a Princess who has long ruled us. But we come to offer, not to implore,
pardon. In a word, madam, we have to propose to you on the part of the
Secret Council, that you sign these deeds, which will contribute greatly
to the pacification of the State, the advancement of God's word, and the
welfare of your own future life.”
“Am I expected to take these fair words on trust, my lord? or may I hear
the contents of these reconciling papers, ere I am asked to sign them?”
“Unquestionably, madam; it is our purpose and wish, you should read what
you are required to sign,” replied Ruthven.
“Required?” replied the Queen, with some emphasis; “but the phrase suits
well the matter-read, my lord.”
The Lord Ruthven proceeded to read a formal instrument, running in the
Queen's name, and setting forth that she had been called, at an early
age, to the administration of the crown and realm of Scotland, and had
toiled diligently therein, until she was in body and spirit so wearied
out and disgusted, that she was unable any longer to endure the travail
and pain of State affairs; and that since God had blessed her with a
fair and hopeful son, she was desirous to ensure to him, even while
she yet lived, his succession to the crown, which was his by right of
hereditary descent. “Wherefore,” the instrument proceeded, “we, of the
motherly affection we bear to our said son, have renounced and demitted,
and by these our letters of free good-will, renounce and demit, the
Crown, government, and guiding of the realm of Scotland, in favour of
our said son, that he may succeed to us as native Prince thereof, as
much as if we had been removed by disease, and not by our own proper
act. And that this demission of our royal authority may have the more
full and solemn effect, and none pretend ignorance, we give, grant,
and commit, fall and free and plain power to our trusty cousins, Lord
Lindesay of the Byres, and William Lord Ruthven, to appear in our
name before as many of the nobility, clergy, and burgesses, as may be
assembled at Stirling, and there, in our name and behalf, publicly, and
in their presence, to renounce the Crown, guidance, and government of
this our kingdom of Scotland.”
The Queen here broke in with an air of extreme surprise. “How is this,
my lords?” she said: “Are my ears turned rebels, that they deceive me
with sounds so extraordinary?--And yet it is no wonder that, having
conversed so long with rebellion, they should now force its language
upon my understanding. Say I am mistaken, my lords--say, for the honour
of yourselves and the Scottish nobility, that my right trusty cousins of
Lindesay and Ruthven, two barons of warlike fame and ancient line, have
not sought the prison-house of their kind mistress for such a purpose as
these words seem to imply. Say, for the sake of honour and loyalty, that
my ears have deceived me.”
“No, madam,” said Ruthven gravely, “your ears do _not_ deceive you--they
deceived you when they were closed against the preachers of the
evangele, and the honest advice of your faithful subjects; and when
they were ever open to flattery of pickthanks and traitors, foreign
cubiculars and domestic minions. The land may no longer brook the rule
of one who cannot rule herself; wherefore, I pray you to comply with the
last remaining wish of your subjects and counsellors, and spare yourself
and us the farther agitation of matter so painful.”
“And is this _all_ my loving subjects require of me, my lord?” said
Mary, in a tone of bitter irony. “Do they really stint themselves to the
easy boon that I should yield up the crown, which is mine by birthright,
to an infant which is scarcely more than a year old--fling down my
sceptre, and take up a distaff--Oh no! it is too little for them to
ask--That other roll of parchment contains something harder to be
complied with, and which may more highly task my readiness to comply
with the petitions of my lieges.”
“This parchment,” answered Ruthven, in the same tone of inflexible
gravity, and unfolding the instrument as he spoke, “is one by which your
grace constitutes your nearest in blood, and the most honourable and
trustworthy of your subjects, James, Earl of Murray, Regent of the
kingdom during the minority of the young King. He already holds the
appointment from the Secret Council.”
The Queen gave a sort of shriek, and, clapping her hands together,
exclaimed, “Comes the arrow out of his quiver?--out of my brother's
bow?--Alas! I looked for his return from France as my sole, at least my
readiest, chance of deliverance.--And yet, when I heard he had assumed
the government, I guessed he would shame to wield it in my name.”
“I must pray your answer, madam,” said Lord Ruthven, “to the demand of
the Council.”
