Текст книги "Royal Road to Fotheringhay "

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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THE QUEEN was startled out of her sleep by the explosion. She rose in her bed crying out in terror. Seton was beside her.

“What is it, Seton?” demanded Mary. “What is it?”

Seton answered: “I know not.” And she ran to the window. “It looks like a great fire. The sky is brilliant and there is much smoke.”

“Where, Seton, where?”

Mary was now beside her at the window. She knew before she looked that the explosion had occurred in Kirk-o’-Field. Her teeth chattered and her body shook as with an ague.

Five

THERE WAS TUMULT THROUGHOUT EDINBURGH. THE CITIZENS were in the streets. There was speculation throughout the palace.

Bothwell had to be roused from slumber by his servants. He appeared to be sunk in a deep sleep, though he lay in his bed still dressed and with the grime on his clothes and face.

“Jesus!” he cried, rushing to the window. “What is this? It would seem as though the city is ablaze. ’Tis an explosion, I’ll warrant, somewhere near Kirk-o’-Field.”

He rode out with his followers.

“Keep clear of the fire, good people,” he cried. “Stand back and keep your distance.”

The good people of Edinburgh looked at him, and looked quickly away. Rumor traveled fast.

The guards of Holyrood had already whispered that one of those who came hurriedly into the palace soon after the explosion was Lord Bothwell himself.

IN THE DAWN LIGHT men searched the spot. The house was now a smoldering ruin. How explain the mighty explosion which had rent the place? Was it gunpowder? Explosives could easily have been stored in the crypt. And who had done this? Who would have dared stack gunpowder below a house in which the Queen’s husband lay sick?

Two men were certainly suspected of foul play! Bothwell who had been seen returning by the guards, and Archibald Douglas whose shoe had been found, marvelously intact, close to the ruins.

But there was a discovery yet to be made. The charred bodies of three servants had been found by those who searched, but where were the bodies of the King and Taylor? Could they have been completely destroyed?

It was not long before they were found. They were lying in the garden, in their nightgowns. Beside them was Darnley’s velvet gown as though it had been dropped hurriedly.

It was certain that the explosion had not touched them, but nevertheless they lay lifeless on the grass—most mysteriously dead. The plot became clear now. Darnley and Taylor had been murdered and the explosion which had been arranged to hide the crime had completely failed to do so.

All Edinburgh was aroused to indignation. Who murdered the King? was the question to which the citizens were determined to find an answer.

THE QUEEN was numb. She did not know how to act. The whole of Scotland was talking of the murder of the King. Soon the whole world would be talking. The murderers must be found, said the people. But could Mary join with them when she knew that the murderer-in-chief was her lover?

Bothwell swaggered about the town with thousands of his men within call. No one dared show his suspicion if he had any respect for his life.

The Queen should have been plunged in mourning; but instead she was merely dazed. She took no measures for twenty-four hours to bring the murderers to justice. How could she? She was too deeply concerned. Edinburgh knew it. All Scotland knew it. And the news was being carried with all speed to England and the continent of Europe.

“You must do something,” said Seton. Poor Seton was aghast. She knew too much, yet she could not believe that her beloved mistress would have agreed to the murder of her husband. Yet Seton knew that Bothwell could do what he wished with Mary; she knew that Mary was in love with her husband’s murderer.

“What can I do?” said Mary. “I wish I were dead. I wish I were in Darnley’s place.”

“You must do something to show the people that you wish for justice,” Seton implored. “You must show them that you wish this crime to be solved.”

Mary broke into hysterical laughter which ended in sobbing.

THE NEXT morning there were crowds at the Tolbooth reading the placards which had been affixed there during the night.

The biggest of these bore the inscription: “Who is the Kings murderer?” And beneath it was a drawing of Bothwell.

There were other placards. One said: “The King’s murderers are Lord Bothwell …” and there followed a list of servants—Mary’s servants—and among them was David’s brother Joseph Rizzio.

The implication was clear. Bothwell was the murderer-in-chief, but the Queen’s servants had helped him in his crime.

