CHAPTER III
Directly she was delivered, Mary sent for James Melville, her usual
envoy to Elizabeth, and charged him to convey this news to the Queen
of England, and to beg her to be godmother to the royal child at the
same time. On arriving in London, Melville immediately presented
himself at the palace; but as there was a court ball, he could not
see the queen, and contented himself with making known the reason for
his journey to the minister Cecil, and with begging him to ask his
mistress for an audience next day. Elizabeth was dancing in a
quadrille at the moment when Cecil, approaching her, said in a low
voice, "Queen Mary of Scotland has just given birth to a son". At
these words she grew frightfully pale, and, looking about her with a
bewildered air, and as if she were about to faint, she leaned against
an arm-chair; then, soon, not being able to stand upright, she sat
down, threw back her head, and plunged into a mournful reverie. Then
one of the ladies of her court, breaking through the circle which had
formed round the queen, approached her, ill at ease, and asked her of
what she was thinking so sadly. "Ah! madam," Elizabeth replied
impatiently, "do you not know that Mary Stuart has given birth to a
son, while I am but a barren stock, who will die without offspring?"
Yet Elizabeth was too good a politician, in spite of her liability to
be carried away by a first impulse, to compromise herself by a longer
display of her grief. The ball was not discontinued on that account,
and the interrupted quadrille was resumed and finished.
The next day, Melville had his audience. Elizabeth received him to
perfection, assuring him of all the pleasure that the news he brought
had caused her, and which, she said, had cured her of a complaint
from which she had suffered for a fortnight. Melville replied that
his mistress had hastened to acquaint her with her joy, knowing that
she had no better friend; but he added that this joy had nearly cost
Mary her life, so grievous had been her confinement. As he was
returning to this point for the third time, with the object of still
further increasing the queen of England's dislike to marriage--
"Be easy, Melville," Elizabeth answered him; "you need not insist
upon it. I shall never marry; my kingdom takes the place of a
husband for me, and my subjects are my children. When I am dead, I
wish graven on my tombstone: 'Here lies Elizabeth, who reigned so
many years, and who died a virgin.'"
Melville availed himself of this opportunity to remind Elizabeth of
the desire she had shown to see Mary, three or four years before; but
Elizabeth said, besides her country's affairs, which necessitated her
presence in the heart of her possessions, she did not care, after all
she had heard said of her rival's beauty, to expose herself to a
comparison disadvantageous to her pride. She contented herself,
then, with choosing as her proxy the Earl of Bedford, who set out
with several other noblemen for Stirling Castle, where the young
prince was christened with great pomp, and received the name of
Charles James.
It was remarked that Darnley did not appear at this ceremony, and
that his absence seemed to scandalise greatly the queen of England's
envoy. On the contrary, James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, had the
most important place there.
This was because, since the evening when Bothwell, at Mary's cries,
had run to oppose the murder of Rizzio, he had made great way in the
queen's favour; to her party he himself appeared to be really
attached, to the exclusion of the two others, the king's and the Earl
of Murray's. Bothwell was already thirty-five years old, head of the
powerful family of Hepburn, which had great influence in East Lothian
and the county of Berwick; for the rest, violent, rough, given to
every kind of debauchery, and capable of anything to satisfy an
ambition that he did not even give himself the trouble to hide. In
his youth he had been reputed courageous, but for long he had had no
serious opportunity to draw the sword.
If the king's authority had been shaken by Rizzio's influence, it was
entirely upset by Bothwell's. The great nobles, following the
favourite's example, no longer rose in the presence of Darnley, and
ceased little by little to treat him as their equal: his retinue was
cut down, his silver plate taken from him, and some officers who
remained about him made him buy their services with the most bitter
vexations. As for the queen, she no longer even took the trouble to
conceal her dislike for him, avoiding him without consideration, to
such a degree that one day when she had gone with Bothwell to Alway,
she left there again immediately, because Darnley came to join her.
The king, however, still had patience; but a fresh imprudence of
Mary's at last led to the terrible catastrophe that, since the
queen's liaison with Bothwell, some had already foreseen.
Towards the end of the month of October, 1566, while the queen was
holding a court of justice at Jedburgh, it was announced to her that
Bothwell, in trying to seize a malefactor called John Elliot of Park,
had been badly wounded in the hand; the queen, who was about to
attend the council, immediately postponed the sitting till next day,
and, having ordered a horse to be saddled, she set out for Hermitage
Castle, where Bothwell was living, and covered the distance at a
stretch, although it was twenty miles, and she had to go across
woods, marshes, and rivers; then, having remained some hours tete-d-
tete with him, she set out again with the same sped for Jedburgh, to
which she returned in the night.
Although this proceeding had made a great deal of talk, which was
inflamed still more by the queen's enemies, who chiefly belonged to
the Reformed religion, Darnley did not hear of it till nearly two
months afterwards--that is to say, when Bothwell, completely
recovered, returned with the queen to Edinburgh.
