Mary, Queen of Scots (60 page)

Du Croc, who had followed the Lords to Carberry Hill, attempted to mediate between the two sides, but to little effect. Bothwell told him that his enemies were merely jealous of the favour he enjoyed: “There is not a man of them but wishes himself in my place.” As Mary was by then weeping pitiably, Bothwell challenged one of the Lords to fight him, so that the outcome of the day could be decided by single combat, but when a suitable answerer, Lord Lindsay, was finally found, the Queen vetoed the idea, fearing that Bothwell would be killed.

Mary and Bothwell were hoping that reinforcements led by Huntly and the Hamiltons would come to their rescue, but in vain. By the evening, so many of the Queen’s men had drifted off home or deserted to the rebels that the outcome of any armed combat was in no doubt. Melville says that “many of those who were with her were of opinion that she had intelligence with the Lords, especially such as were informed of the many indignities put upon her by the Earl of Bothwell since their marriage. [They] believed that Her Majesty would fain have been quit of him, but thought shame to be the doer thereof directly herself.” Although Mary’s later conduct does not bear this out, it is a good indication of how people at the time perceived her feelings towards Bothwell.

Du Croc was reluctantly impressed by the way in which Bothwell conducted himself in this difficult situation: “I am obliged to say that I saw a great leader, speaking with great confidence and leading his forces boldly, gaily and skilfully. I admired him, for he saw that his foes were resolute, he could not count on half his men, and yet was not dismayed. He had not on his side a single lord of note. Yet I rated his chances higher because he was in sole command.” But it was now too late. Wishing to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, Mary asked the Lords to state the terms on which she might surrender. Maitland and Atholl did not want to face her, so they sent Grange to assure her that, if she would consent to place herself in their hands, they would permit Bothwell to leave the field unmolested and go where it pleased him until such time as the matter of his guilt was decided by Parliament.

Bothwell was against this idea; “I knew well what treachery they were hatching: if she did not agree to their demands, I told her, they would take her prisoner and strip her of all authority.”
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He begged her to retreat with him to Dunbar in order to raise another army, but Mary overrode him. The important thing was that her husband should survive. In the meantime, he must lie low until Parliament had debated his case. She told him and Grange that she owed a duty to the late King her husband, a duty which she would not neglect. Most willingly, therefore, would she authorise everyone to exercise the fullest liberty of inquiry into the circumstances of his death. She intended to do so herself, and to punish with all severity such as should be convicted thereof. She claimed that justice should [also] be done upon certain persons of [the Lords’] party now present who were guilty of the murder, who were much astonished to find themselves discovered.

Only Bothwell could have told her who they were, and it would appear that he had implicated them without revealing his own guilt. Clearly, they were not the principals involved. “In order to attain this [justice],” she told Grange, “she was willing to entrust herself to the good faith of the nobles, thereby to give an authority to whatever they might do or advise.”
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Then she turned to Bothwell, declaring that, if he were found innocent, “nothing would prevent her from rendering to him all that a true and lawful wife ought to do”; but if he were found guilty, “it would be to her an endless source of regret that, by their marriage, she had ruined her good reputation, and from this she would endeavour to free herself by all possible means.”
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Bothwell had no choice but to agree to leave Mary in the hands of his enemies. Letting him go was a solution that suited the Lords very well, for he was in possession of dangerous information. They could easily have taken him prisoner, but were reluctant to do so, for then they would have to put him on trial for Darnley’s murder, and run the risk that he would incriminate them also. It would be safer to pursue him later and kill him in open combat.