“The demand of the Council!” said the Queen; “say rather the demand of a
set of robbers, impatient to divide the spoil they have seized. To such
a demand, and sent by the mouth of a traitor, whose scalp, but for my
womanish mercy, should long since have stood on the city gates, Mary of
Scotland has no answer.”
“I trust, madam,” said Lord Ruthven, “my being unacceptable to your
presence will not add to your obduracy of resolution. It may become
you to remember that the death of the minion, Rizzio, cost the house
of Ruthven its head and leader. My father, more worthy than a whole
province of such vile sycophants, died in exile, and broken-hearted.”
The Queen clasped her hands on her face, and, resting her arms on the
table, stooped down her head and wept so bitterly, that the tears were
seen to find their way in streams between the white and slender fingers
with which she endeavoured to conceal them.
“My lords,” said Sir Robert Melville, “this is too much rigour. Under
your lordship's favour, we came hither, not to revive old griefs, but to
find the mode of avoiding new ones.”
“Sir Robert Melville,” said Ruthven, “we best know for what purpose we
were delegated hither, and wherefore you were somewhat unnecessarily
sent to attend us.”
“Nay, by my hand,” said Lord Lindesay, “I know not why we were cumbered
with the good knight, unless he comes in place of the lump of sugar
which pothicars put into their wholesome but bitter medicaments, to
please a froward child--a needless labour, methinks, where men have the
means to make them swallow the physic otherwise.”
“Nay, my lords,” said Melville, “ye best know your own secret
instructions. I conceive I shall best obey mine in striving to mediate
between her Grace and you.”
“Be silent, Sir Robert Melville,” said the Queen, arising, and her face
still glowing with agitation as she spoke. “My kerchief, Fleming--I
shame that traitors should have power to move me thus.--Tell me, proud
lords,” she added, wiping away the tears as she spoke, “by what earthly
warrant can liege subjects pretend to challenge the rights of an
anointed Sovereign--to throw off the allegiance they have vowed, and to
take away the crown from the head on which Divine warrant hath placed
it?”
“Madam,” said Ruthven, “I will deal plainly with you. Your reign, from
the dismal field of Pinkie-cleugh, when you were a babe in the cradle,
till now that ye stand a grown dame before us, hath been such a tragedy
of losses, disasters, civil dissensions, and foreign wars, that the like
is not to be found in our chronicles. The French and English have, with
one consent, made Scotland the battle-field on which to fight out their
own ancient quarrel.--For ourselves every man's hand hath been
against his brother, nor hath a year passed over without rebellion and
slaughter, exile of nobles, and oppressing of the commons. We may endure
it no longer, and therefore, as a prince, to whom God hath refused the
gift of hearkening to wise counsel, and on whose dealings and projects
no blessing hath ever descended, we pray you to give way to other rule
and governance of the land, that a remnant may yet be saved to this
distracted realm.”
“My lord,” said Mary, “it seems to me that you fling on my unhappy and
devoted head those evils, which, with far more justice, I may impute
to your own turbulent, wild, and untameable dispositions--the frantic
violence with which you, the Magnates of Scotland, enter into feuds
against each other, sticking at no cruelty to gratify your wrath, taking
deep revenge for the slightest offences, and setting at defiance those
wise laws which your ancestors made for stanching of such cruelty,
rebelling against the lawful authority, and bearing yourselves as if
there were no king in the land; or rather as if each were king in his
own premises. And now you throw the blame on me--on me, whose life has
been embittered--whose sleep has been broken--whose happiness has been
wrecked by your dissensions. Have I not myself been obliged to traverse
wilds and mountains, at the head of a few faithful followers, to
maintain peace and put down oppression? Have I not worn harness on my
person, and carried pistols at my saddle; fain to lay aside the softness
of a woman, and the dignity of a Queen, that I might show an example to
my followers?”
“We grant, madam,” said Lindesay, “that the affrays occasioned by your
misgovernment, may sometimes have startled you in the midst of a masque
or galliard; or it may be that such may have interrupted the idolatry of
the mass, or the jesuitical counsels of some French ambassador. But the
longest and severest journey which your Grace has taken in my memory,
was from Hawick to Hermitage Castle; and whether it was for the weal of
the state, or for your own honour, rests with your Grace's conscience.”