Then Darnley thought that he ought not to put up any longer with such
humiliations. But as, since his treason to his accomplices, he had
not found in all Scotland a noble who would have drawn the sword for
him, he resolved to go and seek the Earl of Lennox, his father,
hoping that through his influence he could rally the malcontents, of
whom there were a great number since Bothwell had been in favour.
Unfortunately, Darnley, indiscreet and imprudent as usual, confided
this plan to some of his officers, who warned Bothwell of their
master's intention. Bothwell did not seem to oppose the journey in
any way; but Darnley was scarcely a mile from Edinburgh when he felt
violent pains none the less, he continued his road, and arrived very
ill at Glasgow. He immediately sent for a celebrated doctor, called
James Abrenets, who found his body covered with pimples, and declared
without any hesitation that he had been poisoned. However, others,
among them Walter Scott, state that this illness was nothing else
than smallpox.
Whatever it may have been, the queen, in the presence of the danger
her husband ran, appeared to forget her resentment, and at the risk
of what might prove troublesome to herself, she went to Darnley,
after sending her doctor in advance. It is true that if one is to
believe in the following letters, dated from Glasgow, which Mary is
accused of having written to Bothwell, she knew the illness with
which he was attacked too well to fear infection. As these letters
are little known, and seem to us very singular we transcribe them
here; later we shall tell how they fell into the power of the
Confederate lords, and from their hands passed into Elizabeth's, who,
quite delighted, cried on receiving them, "God's death, then I hold
her life and honour in my hands!"
FIRST LETTER
"When I set out from the place where I had left my heart, judge in
what a condition I was, poor body without a soul: besides, during the
whole of dinner I have not spoken to anyone, and no one has dared to
approach me, for it was easy to see that there was something amiss.
When I arrived within a league of the town, the Earl of Lennox sent
me one of his gentlemen to make me his compliments, and to excuse
himself for not having come in person; he has caused me to be
informed, moreover, that he did not dare to present himself before me
after the reprimand that I gave Cunningham. This gentleman begged
me, as if of his own accord, to examine his master's conduct, to
ascertain if my suspicions were well founded. I have replied to him
that fear was an incurable disease, that the Earl of Lennox would not
be so agitated if his conscience reproached him with nothing, and
that if some hasty words had escaped me, they were but just reprisals
for the letter he had written me.
"None of the inhabitants visited me, which makes me think they are
all in his interests; besides, they speak of him very favourably, as
well as of his son. The king sent for Joachim yesterday, and asked
him why I did not lodge with him, adding that my presence would soon
cure him, and asked me also with what object I had come: if it were
to be reconciled with him; if you were here; if I had taken Paris and
Gilbert as secretaries, and if I were still resolved to dismiss
Joseph? I do not know who has given him such accurate information.
There is nothing, down to the marriage of Sebastian, with which he
has not made himself acquainted. I have asked him the meaning of one
of his letters, in which he complains of the cruelty of certain
people. He replied that he was--stricken, but that my presence caused
him so much joy that he thought he should die of it. He reproached
me several times for being dreamy; I left him to go to supper; he
begged me to return: I went back. Then he told me the story of his
illness, and that he wished to make a will leaving me everything,
adding that I was a little the cause of his trouble, and that he
attributed it to my coldness. 'You ask me,' added he, 'who are the
people of whom I complain: it is of you, cruel one, of you, whom I
have never been able to appease by my tears and my repentance. I
know that I have offended you, but not on the matter that you
reproach me with: I have also offended some of your subjects, but
that you have forgiven me. I am young, and you say that I always
relapse into my faults; but cannot a young man like me, destitute of
experience, gain it also, break his promises, repent directly, and in
time improve? If you will forgive me yet once more, I will promise
to offend you never again. All the favour I ask of you is that we
should live together like husband and wife, to have but one bed and
one board: if you are inflexible, I shall never rise again from here.
I entreat you, tell me your decision: God alone knows what I suffer,
and that because I occupy myself with you only, because I love and
adore only you. If I have offended you sometimes, you must bear the
reproach; for when someone offends me, if it were granted me to
complain to you, I should not confide my griefs to others; but when
we are on bad terms, I am obliged to keep them to myself, and that
maddens me.'
"He then urged me strongly to stay with him and lodge in his house;
but I excused myself, and replied that he ought to be purged, and
that he could not be, conveniently, at Glasgow; then he told me that
he knew I had brought a letter for him, but that he would have
preferred to make the journey with me. He believed, I think, that I
meant to send him to some prison: I replied that I should take him to
Craigmiller, that he would find doctors there, that I should remain
near him, and that we should be within reach of seeing my son. He
has answered that he will go where I wish to take him, provided that
I grant him what he has asked. He does not, however, wish to be seen
by anyone.
