Текст книги "Queen of This Realm"
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
Соавторы: Jean Plaidy
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EVENTS IN SCOTLAND NOW BEGAN TO ASTOUND US. IT seemed that Mary could not be anywhere without raising a storm; she must always be at the center of great events. I had been amused to discover that she had quickly realized the nature of the man she had so romantically married. Lord Darnley was dissolute, unfaithful and a heavy drinker, and as soon as she had fondly but foolishly proclaimed him King of Scotland he made no attempt to hide his true nature. His behavior was despicable. He became involved in street brawls, picked quarrels with all those who dared contradict him and took every advantage of Mary's devotion to him. That devotion very naturally soon began to fade and she must have seen him in a very different light—seen what to me had been obvious from the start—the weakness of those sensuous lips, the blankness behind the pretty eyes. What a fool Mary was! She made me realize more than ever that I had been wise “to suffer no commander,” as her Ambassador had put it.
In one thing she had succeeded. She had quickly become pregnant. Cecil brought me the news with something like reproach in his eyes, but I reminded him that Mary had been foolish to marry Darnley when she might have had the Earl of Leicester. To which Cecil replied: “Your Majesty knows that Leicester would never have been allowed to leave your Court. You cannot let him stay in Kenilworth long without recalling him.”
“Robert would never have gone,” I said with a smile, “so we waste time, Master Cecil, in discussing what can never be now. So… she is with child. That will please the people of Scotland, doubtless. But it is another little claimant to our throne.”
“The Queen of Scots appears to be distressed by her husband's drunken frolics and his numerous infidelities. Doubtless the child will console her.”
There were rumors about her Italian secretary, David Rizzio, an excellent musician of whom she was said to be inordinately fond. I could imagine that this Italian was a charming relief from the dissolute Darnley; and Mary was noted for gathering about her poets and musicians. I supposed she was trying to bring something of the French Court into that of Scotland. The contrast must be very depressing for her.
There had already been some scandal about a young French poet, Pierre de Chastelard, who had escorted her when she had first arrived in Scotland and returned to France to be sent back by Catherine de' Medici, probably to spy for her, as that wily woman would not have sent a charming young man merely for the purpose of diverting her daughter-in-law.
We had heard that Chastelard and David le Chante, as she called Rizzio, were constantly in her company. Chastelard was said to be the Queen's lover and had even been discovered hiding in her bedchamber, though I have to say that it was Mary and her ladies who found him there and raised the alarm; but as I said he could not have been hopefully hiding there unless he had had some encouragement.
The sequel of that little escapade was that Chastelard was obliged to place his head on the block in the marketplace of St Andrew's where he died bravely, poor young man, quoting Ronsard's Hymn to Death as he did so.
“Je te salue, heureuse et profitable Mort…”
It was brave to die with such words on one's lips. Poor young songster, his death had not enhanced his mistress's reputation.
But there were even more dramatic events to follow. I often wondered whether Rizzio was in truth Mary's lover. That she had a weakness where men were concerned seemed clear, for she had smothered Darnley with affection before they married. I think she must have been a deeply sensuous woman and as Darnley clearly no longer pleased her, it might have been that she turned to the Italian for more than music.
So he was doomed. I heard many versions of that terrible night's happenings and in my mind I can see it clearly. Saturday night in Holyrood House. Outside the March winds buffeting the castle walls and the Queen in her sixth month of pregnancy. She was not feeling well enough to meet a great many people so she was taking supper quietly in a small room with a few of her intimates, her bastard brother and sister, Robert Stuart and Lady Jane, Countess of Argyle, among them. Her father, James V, although he had only one legitimate daughter had been very energetic outside his marriage bed. The doctor had advised Mary not to overtax her strength but to live quietly and eat red meat which explains why it was being served in Lent. The Laird of Creech, her Master of the Household, was there with her equerry and doctor. I asked for these details as I wanted to set the scene in my mind. And there was of course that other who was rarely absent from the Queen's side—David Rizzio. He was in a rich damask gown trimmed with fur, satin doublet and russet velvet hose, with a fine ruby at his neck. This was mentioned because they were all gifts from the Queen; and those who wished to vilify her noted these matters.