Thus it was agreed that Mary should surrender to the Lords, she “thinking that she could go to them in perfect safety, without fear of treachery, and that no one would dare lay hands on her.” According to Bothwell, “it should be clearly understood that the Laird of Grange gave out that he had been sent, at the unanimous request of the rebels, for the sole purpose of offering to the Queen, as their rightful superior, their true allegiance, and to give her a guaranteed safe-conduct to come amongst them. Furthermore, that each single one of them wanted no more than to accord her all honour and obedience in whatever way she wished to command them.”
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“At parting from the Queen, Bothwell wished to ease his conscience.” He told her that Morton, Maitland, Balfour and others “were guilty of the death of the late King, the whole having been executed by their direction and counsel.” Then he handed her a copy of the Craigmillar Bond, bearing the signatures of himself, Maitland, Argyll, Huntly and the other nobles, including perhaps Moray and Morton, who had plotted Darnley’s murder. If Mary had not suspected or known of it before, the treachery of her Lords was now revealed to her, along with the truth about the man she had married, whose child she was now carrying.
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This must have come as an unpleasant surprise to her, but Bothwell swore that anything he had done had only been for the good of her realm, and that he had acted on the advice and persuasion of those same Lords who were now opposing him. Before he embraced Mary for the last time and rode off with between twelve and thirty horsemen towards Dunbar, he urged her to “take good care of that paper.” However, it was almost certainly taken from her by the Lords soon afterwards and given to Argyll for safe keeping. Not surprisingly, given the names on it, it was never used in evidence against Mary.

Bothwell’s motive in giving Mary the bond may not only have been the desire to give her proof of what he had already revealed to her, but also the wish to furnish her with evidence that she could use against the Lords, should the opportunity present itself. However, in giving her a document that incriminated himself, he was also, perhaps deliberately, providing her with an excuse to abandon him, which was undoubtedly in her best interests and would have solved many problems.

“In good faith, and reliance upon the public honour,”
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the Queen surrendered herself to Grange. A contemporary drawing in the Public Record Office shows him leading her by the bridle to where the Lords waited; she was still wearing the same borrowed clothes she had donned at Dunbar three days previously, which were now spattered with mud.

Morton, Home and the other Lords “used all dutiful reverence” to the Queen as she approached,
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telling her that she was now in her rightful place among her true and faithful subjects. “For welcome,” however, according to Drury, they “showed her the banner with the dead body,” which she said “she wished she had never seen.”
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The rebel army stood mute for a few moments, but soon there were cries from the ranks of “Burn the whore! Burn the murderess of her husband!” and Mary was roughly jostled. Grange and some of the Lords “who knew their duty better, drew their swords and struck at such as did speak irreverent language,”
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but to little lasting effect.

Mary cried, “How is this, my Lord Morton? I am told that all this is done in order to get justice among the King’s murderers. I am also told that you are one of the chief of them.”

Morton answered, “Come, come, this is not the place to discuss such matters,” then he “slunk behind her back” and made himself scarce.
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To her horror, the Lords placed Mary under guard like a common criminal. According to Nau, “two very wicked young men were appointed to have the Queen in charge”—one was Ker of Cessford—“both of them most cruel murderers and men of very scandalous life.” Du Croc wrote: “I expected that the Queen would have been gentle with the Lords and tried to pacify them, but”—perhaps not surprisingly—“on her way from the field, she talked of nothing but hanging and crucifying them all.”
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To Lindsay, riding beside her, she said, “I will have your head for this, and so assure you.”
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Weeping, dirty, dishevelled, and so exhausted and faint that she could barely remain in the saddle,
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Mary was escorted back to Edinburgh, with the fearful Darnley banner carried aloft before her, and the soldiers still yelling insults. Separated from her servants and friends, it was now brought home to her what imprisonment meant.
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In the city, it became starkly apparent to Mary how her subjects now felt about her. As she rode through the packed streets, the people reviled her as an adulteress and murderess, screaming, “Burn the whore! Kill her! Drown her! She is not worthy to live.” The press of bodies was so great that the procession had to slow down to walking pace. By now, Mary was weeping.

At around 11 p.m., at Maitland’s suggestion, the Queen was taken to a luxurious fortified and battlemented house known as the Black Turnpike, which stood on the High Street and was the official residence of the Provost, Sir Simon Preston, who had sided with the Lords.
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Here, she was confined in an upper chamber, still under guard. Outside, the mob relentlessly continued to curse and denounce her. “The women be most furious and impudent against the Queen, and yet the men be mad enough.”
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Mary’s reign was effectively over.

