The Wild Queen (30 page)

The two gentlemen continued to be my stalwart friends and advisers. Though many did not trust Bothwell, and for good reason, I knew that he was completely loyal to me. I relied heavily on his advice and counsel at a time when my nobles were continually feuding among themselves. Many more were suspicious of my brother, believing he was complicit in Rizzio's murder. Guilty or not, Lord Moray always seemed to be stirring up trouble somewhere. At this critical time after the birth of my child, I needed to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to the rumors and find a way to bring about some sort of reconciliation among the various parties. I hoped Lord Bothwell could help me.

***

The twenty-ninth of July was the first anniversary of my marriage to Henry. But Henry was not to be found, and I spent most of the day caring for my month-old son. Exactly a year earlier, I had been the blissful bride in a magnificent and joyful wedding, confident that great happiness lay ahead. And that night I had experienced the fulfillment of my passion for my beloved husband. Now I held the sleeping bairn and wondered sadly,
What happened to that joy, that passion?
I was left with only the dregs of disappointment and bitterness.

Believing that a change of air might improve my melancholy mood, I boarded a boat early one morning for a brief trip up the River Forth to the quiet village of Alloa. Lord Bothwell arranged for the boat but stayed in Edinburgh as the newly appointed captain of the prince's royal bodyguard. “Have no worries for the well-being of the bonnie wee prince,” Lord Bothwell assured me.

“You have surely heard the rumors,” I reminded him. “Beware of King Henry He may be dreaming up a plan to kidnap his own son.”

“He can dream all he wants, madam,” Bothwell said with barely concealed scorn.

The time on the river refreshed me, and the welcome at Alloa Tower by my hosts, John Erskine, earl of Mar, and Lady Mar, was a warm one. I was preparing to enjoy the entertainments they had arranged for me when without warning my husband appeared. The peace and contentment I had begun to feel were instantly dispelled.

“What are you doing here, Henry?” I asked wearily.

“You left without informing me,” he complained. “When I learned where you had gone, I saddled my fastest horse and rode hard to join you here. You are my wife, Mary—you seem to have forgotten that. You refuse to allow me to visit your bed as is my right. Your behavior as a wife is shameful.”

“You call
my
behavior shameful, sir?” I demanded, my temper rising. “I have not plotted the murder of a loyal servant nor subjected my unborn child to the threat of death! And you dare call my behavior shameful?”

Our argument went on, loudly, until I ended it with this: “Since we cannot agree even on a definition of what is shameful and what is not, then I bid you good day.”

Henry stormed out of the chamber, and I put my head in my hands and shed more bitter tears. When I had finally somewhat restored my calm, I was relieved to learn that Henry had leaped on his horse and galloped away. No one knew where he had gone—or cared.

I paced the grounds of the palace, muttering. I had to find a way to end this mockery of a marriage. There were no acceptable paths open to me. An annulment was out of the question—only the pope could grant that, and I knew well that he would not. I could attempt some sort of reconciliation, but how could I reconcile with a man for whom I had not a shred of trust? Who treated me with such disdain? Who had behaved brutally when I was great with child? Whose one driving goal was to be king of Scotland?

These questions bubbled continually in my thoughts, and when I prepared to return to Edinburgh a few days later, I was no closer to a solution to the problem of my marriage than ever I had been. I was certain, though, that I had to do whatever was necessary to protect my son. Given his father's overweening ambition and untrustworthiness, I had come to believe Prince James might be safer with his own separate household and a governor responsible for his care.

At the end of August, Prince James was carried from Edinburgh Castle and taken in a grand procession with an escort of five hundred musketeers to Stirling, the castle where my mother had once kept me safe from the forces of Henry VIII. We were welcomed by Lord and Lady Erskine. A beautiful nursery awaited James, the same nursery that I occupied in my childhood with Lord Erskine's father as one of my governors. Henry rode with me in our son's procession, though we were not together in any sense other than that which public ceremony required. He was bad-tempered throughout my stay there.