David was playing, singing and entertaining the company with his especial gifts as he had done so many times before. Suddenly this peaceful scene was disturbed by the appearance of Darnley who came in by way of the door to the private staircase. He had clearly been drinking too much, and went straight to the Queen and slumped down beside her. I could imagine the quick change in the atmosphere. Darnley was often noisily quarrelsome, so the company would have waited uneasily for his voice to be raised in a quarrel with the Queen.
But it did not happen like that this time, for almost immediately through the door of the private staircase came a man in armor. He looked like a ghost they said, or some harbinger of evil, which indeed he was. It was Lord Ruthven who, although he was on his sick-bed and near to death, stood there looking as though he had just risen from the grave.
What a vividly macabre scene that must have been. When it was related to me I shivered at the horror of it. In those few seconds the company must have thought they were looking at Ruthven's ghost. Then from behind him came others—men whose names had often passed between Cecil and myself when we discussed what our policy would be with the troublesome Scots– Morton, Kerr, Lindsay.
Ruthven, speaking in a deep voice, told David to come outside, for there were those who wished to speak to him.
The poor little Italian musician knew it was his blood they were after, and like a frightened child he turned shuddering to the Queen, who had grown pale and looked as though she would faint; he clung to her skirts crying: “No! No!”
What could that avail him? How had she felt, I wondered when she saw them drag him from her and plunge their daggers into that poor quivering body?
It would have seemed in that moment that they were not only going to kill Rizzio but herself also. Poor woman, heavily pregnant amongst those barbarous men!
They said she cried out: “Davie, Davie… They are killing you. They are killing us both. Is this the way to treat your Queen?”
But that crude man Kerr took her by the arms and forced her to be quiet or he would as he said inelegantly: “Cut her into collops.”
Apparently she fainted then which I should think was the best thing she could have done in the circumstances.
I loathed the Scots more than ever. Mary was foolish and I had no doubt they resented having a woman as their Queen—the crude ungallant loathsome creatures! How dared they behave so to royalty!
When she came to consciousness she was alone with Darnley and, realizing what had happened, upbraided him, calling him murderer…murderer of Rizzio and possibly of her unborn child. He accused her of familiarity with Rizzio and preferring the musician's company to his own. The last, I should have thought from what I knew, was to be expected.
They took her to her apartments where she was more or less a prisoner and sent for a midwife because it seemed she would give birth prematurely. Darnley was with her during the night and because of this her chamber was left unguarded. What fools they were! They trusted Darnley. He was a very weak man and Mary must have had some sway, for she persuaded him to creep out of the palace and fly with her, and together they rode through the night to Dunbar Castle where one of the nobles, Lord Bothwell, and some of his followers were waiting for her.
That terrible night was over and she was free from Rizzio's murderers. But in what an unhappy state she was! Poor Mary, much as I liked to see her discomfited after her arrogant claims to my throne, still I was sorry for her. And I was all eagerness to hear further news from Scotland.
WE WERE AT Greenwich that June. It was one of my favorite palaces—I suppose because I had been born in it. The fields always seemed greener there than anywhere else, the trees more luxuriant. The Romans had called it Grenovicum and the Saxons Grenawic—so it was the Green Town to them too. There had been a palace there in the reign of my ancestor Edward III but it was not until later in the reign of Henry VI that the castle was embellished and added to. Now it was a most delightful spot.
The Court was in a merry mood and festivities were planned for the evenings—often al fresco as it was June and the weather was fine.
The evening was wearing on. We had partaken of supper; the musicians were playing and the dancing had begun. Robert and I were dancing together when I perceived Sir James Melville making his way toward me.
I knew that he had news of Scotland and I immediately stopped dancing. He came to me and whispered in my ear: “The Queen of Scotland has given birth to a boy.”
My emotions were so strong that I could not restrain them. So … after all those fearful scenes, after witnessing the murder of her favorite, after riding through the night to Dunbar, she had successfully produced a son. I had been certain that she would fail in that.
