IN THE EARLY morning of 10 February 1567, a terrifying explosion shook Edinburgh. The ‘blast was fearful to all about and many rose from their beds’.1 At Holyrood Palace, Mary sprang awake, hearing what she thought was the noise of twenty or thirty cannon, and sent her guards to investigate. The people of Kirk o’Field dashed out and saw the whole house in which the king had lodged blown to rubble. They believed the queen might still be in there too. Mass panic ensued, slightly alleviated when they spotted one of Darnley’s servants, clinging to the town wall for dear life. The searchers broke into the garden – and there saw the bodies of Darnley, and his servant William Taylor, lying under a pear tree. The king was wearing only his nightshirt. Beside him was his furred cloak, a chair, a gown, a dagger and a rope. There were no marks of violent landing, blood or bruising on the bodies. It was quite impossible that the two men, sleeping in different rooms, could have been blown out of the building, over the wall and into the garden, a distance of a good forty feet. The watch realised they were looking at a murder scene. Both men had been strangled.
The messengers ran post-haste to the queen and delivered her the news that her husband was dead. Mary was near to collapse, believing that she had been the target of the killers. Bothwell was sheriff of Edinburgh and was awakened (from a sleep that had been very short) and rode to Kirk o’Field with soldiers and took the bodies to the new provost’s lodgings. There they were surveyed by surgeons, the Privy Council and then the general public. Those who looked at Darnley discussed the pristine state of his body, and then the gossip spread that marks of strangulation had been visible. English spies were on the site in a moment. Some old women who lived nearby had heard men rushing away, and one, Mrs Mertine, had shouted after them, sure that they were engaged in evil doings. Another woman who lived near the orchard and garden of Kirk o’Field said she heard a man crying, ‘Pity me, kinsmen!’.2
In Holyrood, sick and panicked, Mary wrote to her ambassador in Paris, stunned by what had happened, the thing ‘so horrible and strange’. James Beaton, Archbishop of Glasgow, nephew of the disgraced Cardinal, was a close advisor, a man she really trusted. She still thought Darnley had died in the explosion and that the attack had been meant for her. ‘Always, whoever have taken this wicked enterprise in hand, we assure our self it was dressed always for us as for the King, for we lay the most part of all the last week in that same lodging, and was there accompanied with the most part of the lords that are in this town at the same time at midnight, and of very chance, waited not all night, by reason of some masque in the abbey’.3 She believed that God had rescued her. And she had no idea of the link to her lords. She planned to seek out the guilty men and bring them to justice. ‘We hope to punish the same with such rigour as shall serve for example of this cruelty of all ages to come.’
The English spies busied themselves creating the sketches that would inform the incredible drawing of the murder scene commissioned by William Drury, second in command to Elizabeth’s lieutenant in the north. It is astonishing to look at it in the National Archives now: the sketch that shows a murder. Darnley and his servant lie in the field, the house a pile of rubble – as Mary put it in her letter to Paris, ‘nothing remaining, no, not a stone above another’. It underlines the impossibility that Darnley and Taylor could have died as a consequence of the explosion – unlike the grooms, who did die in the blast. The drawing made clear that Darnley was murdered, to the degree of showing Prince James in his cot praying to God to avenge his cause. The drawing is a very useful plan. But it is not an objective document; every stroke is about vengeance.
The queen was afraid for her own life and that of her son, and she could not believe what had happened. She passed the days in a daze. She slept until noon on the day after Darnley’s death because she had been up late and worrying. But the queen appearing to sleep soundly on the day after her husband died did not give a good impression.
Mary ordered the whole court into mourning and embarked on the forty days of grief that was expected of her. But within twenty-four hours, she broke mourning to attend the wedding of one of her bedchamber attendants, Margaret Carwood. She was still in shock and didn’t want to break her promise to be present – but it was a very unwise move. For the world was beginning to whisper about the murder and the shadows of gossip were coming very close to the queen. In her grief and terror, Mary fell prey to her old foes of sickness and migraines and the doctors sent her to take the air for a few days at Seton. She was lost, uncomprehending, struggling to think straight, having suffered greatly over the previous year, her mind fragile, her understanding overturned, unable to act. This would have been entirely reasonable and forgiven if she’d been a queen consort. But she was queen regnant, and she was expected not just to grieve for her husband but to act to punish the criminals. She needed to make a great speech to vow vengeance and weep for the crowd. She needed to throw herself into a paroxysm of public grief and say she would not rest until the guilty were arrested. Then she needed to find the guilty – or even the innocent, if needed – and put them on trial.
