Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (83 page)

"Is there do you have desire or lustful thoughts about any other man?"
He had to ask.

"No. No, I never think of such a thing. I tell you, Father, you know
that I came to this marriage a virgin, and that before that I had never
even given much attention to that part of life .. . even though others
seem to think about it, sing about it, and gossip about it endlessly. I
was as much a Virgin Queen as my cousin. Would to God I were again!
No, there are no such thoughts!"

He studied her tear-stained face. "I believe you. You should be
thankful that the Devil has not seen fit to torture you in that
respect. It would only compound the suffering you now experience." He
sighed. "I do not wish you to face childbirth with any sins on your
soul. Your feelings are understandable. But do you have the strength
to try to overcome them? All God asks is the willingness. He requires
no promises beyond that, and He certainly does not require actual
success."

"Yes. If you say I must. And you have been the guardian of my soul
for many years," she said in a whisper.

"Then make an Act of Contrition, so that I may absolve you," he said.

Mary bowed her head. "O my God! I am heartily sorry for all my sins;
and I detest them above all things because they displease Thee, who are
infinitely good and amiable, and subject me to the rig ours of Thy
justice; and I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to do
penance for them, and never more to offend Thee. Amen."

"Then I forgive you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy
Ghost," said Rather Mamerot. "And for your penance, you must set this
matter straight as soon as you are able." He glanced at her stomach.
"And may God grant you a safe childbed."

The labour pains began a month later, on a June evening. Until then,
Mary had anxiously asked the matrons, "How will I know if it is truly
labour?" and they had all answered, "You will know. You will know."
And now she understood why they had all been so certain.

It hurt. It hurt from the very beginning. She had been told that it
could start gently, but the very first pain was like a thin-bladed
knife going through her, passing sideways from her back to her belly.
Neither had they paused, once they had truly begun. Women had told her
of being able to do needlework, of enjoying music-making in the early
stages, but Mary could not stand up. She felt as though she were
fighting an enemy inside herself, one that could best her and overpower
her at any moment.

Lying in the great bed in Edinburgh Castle, clinging to knotted
bedsheets, she tried hard not to scream. Everything the midwife told
her to do, she did lie this way, grasp this thing, smell this
handkerchief soaked in water of wallflower for the woman must be privy
to secrets that would help. But nothing helped, and the pains grew
more and more intense, until she felt that if she had a dagger to hand
she would have killed herself at that moment.

"Take my hand!" commanded Lady Atholl. "Squeeze it hard!"

Mary obeyed, although she did not have the strength to squeeze it as
hard as she would have liked.

"My sister lies in childbed herself at this very hour," the woman
whispered. "Yes, within this castle. Now that I have your handclasp,
I can go to her and take your pain with me. She will bear the pain!"
The woman almost as heavy as the pregnant ones herself heaved herself
up from the bedside.

"No!" cried Mary. "No, I do not wish that." She reached out to try
to restrain her.

"Hush." The midwife gently pushed Mary back down. "Let the witch go.
Do not keep her by your bedside."

Witch? Was the woman a witch? "Lady Atholl " she began, but a ripping
pain cut her words off. Her abdomen felt as if it were being torn with
searing irons, yet the huge mass within it it had ceased to feel like a
baby did not move. What were all these pains accomplishing? They
seemed to dash and writhe around the immobile creature like waves
beating against a stone.

"Help me! Help me!" she cried, but she knew no one would. They could
not reach up inside her and pull the child out. "Ooooh!"

Suddenly the pains seemed to break open, like sunlight streaming
through a break in the clouds, parting to show an instant without
feeling. Then they returned, full force.

"Push! Push! It is time!"

And now the pains were something to bear down upon, something that had
a beginning, a core, and an end. And in the sheet of pain that was her
belly, she felt a movement.

"Make ready! Make ready!" the midwife cried. Her assistant rushed
over to the foot of the bed with a wrapping sheet and heated water.

The midwife was panting and sweating as if she were working in front of
an oven. She bent and her sinewy arms strained.

"It's here! It's here! Oh!" she cried. "He is here! He! It's a
prince, a prince!"

"A prince!" all the attendants murmured, stopping to stare.

"The work is not over!" bellowed the midwife.

Mary heard the cry, "a prince," and felt infinite relief. But was he
whole?

There was scurrying and movement where she could not see, then the
midwife held up a slippery, gleaming blue baby. A caul covered his
head, and was stripped away by the midwife; it was gossamer-thin. Mucus
dripped off him. A slap on his wet buttocks, then a wail, mewling,
tremulous.

"God be thanked!" cried the midwife. She thrust him into the arms of
one attendant. "Clean him!" She herself set about to attend Mary.

As Mary lay there, her body still laced with pain, she heard the baby
whimpering softly, heard the women exclaiming over him. He was
perfectly formed, then. Thank the Blessed Mother!