All I could think of now was that she had succeeded and her success seemed an indication of my failure.
Two of my ladies, Magdalene Dacres and Jane Dormer, hastened to my side. Robert was looking at me in dismay.
“What ails Your Majesty?” asked Robert.
I said: “The Queen of Scots is lighter of a fair son and I am but a barren stock.”
Robert took my hand and pressed it firmly, warning me not to show my chagrin. And of course he was right.
I assumed an air of great pleasure and I declared to the company that we must rejoice in my sister of Scotland's wonderful recovery from the ills which had beset her.
And I was thinking: A son! It would strengthen her claim. That miserable matter of the succession would be raised again and I should be harried either to marry and get a child or name my successor.
Later I saw Cecil who advised me to assume an air of pleasure and to hide any disquiet I might be feeling at the birth of an heir to the Scottish throne which he understood and shared.
I received Melville formally and after expressing great pleasure at the news, I asked, with some concern, after the health of the Queen.
“I have been feeling unwell these last fifteen days,” I told him, “but this news has made me feel well again.”
Perhaps that was too fulsome, and Melville was too shrewd not to understand that my joy was feigned; but in these matters it is what one says which is repeated; one's thoughts remain one's own, and there can only be conjecture as to what they are.
He replied in the same vein of diplomatic falsehood: “My Queen knows that of all her friends you will be the most glad of her news. She told me to tell you that her son was dearly bought with peril of her life and that she has been so sorely handled in the meantime that she wished she had never married.”
I nodded solemnly. “The Queen has suffered cruelly and come through bravely, but so great must be her joy in this fair son that I am sure in her heart she can regret nothing that has brought him to her.”
“The Queen of Scots dearly wishes that she could see you at the christening of this boy.”
“What a joy that would be, and how I wish that my affairs might permit it! I shall send honorable ladies and gentlemen to represent me.”
It was a very amicable meeting and nothing I had said could possibly offend Mary.
Accordingly I sent the Earl of Bedford to represent me at the christening, taking with him a splendid gift from me. It was a font made all of gold and worth one thousand pounds.
“It may well be that by this time the young Prince has overgrown it,” I said jocularly. “If so, the Queen can keep it for the next.”
I appointed the Countess of Argyle, Mary's half-sister, to be my proxy, and ordered my Ambassador up there to make sure that it was known that I did not accept Lord Darnley as King of Scotland.
This so incensed Darnley that in a fit of petulance he declined to attend the baptism of his own son. I doubt anyone mourned that.
The little boy was christened Charles James but for some reason the Charles was dropped and he was always known as James—I suppose this must have been because there was a line of King Jameses in Scotland.
So Mary had her son and my Council was growing more and more restive because I had no child and it seemed likely that I never would have. The birth of little James had certainly stirred them to further action, for when next the Parliament met all parties counseled me either to marry immediately or name my successor.
These were the two subjects which I disliked most. I did not want to marry. I had made that clear enough; I would not be dominated—or put myself in a position to be—by any man. And to name one's successor was always a dangerous step to take, because in one's lifetime people started to look to that successor; there would be comparisons, and what is to come often seems more desirable than what is. Unless it is one's own child, there is certain to be trouble. So I stood out against the Parliament.
“You attend to your duties,” I told them, “and I will attend to mine.”
But they would not be silenced. They said that it was a grave matter and many of them recalled the time when I had suffered from the smallpox and had indeed been near to death and in what confusion the country had been thrown.
“I have no intention of allowing my grave to be dug while I am still alive,” I said, “nor of being bullied by hare-brained politicians who are unfit to decide these matters.”
However they would not give in and declared that if I would not marry, I must name my successor, and that only a weak princess and faint-hearted woman would fail to do so.
I was furious, but I knew this was what the people wanted, and there was one thing which I always understood: a monarch only reigns through the good will of the people. I was in a quandary, but I knew most certainly that to marry would curtail my power and to name my successor could give rise to plots against me.
