The Wild Queen (24 page)

It was terrible. I screamed and fell to the floor in a faint. Afterward I could not rid myself of the sense that I was responsible and had brought about his end, though my friends assured me Chastelard was quite mad to have behaved as he did.

Not everyone agreed that I was blameless. John Knox did not miss the opportunity to lay the culpability on my shoulders, insinuating that I must have been the young man's mistress all along, which I most assuredly was not. Even Lord Moray stated bluntly that I had acted unwisely.

“You enticed him,” James said. “He would not have behaved so badly had you not encouraged him.”

But later it was proven that Chastelard had been hired by French Protestants who wished to sully my honor and my reputation, and who had very nearly succeeded. I vowed that I would never again open myself to such criticism.

“From this day forward,” I told Mary Fleming, “you must sleep in my bedchamber to preserve my reputation as an honest woman.”

For some time she did, though weeks passed before I could shake off my mood of melancholy that came with the realization that it
was
my fault. I had made a serious misstep. Perhaps there was a wildness in me, and I was not as firmly in command of it as I wished to be.

S
COTLAND WAS NOT
F
RANCE
, and the Scots were not like the French. Yet I believed that I had won the goodwill of most of my subjects—nobles, lairds, commoners. One exception was John Knox. He and the rabid Protestant reformers pressed me relentlessly to abolish the Catholic faith in all its forms. Knox was conniving with Queen Elizabeth's chief adviser, William Cecil, to undermine my authority any way he could.

I refused to sign the Treaty of Edinburgh. I had no intention of renouncing my claim to the English throne until Queen Elizabeth agreed to name me her heir if she died without leaving any legitimate children. Elizabeth was twenty-eight, only nine years older than I, but one could never predict how many years a gracious God might grant each of us. My brother François de Longueville had died just before his sixteenth birthday, my husband his seventeenth, while my grandmother, nearly seventy, continued to enjoy good health. Thus far Elizabeth had not married. Perhaps she had no intention of marrying. She had even said that she would die a virgin. If she truly meant that and did not change her mind, as I had heard she so often did, I had no concern that Elizabeth would produce an heir and move me further down the line of succession. Even if she
did
change her mind and marry, she might not produce an heir, and then I should still rightfully inherit the English crown. So I firmly believed—but I had to persuade Elizabeth of that.

I set out to gain her trust and her friendship. I wrote to her assuring her of my amity and appealing for hers. I reminded her that months earlier, I had arranged to have my portrait made and sent to her and had requested that she do the same for me. She had not responded to that request, but she had sent me a handsome diamond in the shape of a heart, which I treasured.

Still she refused to name me her heir, stating frankly that once an heir was named, plots to displace her would inevitably begin.

Elizabeth and I began writing back and forth, sending gifts, even composing verses for each other. We discussed an eventual meeting, a thrilling prospect for me. I had begun to feel a deep kinship with her, almost as though she were my sister, a kinship that would be sealed once we actually met. I was certain that, face to face, I could persuade her of my suitability as her heir, even though the major sticking point remained that she was Protestant and I a devout Catholic.

In the summer of 1562 I sent William Maitland to England to arrange the details of a meeting. But Elizabeth had changed her mind yet again. The meeting would be postponed. I wept with disappointment.

Very well,
I thought,
I will follow a different path. I can be as stubbornly elusive as the English queen. She will not hear of my shedding tears on her account.

***

Late in August I set out on a second royal progress, this time journeying to the Scottish Highlands, going as far north as Inverness. I had arranged for my priest to say Mass at the royal chapel when we arrived at Stirling Castle, but he was prevented from doing so—by my own brother Lord Moray!

“James,” I cried, upset and incensed, “you promised that I could hear Mass in my own chapel. You have broken your promise!”

“I guaranteed that you could continue to hear Mass at the royal chapel in Holyrood,” he said, his jaw set stubbornly “But that guarantee does not extend to Stirling, or to any other place.”