The Queen turned to him with inexpressible sweetness of tone and manner,
and that engaging look which Heaven had assigned her, as if to show
that the choicest arts to win men's affections may be given in vain.
“Lindesay,” she said, “you spoke not to me in this stern tone, and with
such scurril taunt, yon fair summer evening, when you and I shot at the
butts against the Earl of Mar and Mary Livingstone, and won of them the
evening's collation, in the privy garden of Saint Andrews. The Master
of Lindesay was then my friend, and vowed to be my soldier. How I have
offended the Lord of Lindesay I know not, unless honours have changed
manners.”
Hardhearted as he was, Lindesay seemed struck with this unexpected
appeal, but almost instantly replied, “Madam, it is well known that
your Grace could in those days make fools of whomever approached you.
I pretend not to have been wiser than others. But gayer men and better
courtiers soon jostled aside my rude homage, and I think your Grace
cannot but remember times, when my awkward attempts to take the manners
that pleased you, were the sport of the court-popinjays, the Marys and
the Frenchwomen.”
“My lord, I grieve if I have offended you through idle gaiety,” said
the Queen; “and can but say it was most unwittingly done. You are fully
revenged; for through gaiety,” she said with a sigh, “will I never
offend any one more.”
“Our time is wasting, madam,” said Lord Ruthven; “I must pray your
decision on this weighty matter which I have submitted to you.”
“What, my lord!” said the Queen, “upon the instant, and without a
moment's time to deliberate?--Can the Council, as they term themselves,
expect this of me?”
“Madam,” replied Ruthven, “the Council hold the opinion, that since the
fatal term which passed betwixt the night of King Henry's murder and the
day of Carberry-hill, your Grace should have held you prepared for the
measure now proposed, as the easiest escape from your numerous dangers
and difficulties.”
“Great God!” exclaimed the Queen; “and is it as a boon that you propose
to me, what every Christian king ought to regard as a loss of honour
equal to the loss of life!--You take from me my crown, my power, my
subjects, my wealth, my state. What, in the name of every saint, can you
offer, or do you offer, in requital of my compliance?”
“We give you pardon,” answered Ruthven, sternly--“we give you space and
means to spend your remaining life in penitence and seclusion--we give
you time to make your peace with Heaven, and to receive the pure Gospel,
which you have ever rejected and persecuted.”
The Queen turned pale at the menace which this speech, as well as
the rough and inflexible tones of the speaker, seemed distinctly to
infer--“And if I do not comply with your request so fiercely urged, my
lord, what then follows?”
She said this in a voice in which female and natural fear was contending
with the feelings of insulted dignity.--There was a pause, as if no one
cared to return to the question a distinct answer. At length Ruthven
spoke: “There is little need to tell to your Grace, who are well read
both in the laws and in the chronicles of the realm, that murder and
adultery are crimes for which ere now queens themselves have suffered
death.”
“And where, my lord, or how, found you an accusation so horrible,
against her who stands before you?” said Queen Mary. “The foul and
odious calumnies which have poisoned the general mind of Scotland, and
have placed me a helpless prisoner in your hands, are surely no proof of
guilt?”
“We need look for no farther proof,” replied the stern Lord Ruthven,
“than the shameless marriage betwixt the widow of the murdered and the
leader of the band of murderers!--They that joined hands in the fated
month of May, had already united hearts and counsel in the deed which
preceded that marriage but a few brief weeks.”
“My lord, my lord!” said the Queen, eagerly, “remember well there were
more consents than mine to that fatal union, that most unhappy act of
a most unhappy life. The evil steps adopted by sovereigns are often
the suggestion of bad counsellors; but these counsellors are worse than
fiends who tempt and betray, if they themselves are the first to call
their unfortunate princes to answer for the consequences of their own
advice.--Heard ye never of a bond by the nobles, my lords, recommending
that ill-fated union to the ill-fated Mary? Methinks, were it carefully
examined, we should see that the names of Morton and of Lindesay, and
of Ruthven, may be found in that bond, which pressed me to marry that
unhappy man.--Ah! stout and loyal Lord Herries, who never knew guile
or dishonour, you bent your noble knee to me in vain, to warn me of my
danger, and wert yet the first to draw thy good sword in my cause when
I suffered for neglecting thy counsel! Faithful knight and true noble,
what a difference betwixt thee and those counsellors of evil, who now
threaten my life for having fallen into the snares they spread for me!”