Bothwell came to see the Queen. Without asking permission he dismissed her attendants. He showed greater arrogance than ever now, being sure of his power. He was the most powerful man in Scotland, for the Queen was his to command. His eyes gleamed with excitement. He was unafraid though he knew himself to be in constant danger. He was ready to face all the lords of Scotland, all the judges. He was completely sure of himself. But they must plan carefully now, he warned. It was inadvisable for the Queen to stay in Edinburgh. The people were growing restive. Darnley should without delay be laid in the royal vault.

“We’ll offer a reward of two thousand pounds and a free pardon to any who can give information regarding the murder. And we’ll have those servants of yours sent out of the country immediately, for how can we know what they will divulge if they are captured and put to the torture?”

“What of you?” she asked.

“I’ll take care of myself,” said Bothwell. He caught her to him and laughed. “And of you,” he added.

SHE KNEW her conduct was wrong but she could act in no other way. She could only live through the weeks that followed by striving to pretend the tragedy had not happened. She did not appear to be mourning. She even attended a wedding. She shocked the citizens by her almost feverish pursuit of gaiety. They did not know that in her own apartments, night after night, she was near to collapse.

Bothwell hurried her off to the Castle of Seton, accompanied by himself, Maitland and a few of the lords. All were on tenterhooks, all uncertain of what was to happen next—with the exception of Bothwell whose intentions were perfectly clear in his mind.

In the streets of Edinburgh the cry against him rose more shrilly, now that he was not there to strike terror into the populace.

“Let Bothwell be tried for murder!” shouted the people. “Bothwell… with his servants and the Queens… killed the King.”

The Earl of Lennox raised his voice. He demanded that the suspected Earl of Bothwell be brought to trial.

AT SETON the lovers could be alone together, but Bothwell was more interested in plans for the future than making love.

“Now,” he said, “you are free to marry. You are free from that troublesome boy.”

“Free!” she cried. “I shall never be free from him. He will always be with me. I can never forget him.”

Bothwell was impatient. “He is dead and that is an end of him. Did you not want him dead? Did you not long to be my wife?”

“If we had met long ago…”

“Oh, have done with your ‘ifs’! We could marry now and there is nothing to stop us.”

“There is your wife.”

“I have told you that I can rid myself of her.”

“Not—”

“By divorce,” he said impatiently. “Jean will agree. There must be no delay. Remember, we have a child to think of.”

“How could we marry now? How could we marry soon? The whole world will know that we are guilty.”

“We must marry,” said Bothwell. “We shall marry.”

“I dare not. I long to be your wife but I dare not. There is no way out of this. You are accused of the murder. My servants are accused, and that means the people believe they acted in my name. Should we marry, all the world would say that we killed Darnley to bring this about.”

Bothwell took her by the shoulders. He said: “We shall marry. I tell you we shall marry. Whatever happens, I am determined to marry you.”

“Then you must force me to it in some way. I must seem to surrender against my will. That is very necessary or the whole of Scotland will be against me. Oh, my dearest, what have we done? What have we done?”

“What we set out to do—rid ourselves of our encumbrances. What do you wish? To tell the whole world that I ravished you and therefore you consider it necessary to marry me?”

“It is true,” she murmured.

“And that is the only reason why you wish to marry me. Ah! You were no reluctant partner… after the first shock!”

She protested: “You do not love me. You care more for Jean Gordon than for me.”

“I am ready to divorce her, am I not? And all for love of you!”

“Rather for love of my crown.”

He laughed. “Let us not make such fine distinctions. You are the Queen and royal. Your crown is part of you, and if I would do what I have for the sake of a crown, yet it is for love of you too. You are my mistress, my concubine in private; but in public you must be my Queen. You must be royal. You must distribute the favors. That is how you would have it. When we are alone, I am the master; but when we are in public, you will be the Queen, I the servant.” He paused and seemed to consider awhile. Then he went on: “Mayhap you are right. Mayhap that is how the people would have it. I will seize your person. I will hold you captive. The whole world shall believe that you are my captive and I ravished you. You therefore feel that the only way in which you can redeem your honor is through marriage, and for that reason you will seek the earliest opportunity to bring it about. You are a widow now. I shall soon be free of Jean. Nothing will stand in our way. That is our next move, my Queen. Leave it to me.”

“There is nothing else I can do,” she said. “My whole life, my entire happiness is in your hands.”

