An Accidental Tragedy (36 page)

Moretta, the Savoy ambassador, also had suspicions of Mary’s direct involvement and reported that a placard had been posted outside Holyrood saying, ‘I, with the Earl of Bothwell and with others whose names shall shortly be declared, did this deed.’ Bothwell reacted to this typically by declaring that when he discovered the authors of these calumnies he would ‘wash his hands in their blood’. Drury said of him. ‘His hand when he talks to any that is not assured to him, [is] upon his dagger, with a strange countenance’.

At the beginning of March another placard had appeared, making yet another accusation of guilt and linking Mary directly to Bothwell. It showed a naked mermaid wearing a crown (in this period a ‘mermaid’ was street slang for a prostitute). In its right hand was a sea anemone, representing the female genitalia, and in its left hand was the rolled-up net used to trap unwary seamen. Since the mermaid was framed with the royal initials ‘MR’, there could be no doubt as to who it represented. Below it was a hare – the crest of Bothwell as a Hepburn – with the letter ‘H’, surrounded with drawn swords. To the sixteenth-century mind, attuned to the niceties of heraldry, the implication was clear: the whore Mary had seduced the brute Bothwell.

At this point Mary had the opportunity to show her power as a ruling queen and could have acted decisively. Diane de Poitiers would have easily persuaded her monarch to undertake mass arrests; Catherine de Medici would have given the instructions herself and, after carefully focused torture, a scenario clearing her of all blame would have become the accepted truth; Elizabeth would have denied all knowledge of the Craigmillar Bond and turned her theatrical wrath on the signatories, despatching them to the Tower. But Mary, seemingly inert and under the control of Bothwell, did nothing at all. Not so inert was Sir James Balfour: he was accused, probably justly, of having had one of his servants killed to prevent him from turning informer. Moray, who had, of course, been in Fife on the fatal night, was now urgently requesting a passport for foreign travel. This was granted, and on 7 April he hastily undertook a five-year exile. The plotters were now isolated and ripe for arrest. But Mary had no trustworthy allies to prompt her into unwilling action, and the only voice calling for justice was that of the Earl of Lennox, Darnley’s father and a sworn enemy of Châtelherault and Moray. Mary had alienated herself from all the nobility except for the plotters, whom she had tacitly encouraged and who would have had no qualms about throwing her to the wolves. As so often happened in Mary’s life, she had created a power vacuum, and into it
stepped the Earl of Bothwell. By the end of March, Drury reported to Cecil that ‘Bothwell does all’ and that the rumour was that Mary would marry him.

Bothwell was a short-term opportunist with the philosophy of a Mafia boss. He had no far-sighted strategy to become King of Scotland; he merely seized whatever came to hand and was to his further advantage. Militarily he was an expert in the short, sharp attack coupled with surprise, a tactic which was most effective in ruling his turbulent Border lands. Diplomatically he applied force and, if that failed, he applied more force until his opponent decided to join him rather than be annihilated. Now he realised that no one was exerting any influence over the country and that the queen would never undertake any initiative on her own behalf. The plum of power was ripe for picking.

Catherine de Medici, who was amazed by Mary’s inactivity, wrote that unless Mary revenged the death of her husband she would not only be dishonoured but would become the enemy of France. However, Mary continued to sleepwalk. After Darnley’s murder ‘she hath been for the most part either melancholy or sickly ever since’. J.P. Lawson, the nineteenth-century historian, said, ‘The conduct of Queen Mary at this period evinces a fatality and imbecility which can only be explained by viewing her as under the influence of a strong, engrossing and ungovernable passion.’ With the Privy Council now lacking Moray, and all of its other members lacking unity, Bothwell, whose wife was now ill, made his first move to gather power by supervising the removal of the prince back to his traditional nursery at Stirling under the governorship of Mar. This allowed him to appoint Sir James Balfour, a supposedly trusted ally, to be governor of Edinburgh Castle. This turned out to be a nearly fatal mistake.

Bothwell was now exercising more authority than Darnley had ever possessed and Lennox brought forth a formal petition that Bothwell be arraigned for the murder. On 21 March, while still at Seton, Mary did agree to summon a parliament, and five days later Lennox asked for Bothwell to be arrested. Nothing was
done, but on 28 March a reluctant Privy Council did call Bothwell to appear before an assize on 12 April. Lennox, rather feebly, then claimed he had not enough time to prepare a case and asked for a deferment, also writing to Elizabeth and asking her to intercede.