True grief often does not manifest immediately in such dramatic, visible terms, but our perception, then and now, is that it should, and Mary fell short. Her behaviour suggests that she was not guilty of the plot, for only the innocent would behave with such naivety. And as she appears to have known a little of the conspiracy against her husband, had expected Darnley at some point to be injured and roughed up a little, was in horrified shock because it had been done so close to her and matters had escalated. She could not believe what had happened. If she put anyone on trial, they could implicate the others, say she was told of the ‘matter’ and so should have stopped it, and pull down the whole house of cards.
The Privy Council did quickly announce a reward for the capture of the criminals and there were questionings carried out, and discussion of an inquiry that was planned to take place during the parliament at the end of April, but this wasn’t enough. Mary fell prey to the hypocrisies of the time. Everyone had been intent on her having a husband to manage matters for her – those matters considered by Philip of Spain as ‘not in ladies’ capacity’. But now that an event had occurred that was so terrible – if anything was outside a lady’s capacity, this was it – she was condemned for not acting. Mary wanted someone to help her and rescue her, a knight in shining armour to sweep up the matter. But the lords did nothing for her, for it suited them that little was done. The Privy Council and her advisors should have rallied her to act. But Moray was her chief advisor, Maitland her Secretary of State and they had stuffed the Privy Council with their allies. Moray and the others did not leap up and demand that a trial was launched, announce that the queen was in shock and so they were dealing with matters. Instead, they watched things crash into the wall because this suited their agenda. With every moment of inaction, Mary played into Moray’s hands.
With Bothwell as sheriff of Edinburgh, the investigations were flimsy. Everyone knew that it had to be some member or members of the nobility who had killed Darnley, and strong suspicion fell on Bothwell and Moray, as well as Maitland. The Venetian ambassador in Paris heard that ‘It is widely believed that the principal persons of this kingdom were implicated in this act because they were dissatisfied with the King’ – he thought Moray was the guilty party.4 Moray, who had returned to Edinburgh five days after the murder, needed to stop that kind of talk and fast.
Within a week of the killings, a placard was hammered up in Edinburgh blaming Bothwell and his associate James Balfour, and moreover stating that the queen had known of and forgiven the murder, thanks to witchcraft.
Mary still did not act.
What exactly had happened on that night? The plot had gone wrong: Darnley had not been strangled in his bed and then blown up to hide the evidence. He was woken at night, perhaps by some noise of men coming for him or heard a shuffling about from those setting out the gunpowder. He looked out of the window, saw men gathering in the east garden, and he clutched his cloak around him and he and Taylor let themselves down from the window, using the rope and the chair that were later found next to their bodies. It is possible that one of the plotters, horrified that this had been turned into a gunpowder assassination, bounded upstairs to tip them off. Darnley and his servant ran for their lives but were spotted in flight and the assassins caught them, strangled them and dumped them in the garden.
Mrs Mertine, who lived nearby, said she had heard thirteen men and saw eleven run up towards the High Street, after the explosion, and bravely shouted to tell them off. Another woman who was in the service of the Archbishop of St Andrews, whose house was adjacent, saw eleven and managed to catch one by his coat, but he ran free. These men were the stranglers, most likely the Douglas family, fleeing. Rather than strangling him quietly in a private home, the killers had been forced to chase Darnley and his man and then run away, and they had been seen.