SHE WOULD think of nothing but her love of Bothwell. She would put her whole trust in him. He would bring them safely through this danger in which they found themselves. She had sent out of the country Joseph Rizzio and those of her servants who were suspected; she was relieved to know that they were safe. Bothwell and James Balfour would know how to defend themselves.

Bothwell had ridden through the streets of Edinburgh calling on any who accused him to come out and do it openly. He was ready, he declared, to wash his hands in their blood. He had his men—thousands of them in their steel bonnets thronging the streets of Edinburgh—but he would take on any of his challengers single-handed.

Mary wanted to show him how much she loved him; she could not give him enough. She had already bestowed on him the Castle of Blackness; and all the rich furs and jewels which Darnley had amassed were given to Bothwell. She wrote poems expressing her love for him, betraying the depth of her feelings, her desire for him, her bitter jealousy of his wife.

Bothwell himself was ready and eager to face a trial. It was arranged that he should do so, and, ostentatiously filling the town with his followers, he prepared to make his journey to the Tolbooth where the trial was to be held.

He was confident of the result. The Justice was that old and warm supporter of his, Argyle; the jury was picked. Every man among them knew that only fools would support Lennox in his weakness against the might of Bothwell.

It was not that the lords did not fear Bothwell; it was not that they were unaware of his rising power. They were suspicious of his relationship with the Queen, but he now had five thousand men in the city, and the guns of Edinburgh Castle were under the command of one of his men. The strength of Bothwell was much in evidence and the lords could not but quail before him. Bothwell was in charge of events and they were afraid of him.

The citizens watched him ride to the Tolbooth, magnificently clad in velvet hose passamented and trussed with silver and with his black satin doublet similarly decorated; he wore jewels presented to him by the Queen, and his great figure mounted on a fine horse had all the bearing of the King he was determined to become. His exultation was obvious.

The Queen could not resist looking out of a window of Holyrood to watch his departure. She felt there was no need to pray for his safety; he would look after himself; he was invincible.

The trial was conducted in a solemn manner, just as though it were a real trial. The lords considered the evidence brought forward by Lennox; they retired and after long discussion declared the verdict.

“James, Earl of Bothwell, is acquitted of any art and part of the slaughter of the King.”

Triumphantly he rode through the streets of Edinburgh. He galloped along the Canongate and shouted to the people: “People of Edinburgh, I have been acquitted of that of which I was accused. I have been pronounced guiltless. If there is any man among you who doubts that verdict to be a true one, let him come forward now. I challenge him to single combat. Let him fortify his accusations with the sword.”

People listened behind bolted doors; no one ventured forth, though there was scarcely a man or woman in Edinburgh who did not believe Bothwell to be the Kings murderer.

Up and down the streets he galloped, pausing now and then to call to his accusers to come out and fight with him. None came. And at length he returned to Holyroodhouse to tell the Queen that events were moving in their favor.

MARY’S LIFE was divided between periods of delirious joy and dreadful remorse. She was more passionately in love with him than ever. He was without hypocrisy, whatever other faults he might have. He would never pretend. He enjoyed their relationship; her passion was as fiercely demanding as his; he found great pleasure in their union, but he was less sentimental than she. She differed from other women in one respect as far as he was concerned; she had a crown to offer him. He would not have been the man he was if he could have hidden this fact. Mary knew it and it caused her many bitter tears.

Often after he had left her she would read through some of the sonnets she had written for him. There was one which described her feelings without reserve.

Pour luy aussi j’ay jette mainte larme,

Premier qu’il fust de ce corps possesseur,

Duquel alors il n’avoit pas le cœur….

She read it through again and again, thinking of the bitter tears she had shed for him. She read that line which was as true now as it had been when she had written it.

“Brief de vous seul je cherche alliance.”

Within a few days he decided he must go to see his wife.

“I must persuade her to the divorce,” he said.

“I hate your going to her!” she cried.

He laughed aloud. “I go to ask her to release me. What cause for jealousy is there in that?”

The only comfort she could find was in pouring out her thoughts in verses—verses which he would read and smile over before he locked them into his casket, there to lie forgotten.

But he did not go to see Jean then. He discovered that it would be unwise to leave Mary—not for love of her but because he feared that his enemies might capture her and keep her their prisoner. He talked instead to Jean’s brother, Huntley. Huntley, aware that Bothwell was the strongest power in the land, decided that it would be worth while setting aside a sister in order to share in that power.

