The Wild Queen (29 page)

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.

T
WO DAYS AFTER
the terrible murder of David Rizzio, I was ready to make my escape. I prayed that no guards still lurked; that somewhere the rebel lords slept soundly, assured that I had pardoned them; that Erskine and Stewart and my page were waiting with horses and had not been detected; that the messenger had gotten through to Lord Bothwell and Lord Huntly; that my husband would not suddenly turn on me treacherously, as he had in the past. I prayed that all would go well.

At times I had been betrayed by my own weakness, bursting into tears just at the moment I needed to show strength and resolve. But now I was calm and resolute, confident that I was doing this for my unborn child as well as for myself and for the loyal Scots who revered me as their queen. Still, as the midnight hour drew near, my nerves were taut, and I started when the tapestry concealing the door to the secret stair was pushed aside. Henry and the page Anthony entered my supper room, lately the scene of so much bloodshed.

They signaled that all was well and it was safe to follow. In silence we made our way first down the secret stair and then down a narrow stair used by servants to reach the palace wine cellar. Anthony lit a single candle to guide us through a musty underground passage. I brushed past spiderwebs, drew in my breath at the scurrying of mice, and emerged at length into the fresh, cold air of the churchyard. By the light of a mist-shrouded moon I made out a fresh grave.

“Who lies here?” I whispered to the page.

“Signor Rizzio, madam,” he replied.

I halted. “I must stop here and offer a prayer for him.”

“There is no time for that, Mary!” Henry snapped.

“Then I shall
make
time,” I said, and dropped to my knees in the damp earth and prayed while Henry paced in a torment of fear.

The equerry and the captain of the guard were waiting just outside the cemetery with horses, and I was flooded with relief that this first critical piece of the plan had fallen into place. Scarcely speaking a word, we mounted—I rode pillion behind Erskine—and urged the horses into a trot, their hooves echoing much too loudly on the cobblestones of the sleeping city. But no one stirred.

Once outside the walls, the horses settled into an easy canter toward Seton Palace. Still, I was not truly at ease until we were met on the road by Bothwell and Huntly accompanied by a number of loyal gentlemen called by Bothwell. We all embraced, jubilant that the second piece of the plan had succeeded, changed to fresh horses, and pressed on to Dunbar. It was another three hours' ride, and we arrived just as dawn was breaking.

To say that I was exhausted when we reached the royal castle hardly begins to describe my condition. Exhausted, yes, but also exhilarated! In fact, once I had refreshed myself and changed my clothing, seeing that the kitchen staff was not yet on duty, I dispatched several of the noble gentlemen to the henhouse to gather eggs, which I then cooked for them. We sat down to breakfast and ate heartily, congratulating ourselves on our escape.

Everyone treated King Henry with respect that not a single one of us felt he deserved.

That night my loyal servant of many years Sir James Melville came to sup with me. In a fit of sadness and gloom, I complained of Henry's disloyalty and lack of gratitude for all I had done for him. Before I had finished my list of grievances, Melville responded, “It is because of his youth, madam. He is easily misled by those who wish to do evil.” Then he added, “I beg you, Your Majesty, to remember that you yourself chose him, though many were against your choice.”

It was the wrong thing to say to me. I angrily dismissed my old friend, knowing in my heart that he was right.

***

For several days I rested at Dunbar, a fortress looming high on a cliff above the North Sea. There I felt safe. My loyal supporters, noblemen and lairds alike, began to gather. I issued a proclamation calling for the lairds to muster their troops at Haddington, on the banks of the River Tyne. When I reached Haddington, which someone pointed out was the birthplace of my nemesis John Knox, nearly eight thousand men had assembled there, pledging their support.

The next day I rode out at the head of my troops. Henry rode beside me. Lord Bothwell, Lord Huntly, and several others accompanied us as we entered Edinburgh and were welcomed with cheers from the common people. No one challenged me. No lives had been lost. I had successfully demonstrated my authority.

But I could not bring myself to return to Holyrood Palace. The memories of what had happened there, the terror and the bloodshed in my own apartments, were too vivid in my mind. For several nights I stayed with friends inside the city walls until quarters could be prepared for me at Edinburgh Castle, with Turkish carpets on the floors, damask hangings on the walls, and elegant furnishings throughout the queen's apartments. It had been a long time since any Scottish sovereign had lived in this great fortress; most had chosen Holyrood Palace instead. Holyrood was indeed beautiful, surrounded by lush parks and gardens, but Edinburgh Castle on its high volcanic outcropping was impregnable. Once I was comfortably—and safely—settled there, I turned my attention to punishing those responsible for the murder of David Rizzio.

 

First, I had to decide how to deal with my brother Lord Moray. On the one hand I needed his wisdom and support, but on the other hand I did not trust him, and for good reason. He was as treacherous as Henry. Each man believed he, and he alone, should rule Scotland.