John Hepburn, Bothwell’s accomplice, later confessed that Bothwell supervised the planting of gunpowder and watched it light, even approaching closer when he saw it was not exploding. But why choose such an obvious and public way of killing Darnley? Pushing him down the stairs (as may have happened to Amy Robsart), poisoning him, or even sending a stealthy assassin in by night to stab his heart might have been difficult, but less dramatic than blowing up a whole house. They could have set the house on fire at a time when house fires were common and hope it spread to him quickly. What can definitely be concluded is the outcome – Darnley had nearly escaped and the whole world immediately knew it was a murder. Still, had he been blown up by the gunpowder, it would have been much less easy to trace the matter and there could have been counterclaims that he had had his own supply of gunpowder and lit it by mistake. The perfect plot had failed.
Where had the gunpowder come from? A significant and costly amount was needed to blow up the entire house. It is not impossible that Bothwell had taken it from the royal stores although his servants later said he brought it from Dunbar and hid it at Holyrood. James Balfour was also accused of buying it and storing it in the vaults. He and his servants had also managed to get it through the streets of Edinburgh and into the house while Mary and her court were present. The comings and goings of a big party was cover. But still, there needed to be people in on the plot. Nine accomplices of Bothwell were later rounded up, including John Hepburn, John Spens and his porter, Dalgleish. But greater men also knew.
One of Darnley’s servants, Thomas Nelson, who was sleeping in the upper rooms, survived – he was found clinging to the city walls, thrown there by the explosion. Two plots had converged. Some lords thought the plan was for Darnley to merely be exposed to violence, roughed up and told to behave – rather than the horror of murder, which would cause even more enmity and anger. But Moray wanted him dead, as did his supporters and the Hamiltons, as well as Maitland, Argyll and Huntly and plenty of others. Bothwell, his servants and the Douglases were willing to carry out the actual killing. And then Moray edged the suspicion onto Mary, which she made a million times easier for him with her shocked, lost behaviour.
There is no way that Mary, always fearful of being kidnapped and killed and preoccupied with her health, nervous by disposition, would have spent an evening in a house packed to the brim with gunpowder. She knew that some act was compassed, although did not know when – but she also presumed that the ‘matter’ Moray would be ‘looking through his fingers’ at was just light violence. Darnley would only suffer a little, be brought to heel. She would have naturally assumed that this would be done while she was apart from Darnley, not close by him as this would expose her to suspicion. She didn’t realise that exposing her to suspicion had been the point.
Moray kept a low profile and let Bothwell lead at Court. It was a good strategy – people’s curious eyes turned to this man who seemed so close to Mary. ‘Everybody suspected the Earl of Bothwell and those who durst speak freely to others said plainly it was he’, declared Melville.5 Mary went on as she had been, living in mourning, trusting that the small measures taken by the Privy Council were enough. She was mired in inaction. Bothwell was furious with Moray for having pushed a plot that had failed and exposed him to risk and the fragile alliance between the two collapsed into acrimony.
Elizabeth wrote to Mary on 24 February, two weeks after the murder, urgently pleading with Mary to prosecute the guilty men:
Madame,
My ears have been so shocked, my understanding so broken and and my heart so frightened to hear the awful news of the abominable murder of your husband and my slaughtered cousin, that I can barely write. And although I would take his death hard, with him being kin, I must tell you honestly, I cannot pretend that I mourn more for you than for him. O, Madame, I would not be doing as a faithful cousin should, or a loving friend, if I did not speak openly and beg you to preserve your reputation. I must and I will tell you what people are saying. They say that instead of taking measures to arrest those responsible, you are looking through your fingers while they escape, that you will not seek revenge on those who have done what is what you wished, as if the deed had been trusted to be forgiven, so the murderers felt assured to do it. I do not think this way. I would never hold such a miserable opinion of a prince. And even less of you, to whom I wish every good my heart can imagine and you could wish for. For this every reason, I exhort, I counsel, I beg you deeply to take this to heart and even if the guilty is the nearest friend you have, to lay your hands upon him, show to the world that you are a noble princess and a loyal wife. I write thus vehemently not out of doubt, but through the true love I have for you. I know you have other wise counsellors around you. But I remember that even our Lord had a Judas among the twelve. I assure myself that you have no one more loyal than I and you can rely on my affection.6
Elizabeth was pushed to desperation – and she wrote with her heart. As she knew the letter would be intercepted, she was careful to present herself as entirely innocent and lay all the guilt on Scotland. In this she was right, although she could hardly claim no involvement in fostering support for Moray and had paid him on other occasions. Elizabeth suggested that Mary had even promised the plotters impunity and raised the possibility that the murderer could be Mary’s ‘nearest friend’ – by which she could have meant Moray, Bothwell or even Maitland. It is very striking that Elizabeth wrote ‘regardant entre vos doigts’ [looking through your fingers] – a phrase she did not use particularly often. These were the words apparently used at Craigmillar about Moray – when the nobles told the queen that they would quit her of Darnley, one way or another. Coincidence? Or had Elizabeth’s spies managed to get hold of the document or reports – and the phrase was used here, pointedly, to remind Mary of who else might be looking through their fingers at the matter? But whatever Elizabeth thought, Cecil was working to protect Moray and made it clear to him he would be welcome in England.
