Виктория Холт - Royal Road to Fotheringhay

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.