Виктория Холт - Royal Road to Fotheringhay

Mary said: “Heed him not. I would have you think of the child.”

“Yes, Madam,” said Erskine.

Darnley shouted: “Then tarry and be murdered. I’ll not.”

And with that he whipped up his horse and went ahead with all speed, so that soon he was lost to sight.

Mary felt the tears smarting in her eyes, but they were tears of shame for the man she had married. She was not afraid anymore. In moments such as this one, when she was threatened with imminent danger, she felt a noble courage rise within her. It was at such times that she felt herself to be a queen in very truth. She had duped Darnley; she had lured him to desert her enemies. She had foiled the plots of Moray and the scheming Morton. Once again, she believed, she had saved her crown.

Oh, but the humiliation of owning that foolish boy for a husband! For that she could die of shame. He was not only a fool; he was a coward.

How she wished that he could have been a strong man, a brave man on whom she could rely. Then she would not have cared what misfortunes befell them; they would have faced them and conquered them together.

After many hours in the saddle, just as the dawn was breaking, Erskine called to her that they could not be far from the safety of Dunbar Castle.

A short while after, he told her that he saw riders. Mary raised her weary eyelids. One man had ridden ahead of the rest. He brought his horse alongside that which carried the Queen. She looked with relief and admiration at this man who reminded her, by the very contrast, of the husband whom she despised.

She greeted him: “I was never more glad to see you, Lord Bothwell.”

THE JUNE NIGHT WAS HOT AND THE QUEEN LAY TOSSING on her bed. She had suffered much during the last months, but now her greatest ordeal was upon her.

Her women were waiting now, and she knew that they did not expect her to leave her bed alive.

She was weary. Since the death of David she had become increasingly aware of the villainies of those about her; she could put no great trust in anyone. Even now, in the agony of a woman in childbirth who has suffered a painful pregnancy, she could not dismiss from her mind the thought of those hard, relentless men. Ruthven was dead; he had died in exile; but his son would be a troublemaker like his father. Morton, Lindsay, George Douglas, Boyd, Argyle were all traitors. Moray, her own brother, she knew, had been privy to the plot, and the plot had been not only to murder David Rizzio, but to destroy her. Maitland of Lethington—her finest statesman, a man whose services she needed, a man who had always shown a gentle courtesy which she had not often received from others—was of doubtful loyalty. He had fled to the Highlands with Atholl—surely a proof that he was not without guilt.

These men were dangerous, but there was one, the thought of whom depressed her so much that she felt she would welcome death. Why had she married Darnley whom she was beginning to hate more than she had believed it was possible to hate anyone?

He was loyal to nobody. He betrayed all those with whom he had worked against David. Now he was in a state of torment lest she pardon those lords who were in exile and they return to take their revenge on one who had turned informer. He sulked and raged in turn; he whimpered and blustered; he cringed and demanded his rights. She could not bear him near her.

It was an unhealthy state of affairs. It was true that with the followers mustered by Huntley and Bothwell she had returned triumphant to Edinburgh, and the lords responsible for Rizzio’s murder—with the exception of Moray who, she must feign to believe, was innocent of complicity—had all hastened to hide themselves. Some minor conspirators had been hanged, drawn and quartered—a proceeding which she deplored for its injustice, but which she was powerless to prevent. Bothwell was in command and, although he was the bravest man in Scotland, as a statesman he could not measure up to Maitland or Moray.

So she made her will and thought of death without any great regret.

She had failed; she saw that now. If only she could go back one year; if only she could go back to the July day when she had walked into the chapel at Holyroodhouse and joined her future fortunes with those of Darnley! How differently she would act and how different her life might consequently be!

She would have come to understand that she could have rallied her people to her and deprived her brother of his power. She had to be strong, but there was this terrible burden to hinder her; she had married the most despicable man in Scotland and he had all but ruined her.

But now the pains were on her and it was as though a curtain was drawn, shutting out those grim faces which tormented her; but the curtain was made of pain.

Between bouts of pain she noticed that her dear ones were about her. There was Beaton who suffered with her. Poor Beaton! Thomas Randolph had been sent back to England in disgrace, for he had been discovered to be trafficking with the rebels and exposed—not only as a spy for his mistress, which was understandable—but as one who worked against the Queen with her Scottish enemies. Poor Beaton! thought Mary. Like myself she is unlucky where she has placed her affections. There was dear Flem on the other side of her—heartbroken because Maitland had fled from the Court. Sempill was in disgrace and dearest Livy was with him.

But for the murder of David they would all be happy. And but for Darnley’s treachery David would be alive now.

I hate the father of this child! reflected Mary. Evil things are said of me. There is doubtless whispering in the corridors now. Who is the father of the Prince or Princess who is about to be born—Darnley or David? Who is it—the King or the secretary? That was what people were asking one another.

Darnley might be with them when they whispered, and it would depend on his mood of the moment whether he defended or defamed her.

Why did I marry such a man? she asked herself. Now that I am near dying I know that I can only wish to live if he should be taken from me.

Beaton was putting a cup to her lips.

“Beaton—” began Mary.

“Do not speak, dearest,” said Beaton. “It exhausts you. Save your strength for the child.”

Save your strength for the child! Do not fritter away your strength in hating the child’s father.

There came to her then that strength which never failed her in moments of peril. She battled her way through pain.

At last, from what seemed far away, she heard the cry of a child.

Mary Beaton was excitedly running from the apartment crying: “It is over. All is well. The Queen is delivered of a fair son.”

HER SON WAS BORN—that child who, she prayed, would unite her tortured land with the kingdom beyond the Border; for she knew that there could be no real peace between them until they were joined as one country under one sovereign. Her kingdom must be held for him as well as for herself.

There was one thing she must make sure of immediately. It should not be said that this little James Stuart was a bastard. Rumors of bastardy meant trouble in the life of a would-be king.

Already she had noticed the scrutiny of those who studied the baby. She saw the faint twitch of the lips, the appraising gaze. Now who does he resemble? Is it Darnley? Are his eyes particularly large? I wonder if he will be a skilled musician.

Her first task was not a pleasant one. She must feign friendship with her husband. She must not allow him to pour poison into people’s ears, for he would do that even though it was clear that by so doing he injured himself.

She called Darnley to her in the presence of all the people who crowded the chamber and said in a loud voice: “My lord, you have come to see our child. Look into his bonny face. God has blessed you and me with a son, and this son is begotten by none but you.”