"He has told me more than a hundred pretty things that I cannot
repeat to you, and at which you yourself would be surprised: he did
not want to let me go; he wanted to make me sit up with him all
night. As for me, I pretended to believe everything, and I seemed to
interest myself really in him. Besides, I have never seen him so
small and humble; and if I had not known how easily his heart
overflows, and how mine is impervious to every other arrow than those
with which you have wounded it, I believe that I should have allowed
myself to soften; but lest that should alarm you, I would die rather
than give up what I have promised you. As for you, be sure to act in
the same way towards those traitors who will do all they can to
separate you from me. I believe that all those people have been cast
in the same mould: this one always has a tear in his eye; he bows
down before everyone, from the greatest to the smallest; he wishes to
interest them in his favour, and make himself pitied. His father
threw up blood to-day through the nose and mouth; think what these
symptoms mean. I have not seen him yet, for he keeps to the house.
The king wants me to feed him myself; he won't eat unless I do. But,
whatever I may do, you will be deceived by it no more than I shall be
deceiving myself. We are united, you and I, to two kinds of very
detestable people [Mary means Miss Huntly, Bothwell's wife, whom he
repudiated, at the king's death, to marry the queen.]: that hell may
sever these knots then, and that heaven may form better ones, that
nothing can break, that it may make of us the most tender and
faithful couple that ever was; there is the profession of faith in
which I would die.
"Excuse my scrawl: you must guess more than the half of it, but I
know no help for this. I am obliged to write to you hastily while
everyone is asleep here: but be easy, I take infinite pleasure in my
watch; for I cannot sleep like the others, not being able to sleep as
I would like--that is to say, in your arms.
"I am going to get into bed; I shall finish my letter tomorrow: I
have too many things to tell to you, the night is too far advanced:
imagine my despair. It is to you I am writing, it is of myself that
I converse with you, and I am obliged to make an end.
"I cannot prevent myself, however, from filling up hastily the rest
of my paper. Cursed be the crazy creature who torments me so much!
Were it not for him, I could talk to you of more agreeable things: he
is not greatly changed; and yet he has taken a great deal o f %t.
But he has nearly killed me with the fetid smell of his breath; for
now his is still worse than your cousin's: you guess that this is a
fresh reason for my not approaching him; on the contrary, I go away
as far as I can, and sit on a chair at the foot of his bed.
"Let us see if I forget anything.
"His father's messenger on the road;
The question about Joachim;
The-state of my house;
The people of my suite;
Subject of my arrival;
Joseph;
Conversation between him and me;
His desire to please me and his repentance;
The explanation of his letter;
Mr. Livingston.
"Ah! I was forgetting that. Yesterday Livingston during supper told
de Rere in a low voice to drink to the health of one I knew well, and
to beg me to do him the honour. After supper, as I was leaning on
his shoulder near the fire, he said to me, 'Is it not true that there
are visits very agreeable for those who pay them and those who
receive them? But, however satisfied they seem with your arrival, I
challenge their delight to equal the grief of one whom you have left
alone to-day, and who will never be content till he sees you again.'
I asked him of whom he wished to speak to me. He then answered me by
pressing my arm: 'Of one of those who have not followed you; and
among those it is easy for you to guess of whom I want to speak.'
"I have worked till two o'clock at the bracelet; I have enclosed a
little key which is attached by two strings: it is not as well worked
as I should like, but I have not had time to make it better; I will
make you a finer one on the first occasion. Take care that it is not
seen on you; for I have worked at it before everyone, and it would be
recognised to a certainty.
"I always return, in spite of myself, to the frightful attempt that
you advise. You compel me to concealments, and above all to
treacheries that make me shudder; I would rather die, believe me,
than do such things; for it makes my heart bleed. He does not want
to follow me unless I promise him to have the selfsame bed and board
with him as before, and not to abandon him so often. If I consent to
it, he says he will do all I wish, and will follow me everywhere; but
he has begged me to put off my departure for two days. I have
pretended to agree to all he wishes; but I have told him not to speak
of our reconciliation to anyone, for fear it should make some lords
uneasy. At last I shall take him everywhere I wish.... Alas! I have
never deceived anyone; but what would I not do to please you?
Command, and whatever happens, I shall obey. But see yourself if one
could not contrive some secret means in the shape of a remedy. He
must purge himself at Craigmiller and take baths there; he will be
some days without going out. So far as I can see, he is very uneasy;
but he has great trust in what I tell him: however, his confidence
does not go so far as to allow him to open his mind to me. If you
like, I will tell him every thing: I can have no pleasure in
deceiving someone who is trusting. However, it will be just as you
wish: do not esteem me the less for that. It is you advised it;
never would vengeance have taken me so far. Sometimes he attacks me
in a very sensitive place, and he touches me to the quick when he
tells me that his crimes are known, but that every day greater ones
are committed that one uselessly attempts to hide, since all crimes,
whatsoever they be, great or small, come to men's knowledge and form
the common subject of their discourse. He adds sometimes, in
speaking to me of Madame de Rere, 'I wish her services may do you
honour.' He has assured me that many people thought, and that he
thought himself, that I was not my own mistress; this is doubtless
because I had rejected the conditions he offered me. Finally, it is
certain that he is very uneasy about you know what, and that he even
suspects that his life is aimed at. He is in despair whenever the
conversation turns on you, Livingston, and my brother. However, he
says neither good nor ill of absent people; but, on the contrary, he
always avoids speaking of them. His father keeps to the house: I
have not seen him yet. A number of the Hamiltons are here, and
accompany me everywhere; all the friends of the other one follow me
each time I go to see him. He has begged me to be at his rising to-
morrow. My messenger will tell you the rest.