“THIS TRAGEDY WILL END IN THE QUEEN’S PERSON”

MARY SPENT TWENTY-FOUR DESPERATE hours in the Black Turnpike, with the Darnley banner positioned across the street, level with her window, in silent reproach.
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The Lords had invited her to join them for supper, but she could eat nothing. Her room was sparsely furnished, and she was denied the services of her female attendants. Instead, there were guards outside the door and two more sitting in her room, who would not leave even when she wished to relieve herself. Exhausted though she was, she found it hard to sleep. Finally, she gave way to despair. On the morning of 16 June, she appeared at the window in an hysterical state, with her bodice undone, her breasts exposed and her tangled hair loose, and with “piteous lamentations” made a distraught appeal for help to the citizens who had gathered below. Some were shocked, some disapproving, some screamed insults, but many were “moved to pity and compassion.” Seeing this, the guards pulled Mary away from the window.
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Later, the Queen espied Maitland making his way through the crowds. According to one account, when she pleaded with him to come up and speak with her, he would not look at her and pulled his hat down over his eyes; Nau, however, recounts an interview between them, and Maitland himself later told du Croc that he had seen the Queen.

Nau says that, throughout the interview, Maitland was so full of shame that he did not once dare to raise his eyes and look her in the face. He told her that it was suspected and feared that she meant to thwart the execution of the justice demanded on the death of the late King, and that she was [to be] held in custody until everything had been done to authorise this investigation. He told her that the Council would never permit her to return to Bothwell, who, he said, ought to be hanged. Here he discoursed with something more than freedom on Bothwell’s habits, against whom he manifested an intensity of hatred.

Having had a whole night in which to think about the bond that Bothwell had given her, Mary now seized her opportunity to confront Maitland. Nau says she was aware of “the false pretexts which the Lords were employing [in] charging her with wishing to hinder justice done for the murder which they themselves had committed. She knew that nothing terrified them so much as the prospect of an investigation.” She therefore told Maitland that she was ready to refute these accusations by joining with the Lords in the inquiry which was about to be made into the murder. As to Bothwell, Maitland knew, none better, how everything had been arranged, he, more than any other person, having been the adviser. She told him that she feared that he, Morton and Balfour, more than any others, hindered the inquiry into the murder, to which they were the consenting and guilty parties. Bothwell had told her so, who swore, when he was leaving her, that he had acted entirely by their persuasion and advice, and showed her their signatures. If she, a queen, was treated merely as one suspected of wishing to prevent the punishment of the criminals, with how much greater certainty could they proceed against him, Morton, Balfour and others, who were the actual murderers? They were all miserable wretches if they made her bear the punishment for their crimes.

The Queen threatened Maitland that, if he continued to act in conjunction with these noblemen and plot along with them, she would publish in the end what Bothwell had told her about his doings. Seeing himself thus detected, Maitland became exceedingly angry. He went so far to say that, if she did so, she would drive him to greater lengths than he yet had gone in order to save his own life. On the other hand, if she let matters tone down little by little, the day would yet come when he might do her some good service. For the present, he begged she would not ask him to return to talk with her any more. It caused him to be suspected, and did herself no good. If his credit with the nobility were shaken, her life would be in great danger. It had already been frequently proposed that she should be put out of the way, and this he could prevent.
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Maitland may have said this partly to frighten Mary and partly to keep her quiet; it was the first intimation she had had that the Lords might not stop at merely imprisoning her. Her threat to use the Craigmillar Bond against him was probably the reason for its seizure by the Lords.