They slid clean linen under her, wiped her sweat away with warm scented
towels, and gave her a fresh gown. A dry pillow was substituted for
her soaked one, and then the wrapped baby was put in her arms.

He looked so ... so old! was her first thought. His eyes, with
pouches under them, looked sombre. And his skin was wrinkled.

"All newborns are ugly, Your Grace," said the midwife. "Even Helen of
Troy, I warrant."

So the child was unusually ugly otherwise why would the midwife try to
assure her? But Mary did not care if his features were ugly, she was
so relieved to have him safely in her arms.

And his complexion was fair, his hair downy golden. His puckered
little eyelids opened, showing bright blue eyes.

Now no one can say he is Riccio's son! thought Mary, with infinite
relief. Until that instant she had not been aware how much she had
worried that the dark side of the Stewart blood would come out. James
III, they said, had been so dark he looked foreign. But this child was
fair, like Darnley.

This child, James Charles .. . she could call him that now; he could be
named. James for her father, and Charles for her distant ancestor
Charlemagne. May this child inherit a great kingdom, she prayed.

"Shall we call in the King? And the court?" asked the midwife.

"Aye."

One of the attendants flung open the chamber doors and announced the
event to the guard, who shouted with joy and then called another guard
to run and proclaim the news to the castle.

In a few moments the entire room shook as all the castle's cannon fired
a salute to the new prince.

"Preserve the caul," said Mary, suddenly remembering what she had
seen.

"Aye, of course," said the midwife indignantly. "Do you think we do
not know our business? A caul must be preserved else the good luck
that comes with it will be lost. Here in Scotland it means this wee
one will have the gift of second sight, and be free from the powers of
sorcerers and fairies. A good thing for a King to have up here."

It would be more useful to be protected against traitors than fairies,
thought Mary, especially here in Scotland. There are more of the
former than of the latter.

Little James Charles stirred in his sumptuous state cradle covered with
ten yards of velvet. "Is the King coming?" asked Mary. There was
still that to be got through.

Just then Damley and his groom of the chamber, Anthony Standen,
appeared in the doorway.

"Oh, my heart rejoices!" cried Darnley, hurrying to her side. "My
darling!"

Lord Erskine, commander of Edinburgh Castle, and other members of the
court followed him into the chamber, and began filling the room.

"Please, my lady, the Prince," said Mary, nodding toward the cradle.
The midwife reached toward the cradle and lifted the infant out, and
placed him gently in Mary's waiting arms. Mary pushed back the
coverings and showed the child's face to Darnley.

"My Lord," Mary said, "God has given you and me a son whose paternity
is of none but you." She placed the baby in Darnley's arms. Then,
raising her voice so everyone in the chamber could hear, she said, "My
Lord, here

I protest before God, and as I shall answer Him at the great day of
judgement, this is your son, and no other man's son; and I am desirous
that all here, both ladies and men, bear witness. For he is so much
your own son I fear it may be the worse for him hereafter."

A moment of stillness. Would Darnley accept the child and thereby
confirm her claim?

Darnley looked at the child's face a long time and then, kissing his
cheek, placed him back in Mary's arms, and then kissed Mary.

"This is the Prince who I hope shall first unite the two kingdoms of
England and Scotland," she said in a clear, triumphant voice. The baby
squirmed and wrinkled his already wrinkled face.

"Why, Madam!" exclaimed Standen. "Shall he succeed before Your
Majesty and his father?"

"Alas," said Mary, unable to stop herself, "his father is broken to
me."

"Sweet Madam!" Darnley's voice rose like a cat whose tail has been
nipped in a door. "Is this your promise to forgive and forget all?"

"I have forgiven all, but I can never forget. What if Kerr's pistol
had shot?" Her voice began to shake. "What would have become of him
and me both? Or what estate would you have been in? God only knows,
but we may suspect."

"Madam!" answered Darnley. "All these things are past."

"Then let them go," she murmured, speaking to herself. "Let them
go."

Outside, the news spread through Edinburgh. Throngs convened at St.
Giles for a solemn act of thanksgiving for the safety of the Queen and
the birth of an heir, and the first of celebratory bonfires were lit on
Arthur's Seat and Calton Hill. From there five hundred beacons
throughout Scotland blazed forth the news: Scotland has a Prince!

The Prince had been born at ten in the morning of June nineteenth,
1566. By noon James Melville had left Edinburgh en route to London to
announce the infant's arrival to his godmother, Queen Elizabeth.

THIRTY-ONE

In the early dawn, Mary stood shivering slightly as she waited on the
dock at Leith. It was chilly here at this hour, even though it was
July. But her shaking was due not only to the cool breezes blowing in
from the Forth, but from nervousness. Was he following? She kept
looking back toward the road to Edinburgh, expecting any moment to see
a group of horsemen descending. She would recognize Darnley from any
distance.