"Burn my letter: there would be danger in keeping it. Besides, it is
hardly worth the trouble, being filled only with dark thoughts.
"As for you, do not be offended if I am sad and uneasy to-day, that
to please you I rise above honour, remorse, and dangers. Do not take
in bad part what I tell you, and do not listen to the malicious
explanations of your wife's brother; he is a knave whom you ought not
to hear to the prejudice of the most tender and most faithful
mistress that ever was. Above all, do not allow yourself to be moved
by that woman: her sham tears are nothing in comparison with the real
tears that I shed, and with what love and constancy make me suffer at
succeeding her; it is for that alone that in spite of myself I betray
all those who could cross my love. God have mercy on me, and send
you all the prosperity that a humble and tender friend who awaits
from you soon another reward wishes you. It is very late; but it is
always with regret that I lay down my pen when I write to you;
however, I shall not end my letter until I shall have kissed your
hands. Forgive me that it is so ill-written: perhaps I do so
expressly that you may be obliged to re-read it several times: I have
transcribed hastily what I had written down on my tablets, and my
paper has given out. Remember a tender friend, and write to her
often: love me as tenderly as I love you, and remember
"Madame de Rere's words;
The English;
His mother;
The Earl of Argyll;
The Earl of Bothwell;
The Edinburgh dwelling."
SECOND LETTER
"It seems that you have forgotten me during your absence, so much the
more that you had promised me, at setting out, to let me know in
detail everything fresh that should happen. The hope of receiving
your news was giving me almost as much delight as your return could
have brought me: you have put it off longer than you promised me. As
for me, although you do not write, I play my part always. I shall
take him to Craigmiller on Monday, and he will spend the whole of
Wednesday there. On that day I shall go to Edinburgh to be bled
there, unless you arrange otherwise at least. He is more cheerful
than usual, and he is better than ever.
"He says everything he can to persuade me that he loves me; he has a
thousand attentions for me, and he anticipates me in everything: all
that is so pleasant for me, that I never go to him but the pain in my
side comes on again, his company weighs on me so much. If Paris
brought me what I asked him, I should be soon cured. If you have not
yet returned when I go you know where, write to me, I beg you, and
tell me what you wish me to do; for if you do not manage things
prudently, I foresee that the whole burden will fall on me: look into
everything and weigh the affair maturely. I send you my letter by
Beaton, who will set out the day which has been assigned to Balfour.
It only remains for me to beg you to inform me of your journey.
"Glasgow, this Saturday morning."
THIRD LETTER
"I stayed you know where longer than I should have done, if it had
not been to get from him something that the bearer of these presents
will tell you it was a good opportunity for covering up our designs:
I have promised him to bring the person you know to-morrow. Look
after the rest, if you think fit. Alas! I have failed in our
agreement, for you have forbidden me to write to you, or to despatch
a messenger to you. However, I do not intend to offend you: if you
knew with what fears I am agitated, you would not have yourself so
many doubts and suspicions. But I take them in good part, persuaded
as I am that they have no other cause than love--love that I esteem
more than anything on earth.
"My feelings and my favours are to me sure warrants for that love,
and answer to me for your heart; my trust is entire on this head: but
explain yourself, I entreat you, and open your soul to me; otherwise,
I shall fear lest, by the fatality of my star, and by the too
fortunate influence of the stars on women less tender and less
faithful than I, I may be supplanted in your heart as Medea was in
Jason's; not that I wish to compare you to a lover as unfortunate as
Jason, and to parallel myself with a monster like Medea, although you
have enough influence over me to force me to resemble her each time
our love exacts it, and that it concerns me to keep your heart, which
belongs to me, and which belongs to me only. For I name as belonging
to me what I have purchased with the tender and constant love with
which I have burned for you, a love more alive to-day than ever, and
which will end only with my life; a love, in short, which makes me
despise both the dangers and the remorse which will be perhaps its
sad sequel. As the price of this sacrifice, I ask you but one
favour, it is to remember a spot not far from here: I do not exact
that you should keep your promise to-morrow; but I want to see you to
disperse your suspicions. I ask of God only one thing: it is that He
should make you read my heart, which is less mine than yours, and
that He should guard you from every ill, at least during my life:
this life is dear to me only in so far as it pleases you, and as I
please you myself. I am going to bed: adieu; give me your news to-
morrow morning; for I shall be uneasy till I have it. Like a bird
escaped from its cage, or the turtle-dove which has lost her mate, I
shall be alone, weeping your absence, short as it may be. This
letter, happier than I, will go this evening where I cannot go,
provided that the messenger does not find you asleep, as I fear. I
have not dared to write it in the presence of Joseph, of Sebastian,
and of Joachim, who had only just left me when I began it."