Then I had to deal with my husband. I learned that Henry had written a statement acknowledging his primary responsibility for the plot to murder Rizzio and promising to protect the others whom he had involved in the plot. There was his signature,
Henry R,
and the date, the seventh of March, two days before Davy had been set upon and stabbed to death. My husband was not innocent, despite his insistence that he was. He had not been led astray by evil men, as others had tried to persuade me. He was guilty, guilty, guilty! I would never trust him again, no matter what promises he made. I would not forget what he had done. And I would never forgive him.

Everyone knew that my marriage was a shambles, but I had to take care not to make matters worse. I would have been within my rights to have my husband condemned to death for treason, but had I taken that drastic step, Henry might have countered by charging me with adultery—there were still those ready to believe that Davy was the true father of my unborn infant. Until my child was born and Henry had publicly acknowledged it as his own, I could not risk having him declare, in a fit of temper or vengeance, that the child was not his.

As angry as I was at Henry, I did sometimes remember how I had adored this beautiful young man in the weeks before I had married him, how I had craved him, and—aye, the truth—lusted for him in a shameful way So doting I was, so wildly in love! But the passion had melted away like a late-spring snowfall. Once, I could scarcely bear to be apart from him. Now, I could hardly bear to be in his presence.

But I could do nothing to get rid of him.

The one good thing to come of my passion was the infant growing inside me. No matter what was happening, I kept up the pretense that all was well as the time of my confinement drew near. In early June I made the ceremonial withdrawal from all public life, drew up my will should I die in childbirth, arranged for the presence of a midwife, had the infant's cradle prepared, and settled down to wait.

Late one night I knew the waiting had ended. My child was about to be born.

T
HE EVENTS
I
DESCRIBE HERE
took place long ago. I have been judged guilty of a murder I did not commit, the evidence against me fabricated by those who had everything to gain by depriving me of my rightful place on the throne. Throughout my lonely months of imprisonment I have had ample time to contemplate the joy of motherhood, the wretchedness of an unhappy marriage, the exhilaration of victory, the despair of defeat. And though I confess that I am guilty of many sins, I will maintain until my death that I am innocent of any crime.

O
N THE NINETEENTH OF JUNE,
1566, I bore a son and duly named him James. My ladies had faithfully attended me throughout my ordeal, my good midwife had assisted, and the infant was pronounced both healthy and handsome. The big guns of Edinburgh Castle were fired and hundreds of bonfires lit throughout the city and beyond the ancient walls to announce the birth. Everyone rejoiced—from the nobles, who quickly gathered in my state bedchamber, to the humblest peasants pausing in their labors. A prince had been born to Scotland!

Later that afternoon Henry came to visit me and to inspect his son. I desperately wanted to sleep, but I was most anxious that he acknowledge the boy as his own.

“My lord,” I said, “God has given us a son.”

Henry kissed the infant, and I felt immense relief. Perhaps now all would be well. But then, to my disappointment and disbelief, we began to argue about some trifling matter, an argument that quickly escalated. I reminded him that at the time of Rizzio's murder, one of Henry's accomplices had held a pistol to my belly. “If the gun had fired,” I cried, “both your son and I would be long dead!”

It was a sour note on what should have been a happy day, and as soon as my husband left my chamber, I wept.

The next day the High Kirk of St. Giles was crowded with worshipers from every walk of life, come to give thanks to God for sending the kingdom an heir. Within an hour of the infant's birth, my friend Sir James Melville was on his way to England to deliver the news to Queen Elizabeth. I wondered how the queen would feel when she learned that I had done what she had not and perhaps never would.

Meanwhile, Henry continued to roister about the city, keeping company with lowlifes, drinking companions and women of ill repute, and then returning so late, drunken and loudly reveling, that guards had to unlock the castle gates for him, try to quiet him, and escort him to his quarters, which were at some distance from my own in the castle.

I was fearful. My relationship with my husband had broken down to such a point that I was afraid he might conceive a plot to seize Prince James, make off with him, and force the privy council to allow Henry to rule as regent. The very thought of this struck terror in my heart, and rather than establish a separate household for tiny Prince James, as was customary, I decided to keep the infant by my side. I ordered his cradle placed next to my bed, and his wet nurse and the women hired to rock him and change his napkins moved into my bedchamber.

I was still not fully recovered from my confinement, but I could not ignore the demands of governing. I called upon the two men I knew I could trust, Lord Huntly and Lord Bothwell. Bothwell was Huntly's brother-in-law, having married his sister, Lady Jean. There was no suggestion that this was a love match. When Lady Jean married Lord Bothwell and turned much of her fortune over to him, it had been no secret that she still loved Alexander Ogilvie.

Nor, apparently, did Lord Bothwell have much affection for Lady Jean. If he did, it was not enough to keep him from the pursuit of other women. The entire court was gossiping about Lady Jean's pretty, dark-eyed serving maid Bessie Crawford and Lord Bothwell's adulterous trysts with her in the tower at Haddington Abbey and in other unseemly places. Lady Jean dismissed her maid, and Lord Bothwell presented one of his castles to his unhappy wife as a peace offering.