Maitland told du Croc that a weeping Mary had protested against being separated from Bothwell, but he had assured her that the Lords were thinking only of her honour and welfare. He added that she did not know what kind of man Bothwell was, and told her that he could show her a letter proving that the Earl regarded Jean as his true wife and Mary as no more than a mistress; a disbelieving Mary retorted that Bothwell’s “letters to her disputed that.” Maitland told du Croc, possibly with some exaggeration, that, although Mary had been miserable since her marriage, her passion for Bothwell was still as violent as ever, and that she had declared that she wished only to live and die with him, and that she would most willingly be put on a ship with him, to go where the winds might take them. Naturally, this was impossible, so instead, she proposed that Bothwell be allowed to go into exile, which Maitland agreed would perhaps be the best solution.
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Although she was constantly watched, the Lords later alleged that Mary had tried to smuggle out a letter to Bothwell, in which she addressed him as her “dear heart” and swore she would never forget or abandon him. The boy to whom this was entrusted promptly gave the letter to the Lords.
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Of course, it is unlikely that such a letter ever existed, and almost certain that the Lords had invented it in order to give themselves a pretext for keeping Mary in custody, for their sole stated reason for doing so was to prevent her from communicating with Bothwell. If the letter had existed, it would have been logical for the Lords to keep it as justification for their actions. It would also surely have been mentioned in the
Book of Articles,
which was produced in 1568 on the Lords’ behalf, but this claims that Mary had sent Bothwell, not a letter, but a purse of gold.

Despite the Lords’ exhortations and promises of restoration to her throne, Mary consistently refused to abandon Bothwell. Drury wrote: “Though her body be restrained, yet her heart is not dismayed; she cannot be dissuaded from her affection to the Duke, but seems to offer sooner to receive harm herself than that he should.”
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Given the unhappy state of her marriage, it is more likely that it was the desire to protect her unborn child’s rights, rather than affection for her husband, that dictated Mary’s decision. Even though she now knew of Bothwell’s complicity in Darnley’s murder, she would not denounce her child’s father. But, as will be seen, once her pregnancy was behind her, she was ready to renounce him. It suited the Lords, however, to portray their Queen as a woman who was in thrall to a murderer. Buchanan says she told them “that she would willingly endure the worst hardships of ill fortune with him, rather than pass her life in royal magnificence without him.”

Clearly, Mary could not remain where she was. The mood of the citizens was generally ugly, and her safety could not be guaranteed while she remained in Edinburgh.
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Also, there was always the chance that Huntly and the Hamiltons would arrive with an armed force to rescue her, and Bothwell was still at large. Furthermore, she was in possession of very dangerous knowledge and, as her threats to Maitland had proved, she was prepared to use it to her advantage.

The Lords met on 16 June and discussed what was to be done with the Queen. Some of them would have supported her restoration, had she agreed to give up Bothwell, but she had refused to co-operate, so all pretence of restoring her to liberty was abandoned. Du Croc told the nobles that, if they sent her to France, where her guilt had been made manifest, Charles IX would obligingly shut her up in a convent; but if, however, they called on Queen Elizabeth for assistance, the French would take Mary’s side. Otherwise, the Lords might do as they pleased with her.
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This left them with little choice. They dared not put the Queen on trial, in case she incriminated them, nor could they attaint her in her absence because Parliament could be summoned only by the monarch or a legally appointed Regent. Without a conviction, they could not execute her. The alternative was to imprison her in a place where she could do no harm. Grange was against this on the grounds that it contravened his assurances to Mary at Carberry Hill, but he was overruled, and it was at this point that Morton allegedly produced Mary’s letter to Bothwell as proof that she was not prepared to keep her word either.
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At length, the Council issued a warrant for her indefinite detention that was signed by Morton, Glencairn, Home, Mar, Atholl, Lindsay, Ruthven and others. It accused the Queen of “fortifying” Bothwell in his crimes instead of bringing Darnley’s murderers to justice, and following “her own inordinate passion, to the final confusion and extermination of the whole realm”: this was to be the official line from now on. She was therefore to be isolated to prevent her from communicating with Bothwell,
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and, of course, to allow the Lords time to establish their own rule. According to Nau, “their one object was the usurpation of the crown, by means of the disastrous and abominable proceedings which had been planned before the departure of the Earl of Moray out of the kingdom.” Their decision to imprison the Queen, however, was indisputably high treason.