Thus, as one sees, and always supposing these letters to be genuine,
Mary had conceived for Bothwell one of those mad passions, so much
the stronger in the women who are a prey to them, that one the less
understands what could have inspired them. Bothwell was no longer
young, Bothwell was not handsome, and yet Mary sacrificed for him a
young husband, who was considered one of the handsomest men of his
century. It was like a kind of enchantment. Darnley, the sole
obstacle to the union, had been already condemned for a long time, if
not by Mary, at least by Bothwell; then, as his strong constitution
had conquered the poison, another kind of death was sought for.
The queen, as she announces in her letter to Bothwell, had refused to
bring back Darnley with her, and had returned alone to Edinburgh.
Arrived there, she gave orders for the king to be moved, in his turn,
in a litter; but instead of taking him to Stirling or Holyrood, she
decided to lodge him in the abbey of the Kirk of Field. The king
made some objections when he knew of this arrangement; however, as he
had no power to oppose it, he contented himself with complaining of
the solitude of the dwelling assigned him; but the queen made answer
that she could not receive him at that moment, either at Holyrood or
at Stirling, for fear, if his illness were infectious, lest he might
give it to his son: Darnley was then obliged to make the best of the
abode allotted him.
It was an isolated abbey, and little calculated by its position to
dissipate the fears that the king entertained; for it was situated
between two ruined churches and two cemeteries: the only house, which
was distant about a shot from a cross-bow, belonged to the Hamiltons,
and as they were Darnley's mortal enemies the neighbourhood was none
the more reassuring: further, towards the north, rose some wretched
huts, called the "Thieves' cross-roads". In going round his new
residence, Darnley noticed that three holes, each large enough for a
man to get through, had been made in the walls; he asked that these
holes, through which ill-meaning persons could get in, should be
stopped up: it was promised that masons should be sent; but nothing
was done, and the holes remained open.
The day after his arrival at Kirk of Field, the king saw a light in
that house near his which lie believed deserted; next day he asked
Alexander Durham whence it came, and he heard that the Archbishop of
St. Andrew's had left his palace in Edinburgh and had housed there
since the preceding evening, one didn't know why: this news still
further increased the king's uneasiness; the Archbishop of St.
Andrew's was one of his most declared enemies.
The king, little by little abandoned by all his servants lived on the
first floor of an isolated pavilion, having about him only this same
Alexander Durham, whom we have mentioned already, and who was his
valet. Darnley, who had quite a special friendship for him, and who
besides, as we have said, feared some attack on his life at every
moment, had made him move his bed into his own apartment, so that
both were sleeping in the same room.
On the night of the 8th February, Darnley awoke Durham: he thought he
heard footsteps in the apartment beneath him. Durham rose, took a
sword in one hand, a taper in the other, and went down to the ground
floor; but although Darnley was quite certain he had not been
deceived, Durham came up again a moment after, saying he had seen no
one.
The morning of the next day passed without bringing anything fresh.
The queen was marrying one of her servants named Sebastian: he was an
Auvergnat whom she had brought with her from France, and whom she
liked very much. However, as the king sent word that he had not seen
her for two days, she left the wedding towards six o'clock in the
evening, and came to pay him a visit, accompanied by the Countess of
Argyll and the Countess of Huntly. While she was there, Durham, in
preparing his bed, set fire to his palliasse, which was burned as
well as a part of the mattress; so that, having thrown them out of
the window all in flames, for fear lest the fire should reach the
rest of the furniture, he found himself without a bed, and asked
permission to return to the town to sleep; but Darnley, who
remembered his terror the night before, and who was surprised at the
promptness that had made Durham throw all his bedding out of the
window, begged him not to go away, offering him one of his
mattresses, or even to take him into his own bed. However, in spite
of this offer, Durham insisted, saying that he felt unwell, and that
he should like to see a doctor the same evening. So the queen
interceded for Durham, and promised Darnley to send him another valet
to spend the night with him: Darnley was then obliged to yield, and,
making Mary repeat that she would send him someone, he gave Durham
leave for that evening. At that moment Paris; of whom the queen
speaks in her letters, came in: he was a young Frenchman who had been
in Scotland for some years, and who, after having served with
Bothwell and Seyton, was at present with the queen. Seeing him, she
got up, and as Darnley still wished to keep her--
"Indeed, my lord, it is impossible," said she, "to come and see you.
I have left this poor Sebastian's wedding, and I must return to it;
for I promised to came masked to his ball."
The king dared not insist; he only reminded her of the promise that
she had made to send him a servant: Mary renewed it yet once again,
and went away with her attendants. As for Durham, he had set out the
moment he received permission.
It was nine o'clock in the evening. Darnley, left alone, carefully
shut the doors within, and retired to rest, though in readiness to
rise to let in the servant who should come to spend the night with
him. Scarcely was he in bed than the same noise that he had heard
the night before recommenced; this time Darnley listened with all the
attention fear gives, and soon he had no longer any doubt but that
several men were walking about beneath him. It was useless to call,
it was dangerous to go out; to wait was the only course that remained
to the king. He made sure again that the doors were well fastened,
put his sword under his pillow, extinguished his lamp for fear the
light might betray him, and awaited in silence for his servant's
arrival; but the hours passed away, and the servant did not come.
