. I knew that to reestablish my authority in my kingdom, I would have to forgive many whom I would have much preferred to punish—including those who had plotted the murder of David Rizzio. But first I had to escape from Holyrood. Henry passed along the word that I had signed the necessary papers—a lie; I had not—and the lords, believing him, removed the guards and withdrew for supper.
As soon as the guards were gone, I smuggled a message through Huntly’s mother to Bothwell and Huntly telling them to wait for me at Seton Palace, ten miles east of Edinburgh. Then I sent word to Arthur Erskine, my chief equerry; Thomas Stewart, my captain of the guard; and a page named Anthony—three men I trusted.
We will meet at midnight in the Canongate cemetery, the messages informed them, referring to the cemetery in the shadow of the old abbey of Holyrood. Have four strong horses saddled, and be ready to ride.