The Wild Queen (35 page)

But James and I faced a problem more serious than our own personal turmoil. Three days after my abduction at the River Almond a number of powerful lords had gathered at Stirling. For four days they debated what to do. Calling themselves the Confederate Lords, they set three goals: to free me from captivity; to kill the earl of Bothwell, whom they termed a barbarous tyrant and the cruel murderer of the king; and to protect Prince James, all for the good of Scotland. As I was creating Lord Bothwell the duke of Orkney and preparing for our wedding in Edinburgh, these rebel lords had set up a court at Stirling in my son's name. They performed a masque that showed Lord Bothwell being condemned and hanged. When James inevitably learned about it, he went nearly mad with rage. The oaths that spewed from his mouth were the foulest I had yet heard.

“I shall be revenged on these so-called Confederate Lords!” he shouted, and continued with a stream of profanities.

I was angry too, but most of all I was deeply hurt that men I had once trusted had turned against me. Then came the worst desertion of all: James and Sir William Maitland got into a heated argument that became very ugly. Sir William declared that he had had enough and was joining the rebel lords.

Sir William, my secretary of state and close adviser for so long, could not bring himself to bid me farewell. His wife, my oldest and dearest friend, Mary Fleming—La Flamin, the chief of the Four Maries—came to me later that day when she thought I would be alone. Both of us burst into tears.

“There are no words for what I feel,” she said, choking on her sobs.

“Nay,” I said, “there are not.”

We held each other in silence, except for the sounds of our weeping.

“Adieu,
ma chère
Marie,” I said at last and hid my eyes as she tiptoed from my chamber.

“Adieu! Adieu!”

"T
HE
C
ONFEDERATE
L
ORDS
are preparing to attack,” James said gruffly. “Take what you need, Mary. We are leaving.”

“Where are we to go, my lord?” I asked.

“Borthwick,” he answered shortly, and strode out of my presence chamber.

I called for my maidservants to begin gathering clothing and whatever else might be needed. James was shouting “Hurry! Hurry!” and I was forced to leave almost empty-handed.

We rode hard for Borthwick, south of Edinburgh. I had not been to the castle for several years, but I knew it was well fortified, one great tower with walls several feet thick. We had been there for four days when the rebel lords surrounded the castle and prepared to launch an attack. It was an hour before midnight and still light.

“You will be all right here,” James assured me. “It is me they want. Meet me at Dunbar when you think it is safe for you to get away."

With those words, James flung himself on his fastest horse and escaped through the postern, a small concealed gate in the rear of the castle. When the rebels realized their quarry had eluded them, they entertained themselves by shouting insults at me. A strange way to treat a queen they had sworn to free from captivity! I tried to ignore them while I made my own preparations to leave. When they tired of taunting me, they withdrew.

I rested for a few hours. Then, just before dawn, I made my escape. Dressed in men's clothes borrowed from a servant, I had myself lowered from a window by a rope and chair to the ground. A horse waited, saddled and ready, and then I, too, was away through that same postern. Not far from Borthwick several of my husband's men met me and escorted me to Dunbar, where James was waiting.

His greeting on that occasion was so warm that I was reassured of the affection he had for me. Our reunion was brief. Within an hour he was on his horse again, this time to round up his troops. The Confederate Lords had seized Edinburgh Castle, and three thousand armed men were ready to fight for the rebels in the name of my son, Prince James, for the benefit of Lord Moray.

We were at war.

And I knew with certainty that I was with child.

 

I could not afford now to sit and weep and yield to melancholy. I had to act. It was imperative to take possession of Edinburgh and put down the rebels at once. Summoning what troops I had, I set out from Dunbar with a scant handful but gathered more on the way. By the time I reached Haddington, six hundred men followed my command, not nearly as many as I had thought would answer my call, but I did have with me three cannon from the munitions store at Dunbar.

James met me with his force of two thousand. He laughed when he saw me. “What is that you are wearing, my queen?”