At one o'clock in the morning, Bothwell, after having talked some
while with the queen, in the presence of the captain of the guard,
returned home to change his dress; after some minutes, he came out
wrapped up in the large cloak of a German hussar, went through the
guard-house, and had the castle gate opened. Once outside, he took
his way with all speed to Kirk of Field, which he entered by the
opening in the wall: scarcely had he made a step in the garden than
he met James Balfour, governor of the castle.
"Well," he said to him, "how far have we got?
"Everything is ready," replied Balfour, "and we were waiting for you
to set fire to the fuse". "That is well," Bothwell answered--"but
first I want to make sure that he is in his room."
At these words, Bothwell opened the pavilion door with a false key,
and, having groped his way up the stairs; he went to listen at
Darnley's door. Darnley, hearing no further noise, had ended by
going to sleep; but he slept with a jerky breathing which pointed to
his agitation. Little mattered it to Bothwell what kind of sleep it
was, provided that he was really in his room. He went down again in
silence, then, as he had come up, and taking a lantern from one of
the conspirators, he went himself into the lower room to see if
everything was in order: this room was full of barrels of powder, and
a fuse ready prepared wanted but a spark to set the whole on fire.
Bothwell withdrew, then, to the end of the garden with Balfour,
David, Chambers, and three or four others, leaving one man to ignite
the fuse. In a moment this man rejoined them.
There ensued some minutes of anxiety, during which the five men
looked at one another in silence and as if afraid of themselves;
then, seeing that nothing exploded, Bothwell impatiently turned round
to the engineer, reproaching him for having, no doubt through fear,
done his work badly. He assured his master that he was certain
everything was all right, and as Bothwell, impatient, wanted to
return to the house himself, to make sure, he offered to go back and
see how things stood. In fact, he went back to the pavilion, and,
putting his head through a kind of air-hole, he saw the fuse, which
was still burning. Some seconds afterwards, Bothwell saw him come
running back, making a sign that all was going well; at the same
moment a frightful report was heard, the pavilion was blown to
pieces, the town and the firth were lit up with a clearness exceeding
the brightest daylight; then everything fell back into night, and the
silence was broken only by the fall of stones and joists, which came
down as fast as hail in a hurricane.
Next day the body of the king was found in a garden in the
neighbourhood: it had been saved from the action of the fire by the
mattresses on which he was lying, and as, doubtless, in his terror he
had merely thrown himself on his bed wrapped in his dressing-gown and
in his slippers, and as he was found thus, without his slippers,
which were flung some paces away, it was believed that he had been
first strangled, then carried there; but the most probable version
was that the murderers simply relied upon powder--an auxiliary
sufficiently powerful in itself for them to have no fear it would
fail them.
Was the queen an accomplice or not? No one has ever known save
herself, Bothwell, and God; but, yes or no, her conduct, imprudent
this time as always, gave the charge her enemies brought against her,
if not substance, at least an appearance of truth. Scarcely had she
heard the news than she gave orders that the body should be brought
to her, and, having had it stretched out upon a bench, she looked at
it with more curiosity than sadness; then the corpse, embalmed, was
placed the same evening, without pomp, by the side of Rizzio's.
Scottish ceremonial prescribes for the widows of kings retirement for
forty days in a room entirely closed to the light of day: on the
twelfth day Mary had the windows opened, and on the fifteenth set out
with Bothwell for Seaton, a country house situated five miles from
the capital, where the French ambassador, Ducroc, went in search of
her, and made her remonstrances which decided her to return to
Edinburgh; but instead of the cheers which usually greeted her
coming, she was received by an icy silence, and a solitary woman in
the crowd called out, "God treat her as she deserves!"
The names of the murderers were no secret to the people. Bothwell
having brought a splendid coat which was too large for him to a
tailor, asking him to remake it to his measure, the man recognised it
as having belonged to the king. "That's right," said he; "it is the
custom for the executioner to inherit from the-condemned".
Meanwhile, the Earl of Lennox, supported by the people's murmurs,
loudly demanded justice for his son's death, and came forward as the
accuser of his murderers. The queen was then obliged, to appease
paternal clamour and public resentment, to command the Earl of
Argyll, the Lord Chief justice of the kingdom, to make
investigations; the same day that this order was given, a
proclamation was posted up in the streets of Edinburgh, in which the
queen promised two thousand pounds sterling to whoever would make
known the king's murderers. Next day, wherever this letter had been
affixed, another placard was found, worded thus:
"As it has been proclaimed that those who should make known the
king's murderers should have two thousand pounds sterling, I, who
have made a strict search, affirm that the authors of the murder are
the Earl of Bothwell, James Balfour, the priest of Flisk, David,
Chambers, Blackmester, Jean Spens, and the queen herself."