The divorce must be speedy. Bothwell told Huntley that it could be brought about on the grounds of consanguinity as he and Jean were distantly connected.

It was impossible to silence the rumors. The Queen’s husband dead. Bothwell seeking to divorce his wife. The inference was obvious.

Great events were about to burst on Scotland. Danger lay ahead. This was certain, for the Earl of Moray had left Scotland for France. He wanted no part in what was about to take place; he only wanted to partake of any good which might come within his reach through the ruin of the Queen, which more than ever seemed to him inevitable.

BOTHWELL was triumphant. He had been the chief instigator of Darn-ley’s murder and had gone unpunished. His men swaggered through the streets clanging their bucklers and broadswords. They commanded the fortress. All the nobles were invited—or ordered—to take supper with Lord Bothwell at the Ainslie Tavern.

At the closing of the recent parliament he had carried the Queen’s crown and scepter for her, back to the palace. Now there was not a man among them who dared refuse his invitation, while there was not one who was completely easy in his mind.

The revelers were feasting and making merry in the tavern when they were suddenly aware that the inn was surrounded by Bothwell’s men who stood on guard at the doors.

Bothwell called to his guests: “My very good lords, I thank you for your company, and now that we are all together and you know me for your friend, I would know you for mine. I have a bond here and I shall ask you, one and all, to sign it.”

Only the Earl of Eglinton, who was sitting near a window which was unguarded, managed to slip away unnoticed. The others were caught, intensely aware of the armed men surrounding the inn.

Morton cried: “What is this bond, friend Bothwell?”

“I will read it to you.” Bothwell stood on a table and taking the scroll in his hand read aloud:

James, Earl of Bothwell, being calumniated by malicious reports and divers placards as art and part in the heinous murder of the King, has submitted to an assize, and been found innocent of the same by certain noblemen his peers and others barons of good reputation. We, the undersigned, oblige ourselves upon our faith and honor and truth of our bodies, will answer to God, that in case hereafter any manner of person shall happen to insist farther on the slander and calumniation of the said heinous murder we and our kin, friends and assisters, shall take true and plain part with him to the defense and maintenance of his quarrel with our bodies, heritage and goods. And as Her Majesty is now destitute of husband, in which solitary state the Commonweal cannot permit Her Highness to continue, if it should please her so far to humble herself by taking one of her own born subjects and marry the said Earl, we will maintain and fortify him against all who would hinder and disturb the said marriage. Under our hands and seals at Edinburgh this day of April the 19th, in the year 1567.

The lords were dumbfounded.

They had expected to be asked to stand beside him in the event of his accusers’ rising against him, but this proposed marriage with the Queen was a feat of daring which they had not expected, even from Bothwell.

They hesitated. They were aware of the men-at-arms outside. The ferocity of Bothwell’s men was well known. And here they were, caught in a trap, befuddled with wine, heavy with feasting.

Morton stepped forward and said: “It is true that Lord Bothwell was acquitted and therefore every man should stand beside him should he be attacked on this matter of the King’s death. I will give my signature to the bond. It is true that Her Majesty is left a widow and that for the good of this country she should marry. If Her Majesty should humble herself and take one of her born subjects and that should be the Earl we see before us, then I say that will be for Scotland’s good and I hereby sign the bond.”

Bothwell was taken aback. He had not expected such ready support from Morton.

One by one the lords came up to sign the bond. They knew they must do it or die. Bothwell would have no mercy.

While they were uneasy, Bothwell was triumphant. But there was one who was far from displeased by what he had witnessed in the tavern; he was sly Morton.

By God! he swore to himself, little do these oafs know when they reluctantly sign this bond that they are doing just what they would wish to do; they are signing Bothwell’s death warrant. And he, poor fool, is too drunk with ambition to know it. Should he marry the Queen they are both doomed. Such a marriage would expose them to the world as Darnley’s murderers. The most foolish step they could take at this point is to marry.

He decided he would send word at once to Moray. It would not be long before James Stuart would return to Scotland to take the Regency.

THREE WAS at least one other who agreed with Morton. This was Elizabeth of England. She herself had been in a similar position seven years ago when her lovers wife had been found mysteriously dead at the bottom of a staircase, and Elizabeth with her lover Robert Dudley had appeared to be guilty of the murder. Mary had a shining example of royal behavior in such a delicate situation. To marry Bothwell now would be to destroy herself, as to have married Dudley at the time of Amy Robsart’s death would have destroyed Elizabeth.