With no time to pack more than a handful of hairpins before I left Holyrood, I had assembled an outfit belonging to a local woman—a short red petticoat and skirt, a pair of sleeves, a partlet covering my neck and shoulders, and a jaunty velvet hat.

“My military garb,” I replied gaily. “Practical for riding and visible to my troops.”

That night while our soldiers rested and prepared for battle, James and I stayed at Seton Palace. We were both weary but also tensely exhilarated, anticipating the battle that was sure to take place the next day when our forces met those of the rebel lords. It was in this setting that I chose to tell James the news that affected us most personally.

I stated the situation simply. “James, I am with child.”

He gazed at me, nervously smoothing the ends of his mustache. “You are sure?”

“I am, my lord.”

“Yet one more reason, then, that we must achieve victory. For my son!”

“Aye, James. For
our
son.”

***

The morning sky was light at five o'clock when we rode out together. We stopped a few miles east of Edinburgh and drew up our army on the crest of Carberry Hill. The rebel lords and their superior forces took a position farther down the hillside. The summer sun rose, the day grew hotter, and our men began to suffer from thirst. Though they were loyal to us, they did not want to fight this battle, and as the day wore on, I watched our army quietly melt away.

“We are outmanned,” I told James. “It will be a bloodbath.”

“Then I have a solution,” he said, leaping to his feet. “I will issue a challenge of man-to-man combat, and that will determine the outcome with the loss of only one life—mine or a rebel lord's.”

I opposed the idea, for I did not want him killed. But he was defiant.

When the challenge was issued, it seemed that first one rebel lord and then another would answer it. Finally, believing that such a fight would resolve nothing, I stepped forward and intervened.

“What is it you require of me?” I asked the leader of the rebels.

“Your surrender, madam” came the reply.

“Then I am ready to surrender, in the best interests of the people of Scotland.”

After some discussion it was decided that I would give myself up peacefully to the lords and that I could do so safely and without fear of treachery. James Hepburn, duke of Orkney, would go free.

James and I looked at each other. Hastily he drew from his leather bag a tightly rolled document and pressed it into my hand. “Mary, take this and keep it safe. 'Tis a copy of the bond agreeing to the murder of King Henry and bearing the signatures of those who plotted his death. There are a number, all of whom you know well. You will find mine there too.”

I drew in my breath sharply. “Yours, James? You are telling me now that you took part in the murder?”

“I did, madam. I did it for what I believed was the good of Scotland. But I hasten to add that the other signers are among those lords who now stand waiting for me to go so they may kill me later, and they fear that if they keep me here I will point the finger exactly where it should be pointed. And now I do humbly ask your forgiveness.”

James dropped to his knees and gazed up at me.

It was a bitter blow. So I had indeed married my husband's murderer! And yet ... and yet ... My heart was in turmoil. I felt as though I were falling through a vast empty void.

“Aye, James Hepburn. I do forgive you.” I took his two hands in both of mine and raised him up.

“I thank you for that, my queen. Mary, my wild queen! This is not the end of our story. I swear to you that I will do all in my power to rescue you. Until then, take care for our son! Farewell!”

We embraced one last time. I watched my husband mount his horse and ride away with a dozen horsemen. “Farewell, dear James!” I called after him, but he did not look back.

Then I turned, bowed my head, and offered my hand to the rebel lord who came to take me prisoner.

W
HAT A SIGHT
I must have been! My hair had come loose from its pins and flew wildly about my face. The short red petticoat and partlet I had borrowed days earlier were caked with dust and mud. But the rebel lords helped me mount my horse as though I were dressed in my most regal robes and then led me away.

Such royal treatment disappeared in an instant when the rebel soldiers began to shout terrible things at me. “Burn the whore!” “Kill the murderess!” As though I were the one responsible for Henry's death, when in fact the murderers were among these men who had made me their prisoner!