This placard was torn down; but, as usually happens, it had already
been read by the entire population.
The Earl of Lennox accused Bothwell, and public opinion, which also
accused him, seconded the earl with such violence, that Mary was
compelled to bring him to trial: only every precaution was taken to
deprive the prosecutor of the power of convicting the accused. On
the 28th March, the Earl of Lennox received notice that the 12th
April was fixed for the trial: he was granted a fortnight to collect
decisive proofs against the most powerful man in all Scotland; but
the Earl of Lennox, judging that this trial was a mere mockery, did
not appear. Bothwell, on the contrary, presented himself at the
court, accompanied by five thousand partisans and two hundred picked
fusiliers, who guarded the doors directly he had entered; so that he
seemed to be rather a king who is about to violate the law than an
accused who comes to submit to it. Of course there happened what was
certain to happen--that is to say, the jury acquitted Bothwell of the
crime of which everyone, the judges included, knew him to be guilty.
The day of the trial, Bothwell had this written challenge placarded:
"Although I am sufficiently cleared of the murder of the king, of
which I have been falsely accused, yet, the better to prove my
innocence, I am, ready to engage in combat with whomsoever will dare
to maintain that I have killed the king."
The day after, this reply appeared:
"I accept the challenge, provided that you select neutral ground."
However, judgment had been barely given, when rumours of a marriage
between the queen and the Earl of Bothwell were abroad. However
strange and however mad this marriage, the relations of the two
lovers were so well known that no one doubted but that it was true.
But as everyone submitted to Bothwell, either through fear or through
ambition, two men only dared to protest beforehand against this
union: the one was Lord Herries, and the other James Melville.
Mary was at Stirling when Lord Herries, taking advantage of
Bothwell's momentary absence, threw himself at her feet, imploring
her not to lose her honour by marrying her husband's murderer, which
could not fail to convince those who still doubted it that she was
his accomplice. But the queen, instead of thanking Herries for this
devotion, seemed very much surprised at his boldness, and scornfully
signing to him to rise, she coldly replied that her heart was silent
as regarded the Earl of Bothwell, and that, if she should ever re-
marry, which was not probable, she would neither forget what she owed
to her people nor what she owed to herself.
Melville did not allow himself to be discouraged by this experience,
and pretended, to have received a letter that one of his friends,
Thomas Bishop, had written him from England. He showed this letter
to the queen; but at the first lines Mary recognised the style, and
above all the friendship of her ambassador, and giving the letter to
the Earl of Livingston, who was present, "There is a very singular
letter," said she. "Read it. It is quite in Melvine's manner."
Livingston glanced through the letter, but had scarcely read the half
of it when he took Melville by the hand, and drawing him into the
embrasure of a window
"My dear Melville," said he, "you were certainly mad when you just
now imparted this letter to the queen: as soon as the Earl of
Bothwell gets wind of it, and that will not be long, he will have you
assassinated. You have behaved like an honest man, it is true; but
at court it is better to behave as a clever man. Go away, then, as
quickly as possible; it is I who recommend it."
Melville did not require to be told twice, and stayed away for a
week. Livingston was not mistaken: scarcely had Bothwell returned to
the queen than he knew all that had passed. He burst out into curses
against Melville, and sought for him everywhere; but he could not
find him.
This beginning of opposition, weak as it was, none the less
disquieted Bothwell, who, sure of Mary's love, resolved to make short
work of things. Accordingly, as the queen was returning from
Stirling to Edinburgh some days after the scenes we have just
related, Bothwell suddenly appeared at the Bridge of Grammont with a
thousand horsemen, and, having disarmed the Earl of Huntly,
Livingston, and Melville, who had returned to his mistress, he seized
the queen's horse by the bridle, and with apparent violence he forced
Mary to turn back and follow him to Dunbar; which the queen did
without any resistance--a strange thing for one of Mary's character.
The day following, the Earls of Huntly, Livingston, Melville, and the
people in their train were set at liberty; then, ten days afterwards,
Bothwell and the queen, perfectly reconciled, returned to Edinburgh
together.
Two days after this return, Bothwell gave a great dinner to the
nobles his partisans in a tavern. When the meal was ended, on the
very same table, amid half-drained glasses and empty bottles,
Lindsay, Ruthven, Morton, Maitland, and a dozen or fifteen other
noblemen signed a bond which not only set forth that upon their souls
and consciences Bothwell was innocent, but which further denoted him
as the most suitable husband for the queen. This bond concluded with
this sufficiently strange declaration:
"After all, the queen cannot do otherwise, since the earl has carried
her off and has lain with her."
Yet two circumstances were still opposed to this marriage: the first,
that Bothwell had already been married three times, and that his
three wives were living; the second, that having carried off the
queen, this violence might cause to be regarded as null the alliance
which she should contract with him: the first of these objections was
attended to, to begin with, as the one most difficult to solve.
