Виктория Холт - Royal Road to Fotheringhay

This caused a slight hitch. Bothwell had a reputation as a murderer, and all Scotland knew that he was an adulterer, but the whole world, including the fanatical Philip in his Escorial, sly Catherine de Médicis in the Louvre, subtle Elizabeth in Greenwich, would now see him brought low through his wife’s allegations. Jean was determined to have her revenge for the slights she had suffered. She named Bessie Crawford, the daughter of a blacksmith, as the partner in Bothwell’s adultery.

The scandals grew. The story of Bothwell and Bessie became common knowledge. A Haddington merchant explained how he had one afternoon, on the instructions of Lord Bothwell, taken Bessie to the cloisters of Haddington Abbey; there he had locked her in and given the key—on Lord Bothwell’s instructions—to his lordship. There Bessie and the Earl had remained together for a considerable time.

Is this the man who would be King of Scotland? people were asking each other. There were many ready to pry into the affairs of Bessie Crawford and Lord Bothwell and ensure that the whole world should know of them.

His enemies were already at work, but the bold Earl cared nothing for this. What mattered it how the divorce was brought about as long as his marriage with Jean was severed? He had the lords’ consent on a document; he was free; Mary was free; and they would wait no longer.

John Craig, the preacher who had taken Knox’s place in the Kirk when the latter, after the murder of Rizzio, had thought it wise to go to England and remain there, was loath to publish the banns.

Bothwell threatened him, but the man stood his ground. He begged the Earl to consider the Church’s law against adultery and ravishment; he warned him of the likely suspicion of collusion between Bothwell and his wife, the too sudden divorce and above all, his and Mary’s complicity in Darnley’s murder.

“Read the banns!” roared Bothwell. “Or by Jesus I’ll have you strung up by the neck.”

But John Craig turned away. His courage was high. “There is only one thing which would make me do it—a written order from the Queen.”

Bothwell laughed. A written order from the Queen! What could be easier?

But he was disturbed. The preacher had boldly stated what was being said in secret.

According to the law, rape was punishable by death, and it was alleged that as Bothwell had raped the Queen, she felt in honor bound to marry him even though it was such a short time since her husband had died.

There were no ends to the twists and turns which must be made to extricate themselves from the position in which they found themselves.

Now Mary must declare that rape was forgiven if the woman subsequently acquiesced; and this, she declared, was what had happened in the case of herself and Lord Bothwell. To show her feelings for him she gave him fresh honors. He was made Earl of Orkney and Lord of Shetland. But the whispers were becoming louder throughout the land, and all were discussing the loose behavior of the Queen and her paramour. The Queen was no better than Bessie Crawford, and nothing she could say or do would make the people believe that the man she proposed to make their King was anything but a seducer, an adulterer and a murderer.

The night before their marriage was due to take place, a placard was pinned on the door of the palace. It ran:

“Mense malas Maio nubere vulgus ait.”

It was alarming to be reminded through these words of Ovid’s that wantons married in the month of May.

Nevertheless on that May morning, accompanied by Huntley, Glamis, Fleming, Livingstone and others—all of whom attended her with restrained feelings—Mary was, in the chapel at Holyrood, married to Both well.

BUT WHERE was that bliss for which she had looked? He had never pretended, but now he had no time to play the lover. Now he must consolidate his position, and already the lords all over the country were making their animosity felt. He was ready. He loved a fight. And now he was preparing to fight for the crown of Scotland.

Mary began to realize the enormity of what she had done. She had married her lover, notorious as the seducer of Bessie Crawford; she had debased her royalty—an unforgivable sin in the eyes of all those who were royal. Her relatives in France were numbed by the shock. Catherine de Médicis in public declared herself shocked and saddened beyond expression, but in private gave full vent to her delight and satisfaction; Philip of Spain had nothing to offer but contempt, and that he showed by silence. Elizabeth of England, while pleased at the prospects of the inevitable result, was genuinely shocked that the Queen should so betray herself and her crown. Elizabeth could not help but remember how near to disaster she had come in circumstances so similar; but she had been wise; she had known when to draw back.

There was less contentment now for Mary than ever before, since she could not help knowing that her lover was outgrowing his passion. To him she was but a woman with a crown—and now the crown was his. If she could have fallen out of love with him as she had with Darnley she would have suffered far less. But she could do no such thing; his indifference could not turn her from him.

He neglected her and absented himself for long periods, during which she believed he saw Jean Gordon. She would lie awake at night picturing them together. She believed that sly sandy-haired Jean merely pretended not to be in love with him.

She reproached him on his return but he merely laughed at her, neither admitting nor denying that her surmise was correct.

“You can talk of Jean Gordon when we are in such danger!” he cried. “Do you know that our enemies are massing their forces against us?”

“But you have visited her. I believe you still think of her as your wife!”

“There is that in her which makes me think of her so. You have always seemed as my mistress.”

Did he mean that or was it part of his brutality? She did not know.

She was exhausted from sleepless nights. Darnley’s ghost seemed to mock her. “You have changed husbands. I died that you might do so. But has it proved to be a change for the better?”

She could not bear his indifference, his cold matter-of-fact passion.

Once she withdrew herself from his arms and, half clad as she was, rushed to the door of her apartment calling to Jane Kennedy to bring her a knife.

“A knife, Madam? A knife?

“That I may pierce my heart with it. I cannot endure to live this life. I would rather be dead.”

Then she flung herself onto her bed and gave way to passionate weeping.

ALL OVER the country the lords were gathering. Moray was watching from some distance, waiting to leap forward and seize the Regency when the Queen was defeated. Morton called together Argyle, Atholl and Mar, and told them that Kirkcaldy of Grange was ready to lead an army against Bothwell and the Queen; and that Glencairn, Cassillis, Montrose, Caithness, Ruthven, Lindsay and others were with them. Maitland was still at Holy-rood, but waiting his opportunity to escape and join the rebels. Maitland had made up his mind. Mary was unfit to rule. Her conduct of the past year had shown that clearly. The woman who had gathered an army together at the time she had married Darnley and marched against Moray with the country rallying to her, was not the same woman as this lovesick creature. At that time Mary could have risen to greatness; her future might have been assured; but alas, steadily she had taken the downhill road which could only lead to eventual defeat.

Bothwell was aware of the forces gathering against him. He left Sir James Balfour holding Edinburgh Castle and departed with Mary for Borthwick.

It was not for love of her that he was with her constantly now, but because he feared that the rebels might seek to capture her. She reproached him for this, but he made no effort to console her.