I had one bit of diplomatic business to attend to while at Stirling. My former secretary of state Sir William Maitland wanted to be restored to my good graces, and I was moved to grant that, for many reasons. Though Maitland believed he had been pushed aside in favor of David Rizzio, he had worked tirelessly to help me persuade Queen Elizabeth to name me as her successor. Though our efforts had so far been unsuccessful, I needed him now to negotiate on behalf of little Prince James.

I invited Maitland to dine with me. “You are again officially a part of my court, Sir William,” I told him.

This would not please Lord Bothwell, nor would it please my brother Lord Moray. What a nuisance, to have the three men I depended upon dislike one another so heartily! I persuaded all three to make a show of friendship, and they agreed, though I doubted they would succeed even in that.

When I left Stirling, Henry refused to accompany me. We were not speaking. If I had had my way, I would never have spoken to him again.

***

The Borderlands south of Edinburgh were often troubled with lawless bands of brigands and warring clans. In early October I arranged a progress through that region to attend to some important judicial matters. With my brother, a number of the most powerful lords, and a large entourage including several judges and lawyers, I rode south from Edinburgh and in half a day reached Borthwick Castle.

While I was there, I learned that Lord Bothwell had been involved in a violent attack and now lay gravely, perhaps fatally, wounded.

He was lodged at Hermitage Castle some thirty miles distant, and despite heavy rain, muddy roads, and warnings of hostile parties, I made the long, hard ride to visit him. The journey took about five hours. I found Bothwell in great pain and weak from loss of blood, but he was able to talk. “I have every intention of surviving, madam,” he said, gripping my hand.

Reassured, I set out again for Borthwick. On the way my horse lost its footing in a muddy bog and went down, throwing me into the mire. I was drenched and covered with mud, in such a sorry state that my companions insisted we stop at a farmhouse to have my clothing dried and mended. Later I discovered that I had lost my watch.

At the time I made light of the incident—I had spent much of my life on horseback, and it was certainly not my first tumble—but a few days after my return to Borthwick, I fell ill, desperately so, with a fever and pain and vomiting. In my delirium, I asked repeatedly if my watch had been found. My friends were alarmed, and when I did not improve but grew steadily worse, they feared I might die. Lord Bothwell, receiving news of my illness, had himself carried from Hermitage Castle on a horse litter. I was barely conscious when he was brought to my chamber and allowed to speak to me.

“Dear madam,” he said, “is it because of your exertions in coming to my bedside that I must now come to yours?”

I was barely able to whisper. “No, my friend.” I struggled to form the words. “It is some other cause, but I know not what.”

“And your husband? Where is King Henry while you lie here suffering?”

“In Glasgow,” my brother answered for me. Glasgow was the Lennox family's traditional center of power. “He talks of going abroad. We do not know for what purpose.”

Nothing good,
I thought. Or perhaps that is what I heard Lord Bothwell say as I drifted off again.

Over the next few days I endured great pain; I was told later that I fell into such deep unconsciousness that I was taken for dead. My servants, to allow my soul to fly from my body, opened the windows. My grieving ladies sent for mourning garments. My privy councilors, including Lord Bothwell, began to arrange for my funeral.

And then, nothing short of a miracle! My French physician thought he saw me make some slight movement. Immediately he set to work, bandaging my limbs, massaging my body, pouring wine down my throat, and dosing me with clysters and herbs. To everyone's wonderment, I opened my eyes and spoke. Slowly I came back to life. There was a further sign of hope: my watch was found and returned to me, still in working order.

Early in November I was well enough to travel and was determined to finish my progress through the Borderlands. After stops at Kelso, Hume, Langton, and other towns to complete the judicial work that remained, I returned to Edinburgh to prepare for the christening of Prince James.

I could not yet bear the thought of staying in Holyrood Palace—not after the terrible night of murder and my fearful escape. Though the events had occurred six months earlier, the memories were still as fresh as yesterday. Craigmillar Castle, only a few miles south of Edinburgh, was an elegant place and large enough to accommodate everyone in my court. John Knox had denounced the owner, Sir Simon Preston, as “a wicked man of no religion,” and that alone would have served as the highest recommendation. I accepted Sir Simon's invitation to lodge there.