They continued adamant and as I needed an extra subsidy they declared that this would only be given me if I named my successor.
Cecil understood my reasoning and I think, in his heart, agreed with me. I looked to him for help and, calling together five counselors with him, I told them that my only wish was to serve my subjects and to keep them living in prosperity and peace. As for the subsidy, half of what had been asked would suffice, for I believed that money in my subjects' pockets was as good as that in the exchequer.
I was able to persuade them that I must have this money and that it was a matter apart from the succession; and when they agreed that I should have the money without committing myself I was overjoyed and saw that by choosing my words carefully I had won a victory. But I was put out by the plain speaking of the Parliament. They would never have dared talk to my father in that way. I modeled myself on him for he had ruled with a strong hand, but in spite of his ruthlessness he had retained a hold on his subjects' affections to the end of his life.
I dismissed Parliament with a speech telling them I did not like their dissimulation when I myself was all plainness. Indeed, they might have chosen a more learned prince to rule over them but one more careful of their welfare they could not have; and I bade them beware of trying my patience again as they had recently done.
There were other troubles besides the intransigence of the Parliament.
Robert and Sussex had been enemies for a long time. In fact, almost every head of a great family was Robert's enemy. Of course he was becoming one of the richest men in the country and had made Kenilworth the finest castle. Moreover, he still believed—and so did others—that in due course I would marry him and his power would be complete.
But while I still refused to give him a share of the crown he coveted, there would still be those who would attempt to overthrow him.
The feud between Sussex and Robert became so intense that neither of them could go out without an armed guard escorting him. I threatened them and I lived in terror that something would happen to Robert. He laughed at my fears. It was Sussex I should be worried about, he said. I knew there was nothing I could do except stop their open animosity.
Meanwhile I traveled frequently. I liked to show myself to the people and they liked it too. They wanted to think of the Queen as a warm-hearted human woman, not a remote figurehead as my sister had been. When I traveled they would come from their houses to speak to me and bring me flowers and tokens of their regard and when they brought them to me I always chatted with them to show my pleasure in their gifts, asked after their health and made much of the children whom they brought to me. This was no falseness, for I loved my people; I loved children; and I took as much trouble over studying what they wanted of me as I did over state matters. They were in any case a state affair, and even more vital than those I discussed with my Council.
Recently Robert had been elected Chancellor of the University of Oxford and as I had promised to visit the University, the fact that Robert would arrange my reception and be there to greet me made me doubly anxious to go.
Robert met me at Walvicote with a deputation from the colleges. They looked very splendid in their scarlet gowns and hoods. There was one incident which made Robert smile and that was when Dr Humphreys greeted me. He was a stern puritan and like all such people of extreme views was of the impression that he was right and anyone who did not agree with him entirely was wrong. I hated extremes from both sides and I did not think they made a happy country, so I let him know what I thought, for I was never one to hold back the mild reproach—unless of course it would be detrimental to me. So I said to him: “Mr Doctor, your loose gown becomes you well. I wonder your notions are so narrow.” He was taken aback, but I smiled at him with friendliness, though I hoped he would consider what I had said.
It was particularly delightful to meet the young scholars who knelt and cried: “Vivat Regina!” to which I replied: Gratius ego; and when I addressed them it was in Greek. Knowing my love of plays they performed one for me… half of it on one night, the second half on the other, so long was it.
There was a tragedy on the first night when a wall and part of a staircase on one of the buildings collapsed and three people were killed. However, the play was performed, and it was very pleasant to watch particularly in the second half when some of the cast had to imitate the cry of hounds in full pursuit of a fox and the young spectators became so excited that they jumped up and down and called out that the fox had been caught.
This amused me very much and set us all laughing.
I was equally amused on the next day at St Mary's Church whither I had gone to hear the preaching of a Dr Westphaling. The good man went on speaking for so long and all—including myself—were extremely bored with his discourse, so I sent a message up to him to curtail it without delay. To my fury he ignored my request and went on and on. As I myself was to speak afterward I was getting really angry for I did not want to have a sleepy audience.