It was pointless to argue, and on this occasion we compromised. The priest set up a small altar in my apartments for me and the Four Maries and a few others. I had made up my mind to walk a careful line in dealing with the religious issues that plagued my country. I would adhere to a policy of tolerance, and I would not allow this strategy to be undermined.

My brother's highhandedness angered me, though I knew that he was trying to mollify Knox and the others. I had not yet forgiven him for making me feel guilty about the Chastelard incident. A gulf had opened between us. A confrontation was coming.

 

After leaving Stirling we rode for days in a constant drizzle of rain and fog, and by the time we reached Aberdeen, everyone was wet and miserable. It had also become difficult to find enough supplies along our route to feed my large entourage.

On our way from Aberdeen to Inverness we passed near the castle belonging to my cousin George Gordon, earl of Huntly Inverness Castle was said to be one of the finest in all of Scotland. Lord Huntly was a member of my privy council, and though we were constantly in disagreement over several matters, we were related by blood—King James IV was our common grandfather—so I was prepared to ignore our disagreements and accept Gordon's famous hospitality.

“We will be treated well here,” I assured my companions. “Fires will blaze on every grate, the beds will be soft, and food and wine will be plentiful.”

But I was walking into a hornets' nest.

Huntly was lord chancellor of Scotland and the most powerful of the Catholic noblemen. He vigorously opposed my intended meeting with Queen Elizabeth and any sort of agreement with Protestant England. He also made no secret of his resentment of me for making my brother the earl of Moray, giving James control over lands that Lord Huntly felt belonged to
him.

At the castle gates, the keeper of the castle—one of Huntly's sons—stood with hands on hips, flanked by guards armed with swords.

“What sort of welcome is this for your sovereign queen?” I called out.

“No welcome at all, madam!” came the reply “On the orders of my father, George Gordon, earl of Huntly and master of this castle, entry is denied.”

His reply stunned me. This was treason. I was not about to tolerate defiance of my royal authority. “My greetings to my cousin and countryman,” I called back. “Open the gates.”

“Entry denied!”

I called upon my guards to withdraw, heard them muttering, and glanced up to see the archers on the battlements. My decision came swiftly I ordered the captain of the guards to dispatch messengers across the neighboring shires, summoning the leaders of clans I knew were hostile to the Gordons. Most of my retinue were sent off to the nearby town to find what lodgings they could. The Four Maries refused to leave me. We waited, wet and mud spattered, but determined. Within hours several hundred clansmen had assembled, armed with pikes and cudgels and ready to fight.

“Storm the castle,” I ordered the men. “Seize the young Gordon who has refused to open the gates to his queen and sovereign and hang him from the battlements.”

The captain looked surprised. “Hang him, my lady?”

It was harsh, but I knew that I had to establish my authority quickly and without wavering. “Hang him,” I repeated.

We watched from a low rise as the men stormed the castle. It was over quickly.

“There is still time to change your mind,” Seton whispered. “About young Gordon.”

“I will not change it,” I said, but I hid my trembling hands.

***

The next day my spies informed me that another of Huntly's sons, John Gordon, planned to have me kidnapped and then force me to marry him. Here was a Scot who must have been as mad as the French poet Chastelard! The battle was joined at Corrichie, near Aberdeen. My brother commanded an army of three thousand men; the earl of Huntly had only a third of that number. John Gordon was captured, and I ordered him beheaded the next day. This was not the same as my order for the execution of Chastelard. John Gordon was clearly guilty of treason. That same day, the old earl died of a stroke on the battlefield. His embalmed body was later taken to Edinburgh, where in its coffin the corpse was found guilty of treason and Lord Huntly's lands forfeited to the Crown. His eldest son and heir, George Gordon the younger, was spared and put under house arrest.

None of this was what I had intended when I set out on my progress. I had demonstrated by my actions that I was not to be trifled with or intimidated, but I had blood on my hands, and the deaths of two more men troubled my conscience. Despite this, my show of strength and fortitude had not brought me a single step closer to a meeting with the queen of England and the result I sorely desired: to be named Elizabeth's heir. Now as I rode back toward Edinburgh, I thought I knew what might hasten that end. By the time I reached Holyrood Palace I had come to a decision, as important as my decision to return to Scotland.