During the evening of 16 June, Mary was escorted on foot by Morton and Atholl to Holyrood Palace,
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preceded by the Darnley banner and 200 men, and followed by the other Confederate Lords and 1,000 of their soldiers. The people yelled insults, but Mary shouted back that she was innocent and that they had been deceived by false and cruel traitors. At the palace, much to her relief, she was reunited with Mary Livingston and Mary Seton, with whom she was allowed to relax for an hour or so. As she had hardly eaten for the best part of two days, supper was served to her, but before she could finish it, Morton, who was standing behind her chair, abruptly told her to make ready to leave at once with him. There was no time to pack anything, so all Mary took with her were the clothes she stood up in, a silk nightgown and a coarse brown cloak.
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Outside, Lindsay and Ruthven were waiting for them, with horses ready saddled. Two chamberwomen and an escort of soldiers accompanied them.

Mary had no idea where they were going, and “Morton gave her to understand indirectly that she was going to visit the Prince.”
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But instead of riding west, they crossed the Forth at Leith, then rode like the wind for Kinross. At Loch Leven, the Queen was bundled into a boat and rowed across the lake to an island about one mile from the shore. On it stood Lochleven Castle; the Lords had decided that this isolated fortress should be the Queen’s prison for the foreseeable future.
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On her arrival, Mary was in a state of collapse. She was received by the Laird, Sir William Douglas, and conducted to a room on the ground floor. “The Queen’s bed was not there, nor was there any article proper for one of her rank.”
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The next day, Morton left, leaving Mary in the custody of the brutal Lindsay and the hostile Ruthven.
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Lochleven Castle, which stands on one of four islands in the loch, lies thirty miles north of Edinburgh. In Mary’s day, the castle island was smaller: due to drainage, there was a considerable fall in the water level of the loch during the nineteenth century. Although there had been a fortress on the island since the thirteenth century or before, the square five-storeyed keep dated from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and the round tower and other buildings from the sixteenth. It was in this round tower that Mary would soon be lodged. The castle was owned by the Douglas family, but it had enjoyed quasi-royal status since the fourteenth century, having been visited frequently by successive Scottish monarchs. Mary herself had stayed there with Darnley.
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The choice of Lochleven was an obvious one, considering the connections of its owner. Sir William Douglas was Mar’s nephew, Morton’s cousin and Moray’s half-brother. His mother, the formidable Margaret Erskine, Mar’s sister, had been mistress to James V before her marriage to Sir Robert Douglas, and was Moray’s mother. Euphemia, her daughter by Douglas, was Lindsay’s wife. The Dowager Lady Douglas was fond of claiming that she had been married to the King and that her son was legitimate, so she can hardly have felt much warmth towards Mary. However, there is no record of her being spiteful or unkind to her; in fact, Mary was treated with courtesy by all.

Given the family’s close connections with the absent Moray, the conclusion is inescapable that the Lords knew they could count on his approval of their imprisonment of the Queen. It is even possible that Lochleven had been chosen before his departure as a possible place of sequestration.

For two weeks after her arrival, Mary allegedly did not eat, drink or speak, “so that many thought she would have died.”
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Then her health and disposition improved somewhat. On 17 July, Bedford reported she was “calmer and better quieted than of late, and takes both rest and meat, and also some dancing and play at the cards, and much better than she was wont to do; and it is said she is become fat.”
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Despite himself, young Ruthven was smitten by her dangerous charm, and became a nuisance; he even promised to set her free if she would become his lover. Mary reacted with great indignation, and Ruthven was speedily removed.
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After a month, Mary was moved into her new quarters, two rooms on the third floor of the tower, and permitted to walk in the castle gardens. In September, Mary Seton was allowed to join her. However, there was little privacy, for the Dowager Lady Douglas insisted on sleeping in the Queen’s room. Fortunately, Mary did not know that Morton had ordered the Laird to kill her if Bothwell or anyone else attempted to rescue her, nor that the Lords had sent Sir James Melville to offer the office of Regent to Moray.