I planned to stay for a fortnight. Craigmillar proved to be the most critical stop of all.

T
HE CHRISTENING OF MY SON
was not just a celebration of the birth of the prince but also a demonstration to the great powers of Europe—Spain, France, England, Austria—that Scotland was not the rough and backward nation many supposed but a grand and cultured kingdom. Therefore I gave it my full attention, drawing up guest lists and arranging the events. I invited Queen Elizabeth to be his godmother, thinking it would establish a bond between us, and King Charles IX of France to be his godfather.

A week after I arrived with my court at Craigmillar, Henry appeared, uninvited and unannounced. “I wish to speak with you, madam,” he said, adding, “in private.”

I was uneasy about being with my husband, whose behavior toward me had been so threatening. “Whatever you wish to say must be said in the presence of my ladies, my servants, and my guards,” I told him.

Henry scowled and made as though to leave, but he finally decided to speak his piece before a full audience. “As your lawful husband and the father of our child, I wish to resume conjugal relations.”

“But
I
do not,” I responded with scarcely a moment's hesitation. It had been some months since I had welcomed Henry to my bed, and I was not about to do so now. “I have been unwell,” I explained, though this was not the real reason and he surely knew it. “My physicians have forbidden it,” I added.

The real reason was that I loathed this arrogant, selfish, heartless man who now stood before me.
I would rather sleep with the devil,
I thought.

Henry and I stared at each other. I refused to give an inch. “Then I shall trouble you no more, madam. I shall go abroad, do my work there, and leave you to—” He stopped, and I caught my breath, wondering,
Go abroad? What work do you intend to do there?

He did not finish the sentence. He bowed, turned on his heel, and marched out. As always, I was relieved to see the back of him.

Later, as I was walking alone with William Maitland, he confided to me that he wished to marry Mary Fleming. “Nothing will make me happier than to have her as my wife,” he said. “I have been a bachelor all my life, and I did not think I would ever be swept away by the forces of love, but Mary Fleming captured my heart almost from the first day I met her, and she still holds it prisoner.”

On and on went my secretary of state, a man of at least thirty-six years, and I listened patiently until I could bear it no longer. Then I did something I rarely permitted myself to do: I let down my guard. “I remember when I felt much the same as you, Sir William,” I said, sinking into melancholy. “I wish you much happiness. Whatever once captured my heart has long since let it fly away, never to return.” I turned to Maitland and caught at his sleeve. “Oh, sir, I am so utterly miserable! I am desperate to escape, to free myself from this intolerable marriage in which I have not one day, one hour of happiness! I allowed myself to be swayed from the exercise of good sense by a passion I had not known in my first marriage. The only good to have come of it—and I do not discount it—is my lovely son. The little prince is now the center of my life.”

Maitland nodded sympathetically and patted my hand. Once I had begun to speak of my misery, I seemed unable to stop. “I was warned. There were many who knew I was on a disastrous path, but I would not listen. And now I can see no way out.”

“Divorce, madam? Is that not the best way?”

I shook my head. “There is too much risk of having my son then declared illegitimate, as has happened to others. He would lose his right to the throne. And I cannot do that to my child.” I sighed, filled with self-pity.

“And if we can find a way that would not work against the best interests of your son?”

“Then I would most willingly agree.”

The cold November mist in which we had begun our walk through the orchards of Craigmillar had turned to a fine drizzle that seemed to be made of ice crystals. Wrapped in our thick woolen cloaks, we ignored the stinging cold and kept on, deep in our conversation.

“Suppose,” Maitland went on, thoughtfully stroking his beard, “that King Henry were to be arrested and charged with treason. He is certainly guilty of that offense.”

“I myself once considered it but abandoned the notion lest he then deny that Prince James is his son. Lately it has come to mind again, but as you know I am going to great trouble and expense for the christening of the prince in order to raise Scotland's reputation among the great nations of the world. Imagine the scandal if the king were accused of treason on the eve of his son's christening when all the world was watching!”