So long did the man continue that there was no time for me to speak that evening and I sent for Dr Westphaling. The man came to me somewhat shamefaced and I demanded to know why he had continued to tire us all when I had sent him a command to stop.
He replied with much humility, I must admit, that having learned his speech off by heart, he could not stop for fear of losing the place and he thought that if he cut out the middle he would never be able to find the end.
This so amused me that I couldn't help laughing, so even the tedious Dr Westphaling added something to our enjoyment.
The next day I addressed the company in Latin and when I saw Cecil standing there, for they all must stand when I addressed them, I stopped my discourse and commanded a stool be brought for him. “I know your leg gives you pain, Master Cecil,” I said, “and I will not have you stand in discomfort.”
Cecil was grateful and the whole company was impressed by my thoughtfulness; and I hoped that Dr Westphaling saw that I was quite able to stop my discourse and still not lose the thread.
It was a very successful visit to Oxford as everything arranged by Robert would be. He loved devising and planning and caring for me; and I was more anxious than ever that someone might do him an injury.
I said he was good at arranging matters, but there was one thing he tried to arrange with a certain Dr Dee and failed. We laughed at it together—but that was later. There was always laughter when Robert was near; even his arrogance and impertinence amused me, as he did when he tried to wriggle out of his difficulties and he could charm me even when he displeased me.
I had always been intrigued by magic, and the wizard Dr Dee interested me. Many people said that he was a quack and I knew his predictions were not always correct, but they were sometimes, and I believed that the future was arranged for us although we were free to avert disaster and gain advantages. When I look back over my life and see the many dangers through which I have passed, to only a few of them could I attribute good fortune. I saw that cautious planning had saved me on many occasions.
But it was exciting to try to see into the future and Dr Dee was a good friend of mine. If I hinted to him that I wished someone to act in a certain way he would often be able to bring it about. He could suggest to them that some danger was looming, some good coming to them if they did this and that. Yes, he was a good friend and a handy man to have around; and if one did not entirely believe in him, it was advisable to make a show of doing so for how could I be sure when I would want him to delude someone into thinking that he or she should take the doctor's advice.
When I was traveling in the area of Mortlake I called on him for he had a residence in that part. He had buried his wife only that morning and I thought my visit might cheer him. I would not let him entertain me as he must be mourning his wife, but I took a look into his interesting library where he had many volumes, globes and strange-looking objects. Among these was the magic mirror into which one could look and sometimes, if the time was right, see something of the future.
Robert looked over my shoulder as I gazed into the mirror so that his face was reflected there. I laughed aloud and then I saw Robert exchange looks with Dr Dee and I guessed he had tried to arrange with the doctor to show me his picture when I looked in the mirror.
Dr Dee said I should have eternal youth and boundless wealth as soon as he had discovered the elixir of life which he was on the point of doing.
It was all very interesting and though I did not believe half of it, it amused me in a way and comforted me too. Perhaps like most people I believed what I wanted to believe—which can be a wonderful antidote to the sorrows of life. On the other hand if one would be wise, one must know when one is doing it and perhaps allow oneself the indulgence as long as one recognizes it for what it is. The great secret of success in life, I was coming to believe, was self-awareness; and I was fortunate in having those two selves—the wise and the frivolous—and to know when one must give way to the other.
I fancied this was something which my sister of Scotland was lacking.
That was very soon to be proved true.
IT WAS HARD to believe that we were hearing the truth. Surely even Mary could not be so stupid.
Rumor was rife, and wild rumor at that. Bothwell was Mary's lover. There was even a tale of his having raped her in the Exchequer House in Edinburgh. I thought about that a great deal imagining her horror—or was it delight?—to be so subdued by the man who, according to all accounts, was something of a brigand and in complete contrast, I should imagine, to young ineffectual Darnley.
There followed the story of that mysterious night in Kirk o' Field when Darnley had been murdered. I could scarcely wait for the news. My messengers from Scotland were ordered to bring me any news immediately. I wanted to piece together the evidence. I desperately desired to know everything that was happening. I could not help being reminded of the death of Amy Robsart. She had been an unwanted wife; Darnley was an unwanted husband; and a bold lover was seeking to take possession of a wife and a crown.