I was taken to Edinburgh by a pack of ruffians. The streets were so crowded, my horse could scarcely pick its way through the screaming, cursing mob. Their shouts followed me all the way to the house on the High Street where I was to stay, the home of the provost who had first welcomed me to Edinburgh. I had no idea how long I would be kept there. Half dragged by my guards, I climbed the stair to an upper chamber and collapsed on the bed, numb to any feeling but the deepest despair.

There were no servants to help me undress, bring me warm water for washing, see to my comfort. Instead there were guards outside my chamber, and two more were stationed inside, men who would not leave even when I wished to use the chamber pot. Would there be no end to my humiliation?

“Is this the honorable treatment I was promised?” I demanded. I got no reply, only the sneers of my guards.

I lurched to the window. Across the way, where I could not fail to see it, hung a white banner depicting King Henry's body lying beneath a green tree with a small figure representing Prince James kneeling close by. It bore the motto
Judge and avenge my cause, O Lord.

In the street below, the jeers and curses raged throughout the long night. “Kill her!” “Drown her!” “She is not fit to live!”

Were the guards there to protect me or to prevent my escape? Suppose those who wished for my death overcame them, or were actually helped by them! I was so terrified that I could not close my eyes, and dawn arrived with the furious voices still echoing throughout the city.

***

Hours later I was led on foot down the High Street to Holyrood Palace, insulted by rude shouts from angry crowds as I made my way. Faithful Mary Seton and Mary Livingston waited for me, and I fell into their arms, weeping gratefully at the sight of their loving, if deeply worried, faces. I had not eaten for some time and was weak with hunger, and when supper was brought I ate greedily. One of the rebel lords stood behind my stool. When I was only half finished, he announced that the meal was over and I must prepare for a hard ride.

“Where are you taking me, sir?” I demanded.

He replied insolently that the destination was not my concern.

“Are my ladies to come with me?” I asked.

They were not. Only two maidservants, sisters Maggie and Maud, could accompany me.

Nor was I permitted to take any clothing but a sleeping shift and a cloak. Among the things I left behind was the bond James had placed in my hands, the document bearing the signatures of the lords who had agreed to the murder of King Henry.

The two Maries and I began weeping and protesting until the lord ordered us to “be quiet and cease your wailing.” After another hasty embrace, I followed my captor, my lips trembling and my tears still flowing.

It was dark when I was taken from Holyrood Palace, and the crowds had mostly dispersed, save for a few drunken louts shouting profanities. A boat waited at Leith to take us across the Firth of Forth. We then rode north, traveling fast. I was feeling quite ill, but when I pleaded to slow down, the guards whipped my horse and drove it on.

Around midnight we reached Loch Leven, an enormous lake with a forbidding castle on a bleak island far from the shore. One of the guards pulled me roughly from my horse and thrust me into a boat. No one spoke; the only sound was the creak of the oars. The boat reached the pier, and I was hauled, stumbling, into a round tower and up several flights of stairs to a chamber no better than a cell for a common criminal: two or three rude pallets on the floor, a bucket and a basin, and little else for comfort. I threw myself onto one of the pallets and sank into a state resembling death.

I knew about Lochleven Castle. The laird to whom it belonged was William Douglas, a half brother of my own half brother Lord Moray. Their mother, Lady Margaret Douglas, had always resented me, believing that her son Moray deserved the Scottish throne, not I. The old lady was certainly no friend to me.

After a fortnight in the tower, my strength slowly returned, as did my will, and I began to plot how I could escape from this vile prison. I would need friends to help me. I began to converse warmly with those responsible for guarding me. One was Lord Ruthven, who had always been among those opposed to me; now he brought me news from Edinburgh. I longed for word of my husband, but I held my tongue and merely smiled and nodded and listened to whatever Lord Ruthven wished to tell me. None of it was good.

“The duke's friends are being pursued with the goal of punishing them for the murder of the king,” Lord Ruthven told me. He meant the duke of Orkney, my husband, James.

“And the duke himself?” I asked.

“Summoned to the court to answer for his crimes, or he will be put to the horn and declared an outlaw.”