Catherine de’ Medici wrote to advise similarly: the queen should prosecute the killers immediately, and thus reveal her innocence to her subjects.
Mary should have chosen someone – anyone – to be scapegoated. There were no witnesses, and those who saw the men running away, like Mrs Mertine, could not identify who they had seen. Trials had risen and fallen on less in the period and Mary needed to be ruthless to preserve her position. The people may have seen it as a show trial, but at least it would have given the impression Mary was taking the matter seriously. In her letter to Ambassador Beaton in Paris, she had promised to prosecute the murder swiftly. But a week, two weeks passed. She did nothing – and this suited Moray, Bothwell and the rest of his circle well.
Mary’s belief that she had been the main target of the explosion was blurring her judgement. For, as she saw it, Bothwell could never want her killed (and in this she was right, he had too much to gain with her alive) and so could not have been part of the plot. But whether she was too fearful, too loyal or too dependent on Bothwell to move against him, she should have accused someone else. The problem was that many high-born lords were complicit or had known something of what was going to happen. And Mary too had some knowledge that Darnley was about to be set up, and was plunged into guilt that he had died.
If Mary had been guilty, she would have tried to foist the blame onto someone else. Instead she walked as in shock, fearful of what the other lords had done and aware that all her prior refusals to hear about ‘the matter’ or assent to Darnley’s removal could count in some eyes as an awareness that it would be done. Mary had told her lords over and over again that she would not hear of them dispatching her husband. And yet they had all disobeyed her, even Moray, even Bothwell. Never had her powerlessness been more blatantly obvious to her.
As the days dragged on and still nothing happened, the outrage grew. Darnley, who had been little liked, was transformed into a saint, a sacrificed martyr, and the public screamed for justice. He should be avenged but also the reputation of Scotland was under threat. Despite the violence between the lords, the Scots liked to see themselves as a fair people, rather than the blood-mad French or Spanish or the aggressive English. But this – who had ever killed a king before?
The first placard had accused Bothwell and his servant Balfour and noted the queen had known of it. Another placard, two days later, blamed Mary’s foreign servants. One included words as if written by the queen, declaring ‘I and the Earl of Bothwell were doers of it’. There were drawings of Bothwell and the words ‘Here is the Murderer of the King’7, as well as slurs against Mary and the whole court. At church, ministers begged God reveal the guilty, for they knew their congregations demanded justice. The placards and posters were seized and taken down – but appeared again overnight. Bothwell thought it was his enemies at court and others thought Cecil was to blame – if he had a hand in it, he would have been protecting Moray. The Spanish ambassador worried that Elizabeth might interfere to ferment unrest ‘more for her own ends than for any love she bore the king’. He was right – and some of the placards probably were posted by English spies.8
Moray himself probably had a few put up. But although both men might have been involved, the movement was too organic, too widespread, to be laid at the door of one person. The people were stunned and wanted answers. Unfortunately, the government then began to investigate the posters, arresting painters and scriveners and testing their handwriting and drawing style. Seeing the government arrest ordinary working men, while letting the killers of the king go free, only inflamed the public further.