Oh Mary, I thought, you are in acute danger. Do you realize that? I did, when something similar happened to me.
There was a difference. This was proved murder. Nobody could say that of Amy's death.
There had been an explosion which had clearly been intended to kill Darnley but when the premises had been searched the bodies of Darnley and his servant were found in the garden in their nightgowns. They were untouched by the explosion yet… mysteriously dead.
There could only be one explanation. The two men had been murdered and the explosion arranged to hide the crime.
This it had failed to do. Villainy was exposed.
And who wanted to be rid of Darnley? Who but the Queen and her lover Bothwell?
More news came.
Bothwell riding through the streets of Edinburgh, brandishing his sword, calling on any who accused him to come out and he would tackle them single-handed. He must have been a magnificent man for all his crudity and villainy.
He was tried for murder, but of course it had been arranged that he should not be found guilty, and the verdict should be: “James, Earl of Bothwell, is acquitted of any art or part in the slaughter of the King.”
And there he was riding through the streets of Edinburgh once more shouting to the people of Edinburgh to come out and tackle him if any thought it was not a true and just verdict.
Who could have doubted that it was unjust, but who would have the courage to come out and say so?
You are in mortal danger now, Mary, I thought. Did she ever think of me and wonder what my feelings had been when Robert's wife was found dead at the bottom of a staircase? If she did not, she was a fool. She should remember how I had acted and see that her only chance was to be as aloof, calm and wise as I, now very forcibly, realized I had been. But when had Mary ever been calm or wise or strong?
She threw away her hopes, her life, her crown most likely when she married James Bothwell.
It was not even as though he had been free. He was married to a virtuous lady and it was necessary for him to obtain a divorce before he could marry Mary.
How could Mary have been so foolish! But then her life had been so comfortable during her youth she had never faced death as I had… many times. She had never had to learn how to dissimulate, to act with the utmost caution, to cajole, to pretend, to survive. She had had none of those lessons for which I now thanked God, much as I had suffered when I was learning them.
But Bothwell naturally had his divorce and she married him; and the whole world—the world of adulterers, poisoners and ruthless schemers– held up its hands in horror at the actions of this poor, simple and too loving woman.
Her family, the Guises, were horrified and scarcely owned her; Catherine de' Medici declared in public that she was too shocked to give expression to her thoughts although, of course, had she done so truthfully she would have told of her delight in the fall of the girl whom she had hated and driven from France; Philip of Spain was contemptuously silent. I alone felt pity, perhaps because something not dissimilar could have happened to me.
And this was the woman, this poor weak foolish woman, who would be Queen of England!
Little James was taken from her and given into the care of the Earl and Countess of Marr; and the Queen must ride beside Bothwell to stand against those who came to depose her.
There was the disaster of Carberry Hill, and I wondered how much she grieved to fight against her own subjects.
I could picture her, though nothing so humiliating had ever happened to me. Whatever I had suffered, I had always had the sympathy of the people. I do believe that if I had lost that I should have lost heart. But Mary deserved their scorn. Had she regretted her submission to Bothwell, her abandoning of her self-respect: her placing herself under the domination of such a man, as she rode into Edinburgh with the mob screaming abuse at her? “Burn the whore!” they had shouted. “Death to the murderess!”
I could imagine her dirty and disheveled. Was that beauty, of which the poets had sung, apparent then?
So they had kept her in the Provost's House while through the night the mob screamed outside. I could see their cruel faces in the red glow of the torches and Mary there cringing, mourning the glory she had lost.
And so she became their prisoner. Lochleven first, where she charmed the suceptible young Douglas sufficiently for him to help her escape.
She had some loyal subjects—enough to enable her to go into battle at Langside against her enemies, to be followed by what seemed inevitable defeat. Mary was put to flight once more and knowing that at that time Scotland was no place for her unless she wanted to go back into captivity, she made her decision which, characteristically, was an unwise one … though I had no reason to complain of this!