The Queen of England had no love for her Scottish rival but she had a strong desire to preserve the dignity of royalty. She wrote warningly to Mary, but her warning meant nothing to the Queen of Scots. The Queen of England was governed by ambition; the Queen of Scots by her emotions which were now concentrated on the passion she felt for one man. Her hand was in that of her lover, and if he were dragging her down to destruction, he was with her and nothing else seemed of any real importance.

ON A BRIGHT April day Mary set out for Stirling Castle in order to visit her son. She did so at the secret command of Bothwell. He himself had declared his intention of going to Liddesdale where fighting had broken out and his firm hand was needed.

She took with her a small retinue in which were included the lords Maitland and Huntley and Sir James Melville. As she rode out of Edinburgh the people came out to look at her. They were pleased that Bothwell had left the capital; Mary’s lovely tragic face softened the hearts of the people to such an extent that they could not believe her to be guilty of murder.

“God bless Your Grace!” called the citizens; but they added: “If you be innocent of the King’s murder.”

If she be innocent! Mary shuddered. What would she not give to be innocent? Everything she possessed but one thing—the love of Bothwell.

Lord Maitland, riding beside her, was filled with fury against her and Bothwell. He saw clearly now how Bothwell had duped the lords, how he had secured their help in the murder of Darnley—not to rid Scotland of an encumbrance, but to remove the Queens husband that he, Bothwell, might marry her.

That he should have been so used was galling to Maitland. He determined now that if Bothwell married the Queen they should never rule Scotland together. Maitland and Bothwell could never be anything but enemies.

Maitland had wished to serve the Queen. His wife was a very dear friend of the Queens. He had worked faithfully for her until that time when she had taken Rizzio into her confidence and set him above Maitland. Now he saw that he had, with others, been Bothwell’s dupe, and he was determined that he would never accept that man’s domination.

Huntley looked sly. Maitland wondered what plans he had made with Bothwell, and as Bothwell was his brother-in-law, Maitland could guess. Bothwell would need Huntley’s help if he were to break free from his wife.

Maitland must be on his guard. He had seen too much; he had been too clever. Bothwell, who had so cleverly rid the Queen and himself of Darnley, would have little compunction in being equally ruthless with others who threatened their schemes.

These were uneasy thoughts for Maitland on the road from Edinburgh to Stirling.

The Earl and Countess of Mar, who were the guardians of the little Prince, greeted the Queen with suspicion. News had traveled and they knew of the paper Bothwell had more or less forced the lords to sign. It occurred to Mar that it might be the plan of the Queen and her lover to kidnap the Prince. Mar was not going to lose his precious charge, and he made that quite clear.

Mary held the baby in her arms. He was ten months old, a solemn-faced, wise-looking little boy. He gazed with wonderment at his mother and she, smiling, let his little hand curl about her finger. He was placidly curious as she covered his face with kisses.

If she could take him away with her, live quietly in a nunnery with him, perhaps she would in time forget that she had any desire but to care for him. But such would never be allowed. Already the Earl of Mar was watching her suspiciously; insistent hands were stretched forward to take the baby from her. She was not allowed to be alone in the nursery.

“I am sorry, Madam,” said the Earl. “The Prince has been accorded to my care and I have sworn to watch over him, night and day.”

“Even when he is with his mother?”

“At all times, Madam.”

So this was the state to which she was reduced—a mother who might not be alone with her child! She told herself fiercely: Soon it will be different. When I marry, my husband will stand beside me and there shall not be a lord in Scotland who dares treat me thus.

They left Stirling on the third day. Her spirits were high, for she had always been happy in the saddle and she knew what was waiting for her on the road.

It was arranged between them. He would be there… towering above all men, striking terror into her escort, seizing her person, taking her as his prisoner to Dunbar, and there boldly—as the world would think—forcing her to submit to him. All would be well, for her future was in his hands.