Archbishop Beaton wrote from Paris to Mary telling her she must take vengeance, pleading with her to show ‘the great virtue, magnanimity and constancy that God has granted you’ and urging that she should ‘do such justice as the whole world may declare your innocence’. He didn’t hold back, telling her it was God’s will, and even went so far as to suggest that if she didn’t take action, ‘it appears to me better that you had lost life and all’.9 He was a kind and wise friend to her, but she was still listening to her Privy Council instead. They and Mary were still following due process, however slowly. Bothwell had appeared in Edinburgh surrounded by his heavies, near fifty of them, declaring that ‘if he knew who were the setters up of the bills and writings, he would wash his hands in their blood’. The people prided themselves on living in a fair country, where honest speech was valued. Their hatred increased – and more posters appeared accusing him.
By the end of February, the Countess of Bothwell was very unwell and afflicted with swellings. Had she been plunged into illness after suspecting her husband of the terrible crime? Or had she been poisoned by Bothwell to get her out of the way? The English spies thought the latter and certainly Bothwell had hardly rushed to spend time at her bedside. Her brother Huntly was supposed to be Bothwell’s ally, and if Bothwell had poisoned his sister, it showed how confident and foolhardy he had become. Huntly was pressing her to end the marriage and the countess was giving the matter serious thought. She had always been in love with Alexander Ogilvie of Boyne, even though he was married to Mary Beaton. But still, she was young and could marry again, ideally to someone who hadn’t got himself mixed up in plots to kill the king. Yet, it seems unlikely that Jean had been poisoned, for that would be going too far, even for Bothwell.
Mary wrote to Darnley’s father, the Earl of Lennox, on 1 March promising that she wanted to find the culprits and answering his declaration that she should arrest ‘names contained in some tickets affixed on the Tolbooth’. But, she said, there were so many different posters and various names that they barely knew where to start. If he could name an actual guilty party and ‘stand to the accusation’10, she could authorise a private prosecution. In doing so, she laid all the responsibility on Lennox – and how could he dare? On the same day, she gave Bothwell more financial benefits and privileges linked to the role of sheriff of Edinburgh. He had no doubt been demanding them to secure his position. For who would accuse a sheriff who had the favour of the queen? The Spanish ambassador was beginning to panic: ‘the queen must take steps to prove she had no hand in the death of her husband, if she is to prosper in her claims to the succession’.11 There was no evidence that Mary had been involved in the murder plot, and her hatred for Darnley was less than that of many of the lords, who feared him taking their lands. But her continued failure to scream vengeance and prosecute was making people think that she knew more than she said. And thus she fell into Moray’s web, wrapped herself up in the strands.
If the Spanish ambassador hoped that Philip would write to Mary, he hoped in vain. Philip had still not made any public comment or written directly, as Elizabeth and Catherine de’ Medici had. He was surely attempting to hold himself clear from any suggestion of a Spanish plot. And even if he had written, Mary would have probably consigned it to the same basket as the letters from her cousin and her former mother-in-law. For Mary, due process and Parliament would attend to the matter and she was doing all she could. Her lords and her Privy Council were most pleased that she was so slow to act, so bound by the process they had recommended.
Later on 1 March, surely prompted by the news of the fresh benefits heaped on Bothwell, a new placard appeared. This was the worst yet, with a picture of a mermaid, breasts bared, with beautiful hair and a crown, ‘MR’ for Mary Regina on either side. She bore a rolled-up net in one hand and a large sea flower with petals that resembled the female genitalia. The mermaid represented a siren – with her net to catch unsuspecting soldiers – or even a prostitute. Under Mary was a hare surrounded by daggers. The hare was Bothwell’s symbol and it bore his initials, ‘JH’. The daggers referred to Mary’s protection of him and to his violent acts, as well as being positioned as phallic symbols pointing towards the mermaid. ‘Destruction awaits the wicked on every side’12 were the words. Mary was being depicted as one of the ‘wicked’ and she was devastated by the slur. It was the creation of an educated artist, and could possibly have been generated by the Lennox side. Mary had been publicly slandered as a prostitute and there was no going back.