I must search for a man who will aid me in my goal to inherit the English throne, and marry him.

I must have a husband.

T
HE QUEST FOR A HUSBAND
would not be a simple matter. As a queen, I desired to marry a king; failing that, a prince who was next in line to be king. I understood that it did not have to be a love match—my marriage to François was not, though we shared a deep affection that began in childhood. Love was a luxury I could not allow myself, but of course I hoped for a marriage that would be mutually gratifying.

The list of such candidates was short.

My Guise uncles, who had begun searching for a suitable match within weeks of my husband's death, now pressed me to consider the twelve-year-old King Charles IX of France, my brother-in-law. I had expected this. But I had finally recognized my uncles' aim for what it was: an entirely selfish attempt to restore themselves to power through me. No doubt they would again try to persuade me to sign away Scotland to France! But I was no longer so naive or so easily manipulated, as they must have realized. Queen Catherine rejected their proposal. For my part, I was nearly twenty and not interested in marrying someone eight years younger, no matter how high his rank.

Since I would not marry King Charles, my uncles again proposed Don Carlos, prince of Asturias and son of King Philip II of Spain. He had been recognized as heir to the Castilian throne and would soon be made heir to the crown of Aragon as well. My uncles ignored the unpleasant reports that Don Carlos was arrogant and spiteful, behaved strangely, and was furiously jealous that Élisabeth had married his father.

Queen Catherine opposed the match, and so did King Philip II, an ally of Queen Elizabeth. I suspected they believed it would give Scotland too much power. Then a dark secret was revealed: in the vague language favored by diplomats, the Spanish ambassador informed me that a recent fall down a stone staircase had damaged the prince's brain. He did not say precisely that Don Carlos had descended into madness, but I drew that conclusion myself and wrote to my uncles that they must put away any idea they entertained of such a match.

Then, to my utter astonishment, Queen Elizabeth decided that
she
would choose the appropriate husband for me! It fell to Elizabeth's ambassador to Scotland, Thomas Randolph, to inform me of her decision. “It is the belief of Her Majesty the queen that the interests of Her Majesty and Your Majesty”—here he made a graceful bow—“would best be served if you were to marry a man of her choosing, and an Englishman.”

I liked Sir Thomas. He had accompanied my retinue on my progress to the Highlands, and though he was a man of nearly forty years, he had joined eagerly in the fighting against Lord Huntly's forces. I knew him well enough at this point, early in the new year of 1563, to judge that he was not happy that he had to deliver this message from his queen.

The ambassador explained that no Spaniard or Frenchman, or indeed any king or prince or earl or duke from the Continent whom I might consider marrying, would please her. I did not need to untangle his diplomatic sentences to understand that since my marriage to a foreign nobleman would strengthen my hand, Elizabeth would not allow it.

I offered a careful answer. “Most of the time I, like any other monarch, have not to follow my own will but must do the will of others. But my heart is my own, and cannot be controlled by another.”

“Shall I carry this message to Her Majesty?” Randolph asked.

“I beg you, Sir Thomas, tell Her Majesty that Queen Mary of Scotland wishes for nothing more than her sister-queen's enduring affection and goodwill,” I said, mustering a pleasant tone. I was frankly infuriated, but I was also curious to learn whom she wanted me to marry, limiting my authority while still dangling the promise of making me her heir. I could not resist asking, “Does Her Majesty the queen have a particular Englishman in mind?”

“She has not so informed me,” said the ambassador.

“When she does, I pray that you will then so inform
me
.”

Sometime later Randolph returned to Scotland and gathered the courage to deliver his queen's decision. Her candidate was Lord Robert Dudley, with whom Elizabeth had allegedly been carrying on an affair for several years. Queen Elizabeth of England wished me to marry her lover! Furthermore, she expected me and my new husband to live at her court. How cozy that would be! The suggestion was outrageous, scarcely deserving a reply.