But as they came nearer to Edinburgh she grew uneasy. He should have appeared before this. They were within a mile of Edinburgh Castle itself and unless he arrived almost immediately their plan would miscarry. But he did not disappoint her. She heard the sound of horses’ hoofs pounding on the quiet earth as she rode into Foulbriggs, the small hamlet between Coltbridge and West Port; and as she was about to cross the foul stream—from which the place took its name and which was swollen with the filth from the city—Bothwell’s strong force came into view. Blades gleaming, pikes aloft, they surrounded the Queen’s small company. Bothwell rode up to her.

“What means this?” she asked.

“Madam,” said her lover. “I must ask you to turn your horse and ride with me to Dunbar. You are my prisoner; but have no fear. No harm shall come to you if you obey.”

A young captain rode forward and prepared to do battle with Bothwell for the sake of the Queen.

“Put your sword away, my friend,” said the Queen. “I command you to do so.”

“I’ll take care of the young fool,” growled Bothwell.

“There shall be no bloodshed,” said the Queen.

The young soldier turned to Mary, his eyes alight with that devoted admiration which she so often inspired. “Madam, I would die to save you.”

She smiled, and her smile was her answer. The young man knew that she was by no means disturbed by this adventure, that she was Bothwell’s very willing prisoner.

Maitland cried: “What means this?”

Bothwell flashed a brilliant smile in his direction. “Patience, my lord Maitland. Soon you will know.”

He then dismissed most of her retinue, but kept Lord Maitland, Lord Huntley and Sir James Melville with him; and the journey to Dunbar began.

The Queen rode ahead and Bothwell was beside her.

MARY WAITED in the apartment at Dunbar Castle which had been prepared for her.

Soon he would join her. She could close her eyes and imagine that she was in the Exchequer House on that evening before it all began. It would be just like that. They would enact that scene once again, and the whole world should believe that it was the first time it had taken place.

Bothwell would stand exposed to the world as the Queens ravisher, and as his innocent victim she would declare that she must marry him. As for the unborn child—that would have to be explained later. It was imperative that she marry hastily, that the whole world should not be too shocked by her marriage, and that suspicions that she had been an accomplice in her husbands murder should be allayed.

It was a desperate scheme but their position was desperate. When she had glanced at his stern profile as he rode beside her from Foulbriggs to Dunbar Castle, she had reveled in his strength, in that power within him. How willingly would she surrender! How happily she waited for her ravisher!

In a room below, Melville was remonstrating with Bothwell. Maitland stood aloof; he knew too much. He understood that the Queen and Both-well were already lovers. He knew that this was just another bridge which they had to cross together.

Melville said: “Bothwell, know you not that this is treason? You are unlawfully detaining the Queen. For what purpose?”

“I shall marry the Queen,” said Bothwell.

“She will never consent,” said Melville.

“I will marry her whether she will or not. And it may be that by the time I release her from this castle she will be willing enough.”

Melville was aghast at the implication of those words.

Bothwell laughed and went to the Queen’s apartment.

Melville turned to Maitland. How could Maitland appear so calm? Had he not heard Bothwell express his intention to ravish the Queen?

Maitland’s smile was cynical. Should they be perturbed, it implied, because what was about to take place would be but a repetition of what had been happening for several months?

Maitland shrugged his shoulders. He was concerned with preserving his own life. He was secretly convinced that if he could keep alive for a few more weeks, he need never fear Bothwell again… nor the Queen.

BOTHWELL came to the Queen’s apartment and he stood on the threshold of the room, smiling at her as he had smiled in the Exchequer House.

She cried out in feigned alarm: “My lord… what means this?”

He smiled. As though she did not know! But he enjoyed the masquerade as much as she did. Of late she had perhaps been overeager, and a certain amount of resistance had always appealed to him.

So she protested but her heart was not in the protest, and she was glad when she could surrender freely to his passion.

For twelve days he kept her at Dunbar Castle—his passionate mistress and his most willing slave.

AT THE END of that time the Queen was escorted back to Edinburgh. She rode into the city with Bothwell beside her, he holding her horse’s bridle that the city might know that she was his captive.

Maitland was with them, plans forming in his clever mind. They would marry—those two foolish people—and they would ruin themselves. Morton was already in secret touch with Moray. The country was going to be roused against the King’s murderers; and the hasty marriage, the threadbare plot of abduction and seduction would be seen through; the Queen would have none but Bothwell to stand beside her. When she took Bothwell she would lose all else.