Mary had been forced by public opinion to allow the move against ‘those you have nearest to you’, while Bothwell had his own way of dealing with an assize in Edinburgh. On the day of the assize Bothwell had brought 4,000 armed men into the city and posted 200 arquebusiers around the Tolbooth, where the assize was being held, totally controlling who was to be allowed entrance; ‘no one had the courage to accost such a dangerous and unprincipled man.’

As Bothwell, accompanied by Lethington and Morton, were about to ride from Holyrood, Drury arrived with a letter from Elizabeth endorsing Lennox’s request for a delay. He gave the letter to Lethington but was told that the queen was still asleep and the party rode off. Du Croc then pointed out to Drury that the ‘sleeping’ queen was, with Mary Fleming, Lethington’s wife, standing at a window of the palace enthusiastically waving goodbye to Bothwell.

Bothwell passed ‘with a merry and a lusty cheer’ to the Tolbooth – the ‘lusty cheer’ being given by his 200 arquebusiers at the door. Lennox was allowed by law to present six supporters, but he claimed illness and sent only one, Robert Cunningham, while his advocates desired forty days for more perfect collection of his proofs, threatening that if the assize cleared Bothwell, they would lodge a formal protest for wilful error. ‘The Earl Morton refused to be of that assize. It is affirmed that at this assize none were sworn. Bothwell has set up a cartel declaring himself clear of this murder, and offering to defend any challenge thereof with his body.’ The charge was read and the court ‘had long reasoning’ but Bothwell, to no one’s surprise, was ‘made clean of the said slaughter, although it was heavily murmured that he was guilty thereof ’. The court did not even notice that Bothwell had been accused of Darnley’s murder on 9 February, the day before it
actually took place. Less than three weeks later Lennox and his family left for England.

Bothwell, who had already been showered with gifts by the now totally entranced Mary, gilded the lily by appearing on Darnley’s own horse, having had some of the dead man’s clothes re-tailored for his own use. The tailor, taking his life in his hands, had remarked to Bothwell that this was right since ‘according to the custom of the country the clothes of the deceased were given to the executioner’. After an uneasy pause Bothwell decided that this was a joke, and the tailor lived.

The war of the placards continued and two were attached to the Market Cross, one giving a detailed list of some of the conspirators and another, thinking ahead, claiming that no one could ‘with upright conscience’ part Bothwell and his wife even although he had murdered the husband of his intended new spouse, ‘whose promise he had long before the murder’.

On 16 April, Mary rode to open parliament in the same Tolbooth. This was a ceremony she had always revelled in, glittering in jewels, assured of the cheers of an adoring crowd and surrounded by her nobility. Now Bothwell carried her sceptre, Argyll – in place of Moray – carrying the crown, and Crawford, the Sword of State. Her guard of honour, normally provided by the bailies of the Edinburgh Council, was now not ceremonial, but openly protective, and was formed by her own arquebusiers. The population of Edinburgh were no longer cheering their queen.

The parliament did not overtly ratify Bothwell’s innocence but awarded him the lands which went with Dunbar Castle, as well as confirming Huntly and his relatives in their lands. It was altogether a more muted affair, and as Mary returned to Holyrood, she must have realised that she had lost the love of the people and passed whatever power she had – but had never used – into the hands of Bothwell. Her court was no longer the site of Renaissance celebration, dancing and masqueing, but a closely guarded military enclave of plotting and politics.

The power held by Bothwell was that of a victorious dictator
on the morning after his coup d’état. He had reduced Mary to the position of puppet queen and she had acquiesced; the nobility, still amazed by his actions, were supporting him; he had used a servile legal process to clear himself of all illegalities and the inevitable backlash had not yet begun. His next move had to be to codify his support, which he made immediately on his return to Holyrood after the parliament.

On the evening of 19 April, Bothwell hosted a dinner at Ainslie’s Tavern close by the palace, attended by Argyll, Huntly, Cassilis, Morton, Sutherland, Rothes, Glencairn and Caithness, among others, as guests. An official record of this meeting gives Moray as a participant, but since he was abroad this is impossible; he had left Scotland ‘as out of discontent’ and had left Morton, a man ‘who knew well enough how to manage the business, for he was Moray’s second self’ in his place. Eglinton, who was present, ‘slipped away’ before signing the now inevitable bond. The signatories vowed to defend Bothwell’s innocence and to support his marriage to Mary – ‘if it should please her’.