Bothwell's two first wives were of obscure birth, consequently he
scorned to disquiet himself about them; but it was not so with the
third, a daughter of that Earl of Huntly who been trampled beneath
the horses' feet, and a sister of Gordon, who had been decapitated.
Fortunately for Bothwell, his past behaviour made his wife long for a
divorce with an eagerness as great as his own. There was not much
difficulty, then, in persuading her to bring a charge of adultery
against her husband. Bothwell confessed that he had had criminal
intercourse with a relative of his wife, and the Archbishop of St.
Andrews, the same who had taken up his abode in that solitary house
at Kirk of Field to be present at Darnley's death, pronounced the
marriage null. The case was begun, pushed on, and decided in ten
days.
As to the second obstacle, that of the violence used to the queen,
Mary undertook to remove it herself; for, being brought before the
court, she declared that not only did she pardon Bothwell for his
conduct as regarded her, but further that, knowing him to be a good
and faithful subject, she intended raising him immediately to new
honours. In fact, some days afterwards she created him Duke of
Orkney, and on the 15th of the same month--that is to say, scarcely
four months after the death of Darnley--with levity that resembled
madness, Mary, who had petitioned for a dispensation to wed a
Catholic prince, her cousin in the third degree, married Bothwell, a
Protestant upstart, who, his divorce notwithstanding, was still
bigamous, and who thus found himself in the position of having four
wives living, including the queen.
The wedding was dismal, as became a festival under such outrageous
auspices. Morton, Maitland, and some base flatterers of Bothwell
alone were present at it. The French ambassador, although he was a
creature of the House of Guise, to which the queen belonged, refused
to attend it.
Mary's delusion was short-lived: scarcely was she in Bothwell's power
than she saw what a master she had given herself. Gross, unfeeling,
and violent, he seemed chosen by Providence to avenge the faults of
which he had been the instigator or the accomplice. Soon his fits of
passion reached such a point, that one day, no longer able to endure
them, Mary seized a dagger from Erskine, who was present with
Melville at one of these scenes, and would have struck herself,
saying that she would rather die than continue living unhappily as
she did; yet, inexplicable as it seems, in spite of these miseries,
renewed without ceasing, Mary, forgetting that she was wife and
queen, tender and submissive as a child, was always the first to be
reconciled with Bothwell.
Nevertheless, these public scenes gave a pretext to the nobles, who
only sought an opportunity for an outbreak. The Earl of Mar, the
young prince's tutor, Argyll, Athol, Glencairn, Lindley, Boyd, and
even Morton and Maitland themselves, those eternal accomplices of
Bothwell, rose, they said, to avenge the death of the king, and to
draw the son from hands which had killed the father and which were
keeping the mother captive. As to Murray, he had kept completely in
the background during all the last events; he was in the county of
Fife when the king was assassinated, and three days before the trial
of Bothwell he had asked and obtained from his sister permission to
take a journey on the Continent.
The insurrection took place in such a prompt and instantaneous
manner, that the Confederate lords, whose plan was to surprise and
seize both Mary and Bothwell, thought they would succeed at the first
attempt.
The king and queen were at table with Lord Borthwick, who was
entertaining them, when suddenly it was announced that a large body
of armed men was surrounding the castle: Bothwell and Mary suspected
that they were aimed at, and as they had no means of resistance,
Bothwell dressed himself as a squire, Mary as a page, and both
immediately taking horse, escaped by one door just as the
Confederates were coming in by the other. The fugitives withdrew to
Dunbar.
There they called together all Bothwell's friends, and made them sign
a kind of treaty by which they undertook to defend the queen and her
husband. In the midst of all this, Murray arrived from France, and
Bothwell offered the document to him as to the others; but Murray
refused to put his signature to it, saying that it was insulting him
to think he need be bound by a written agreement when it was a
question of defending his sister and his queen. This refusal having
led to an altercation between him and Bothwell, Murray, true to his
system of neutrality, withdrew into his earldom, and let affairs
follow without him the fatal decline they had taken.
In the meantime the Confederates, after having failed at Borthwick,
not feeling strong enough to attack Bothwell at Dunbar, marched upon
Edinburgh, where they had an understanding with a man of whom
Bothwell thought himself sure. This man was James Balfour, governor
of the citadel, the same who had presided over the preparation of the
mine which had blown up Darnley, and whom Bothwell had, met on
entering the garden at Kirk of Field. Not only did Balfour deliver
Edinburgh Castle into the hands of the Confederates, but he also gave
them a little silver coffer of which the cipher, an "F" crowned,
showed that it had belonged to Francis II; and in fact it was a gift
from her first husband, which the queen had presented to Bothwell.
Balfour stated that this coffer contained precious papers, which in
the present circumstances might be of great use to Mary's enemies.
The Confederate lords opened it, and found inside the three genuine
or spurious letters that we have quoted, the marriage contract of
Mary and Bothwell, and twelve poems in the queen's handwriting. As
Balfour had said, therein lay, for her enemies, a rich and precious
find, which was worth more than a victory; for a victory would yield
them only the queen's life, while Balfour's treachery yielded them
her honour.