Bothwell had, it seemed, ticked a very important box, but next day Kirkcaldy of Grange wrote to Bedford suggesting that support by Elizabeth for the pursuit of the murderers would win the hearts of all Scots. He also reported that Mary was now so infatuated with Bothwell that ‘she care[d] not to lose France, England and her own country for him and [would] go to the world’s end in a white petticoat ere she [left] him’. This was schoolgirl rhetoric even for an emotionally immature 24-year-old and contrasts interestingly with Elizabeth’s claim that if she were cast out of her realm alone and in her petticoat she would, none the less, prosper.

Mary was clearly not prospering: her bodyguard, on the point of mutiny, demanded their back pay. Bothwell started to solve the problem in his own particular way by seizing the spokesman by the throat and drawing his dagger, but the man was rescued and Mary intervened immediately, paying the guards 400 crowns. Lethington, clearly prompted by Bothwell,
implored Mary to marry for the stability of the kingdom, but she refused the plea. Given the history of her first two marriages this, at least, was sensible. Next day she left for Stirling to see her son, and Bothwell announced that he was gathering his forces to ride to Liddesdale. No one believed this and the common rumour was that he would seize the queen and take her to Dunbar. Meanwhile, Cecil wrote one of his many memoranda to himself to remind Elizabeth to seek out the murderers, to note that Mary’s complicity in the murder was still widely believed, and to use all means to prevent her marriage to Bothwell.

Having seen that the infant James was fit and well, Mary left him with the Earl and Countess of Mar. Although she did not know it, this was to be the last time she would see her son. Mary set out with Lethington, Melville, Huntly and her normal armed bodyguard, resting overnight at Linlithgow. A few miles west of Edinburgh, where the Gogar Burn joins the River Almond at the village of Cramond, the royal party, having just been ferried across, were reassembling themselves when Bothwell sprang an ambush with 800 armed men. Mary’s guards, hopelessly outnumbered, drew their swords, but she restrained them, saying that she would not have blood shed on her behalf. Bothwell took her bridle and told her there were hostile elements awaiting her in Edinburgh; he then escorted her by way of Granton and Leith to ‘safety’ in his castle at Dunbar, where the gates were locked on the entire royal party, including Lethington and Melville. The
Diurnal
reported, ‘The Earl of Bothwell, being well accompanied, ravished the queen and took her that same night to his castle of Dunbar (not against her will).’ Captain Blackadder, the nocturnal reveller and now one of Bothwell’s men, alleged to Melville that the charade had been mounted with the queen’s consent.

In fact, Mary did despatch a messenger to Edinburgh to mount a rescue, but he was a messenger who had just heard his queen order that no violence should be used, and his efforts were formal rather than effective. Bothwell knew that his star was
only in the ascendant as long as he held the reins of power and that Mary was ‘a feather for each wind that blows’. She had resisted Lethington’s plea to marry and he had therefore decided to take the initiative by the means best suited to a Border bandit – kidnap. Mary had been genuinely taken by surprise but she had seen maidens being rescued and carried off by their knights from the terraces of Chambord and here, perhaps, at last was her Amadis. However, Bothwell’s role as a knight in shining armour was more than a little tarnished.

The common presumption is that Bothwell’s first action on his return to Dunbar was to rape Mary, but the
Diurnal
says quite precisely that he ‘ravished her and took her to his castle’. Now, it is impossible that he raped her in front of the entire party at Cramond, but in the sixteenth century to ‘ravish’ simply meant to ‘seize’, and Mary, her head spinning with the romance of it all, may have consented easily to sexual intercourse at Dunbar. Whatever occurred, by the end of that month Mary was pregnant by Bothwell.

With Mary safely in Dunbar his next move was to marry her. Since she had been dishonoured by him she would have had no choice, but first he had to divorce Lady Jean Gordon. He rode to Edinburgh on 26 April to file for a divorce. With admirable thoroughness Bothwell cited his illicit rendezvous with Bessie Crawford in the church tower at Haddington as evidence of adultery, while at the same time lodging a request for an annulment on the grounds of consanguinity before the court of the Archbishop of St Andrews. Thus his divorce would have legality in both civil and canon law. No one contested the divorce and the decree annulling the marriage was granted on 7 May. The long-term effect of this cynical act would be to disengage Huntly, Lady Jean’s brother, from Bothwell’s supporters. Oddly enough, the Catholic Bishop of Ross, a one-time ally of the Huntlies, proved his skill as a diplomat by managing to remain a friend of Bothwell’s, possibly since he was reputedly able to out-drink the Border lord.