“Madam,” said Ruthven, “we know that you are an orator; and perhaps for
that reason the Council has sent hither men, whose converse hath been
more with the wars, than with the language of the schools or the cabals
of state. We but desire to know if, on assurance of life and honour, ye
will demit the rule of this kingdom of Scotland?”
“And what warrant have I,” said the Queen, “that ye will keep treaty
with me, if I should barter my kingly estate for seclusion, and leave to
weep in secret?”
“Our honour and our word, madam,” answered Ruthven.
“They are too slight and unsolid pledges, my lord,” said the Queen; “add
at least a handful of thistle-down to give them weight in the balance.”
“Away, Ruthven,” said Lindesay; “she was ever deaf to counsel, save of
slaves and sycophants; let her remain by her refusal, and abide by it!”
“Stay, my lord,” said Sir Robert Melville, “or rather permit me to have
but a few minutes' private audience with her Grace. If my presence with
you could avail aught, it must be as a mediator--do not, I conjure you,
leave the castle, or break off the conference, until I bring you word
how her Grace shall finally stand disposed.”
“We will remain in the hall,” said Lindesay, “for half an hour's space;
but in despising our words and our pledge of honour, she has touched the
honour of my name--let her look herself to the course she has to pursue.
If the half hour should pass away without her determining to comply with
the demands of the nation, her career will be brief enough.”
With little ceremony the two nobles left the apartment, traversed the
vestibule, and descended the winding-stairs, the clash of Lindesay's
huge sword being heard as it rang against each step in his descent.
George Douglas followed them, after exchanging with Melville a gesture
of surprise and sympathy.
As soon as they were gone, the Queen, giving way to grief, fear, and
agitation, threw herself into the seat, wrung her hands, and seemed to
abandon herself to despair. Her female attendants, weeping themselves,
endeavoured yet to pray her to be composed, and Sir Robert Melville,
kneeling at her feet, made the same entreaty. After giving way to a
passionate burst of sorrow, she at length said to Melville, “Kneel not
to me, Melville--mock me not with the homage of the person, when the
heart is far away--Why stay you behind with the deposed, the condemned?
her who has but few hours perchance to live? You have been favoured as
well as the rest; why do you continue the empty show of gratitude and
thankfulness any longer than they?”
“Madam,” said Sir Robert Melville, “so help me Heaven at my need, my
heart is as true to you as when you were in your highest place.”
“True to me! true to me!” repeated the Queen, with some scorn; “tush,
Melville, what signifies the truth which walks hand in hand with my
enemies' falsehood?--thy hand and thy sword have never been so well
acquainted that I can trust thee in aught where manhood is required--Oh,
Seyton, for thy bold father, who is both wise, true, and valiant!”
Roland Graeme could withstand no longer his earnest desire to offer his
services to a princess so distressed and so beautiful. “If one sword,”
he said, “madam, can do any thing to back the wisdom of this grave
counsellor, or to defend your rightful cause, here is my weapon, and
here is my hand ready to draw and use it.” And raising his sword with
one hand, he laid the other upon the hilt.
As he thus held up the weapon, Catherine Seyton exclaimed, “Methinks
I see a token from my father, madam;” and immediately crossing the
apartment, she took Roland Graeme by the skirt of the cloak, and asked
him earnestly whence he had that sword.
The page answered with surprise, “Methinks this is no presence in
which to jest--Surely, damsel, you yourself best know whence and how I
obtained the weapon.”
“Is this a time for folly?” said Catherine Seyton; “unsheathe the sword
instantly!”
“If the Queen commands me,” said the youth, looking towards his royal
mistress.
“For shame, maiden!” said the Queen; “wouldst thou instigate the poor
boy to enter into useless strife with the two most approved soldiers in
Scotland?”
“In your Grace's cause,” replied the page, “I will venture my life upon
them!” And as he spoke, he drew his weapon partly from the sheath, and a
piece of parchment, rolled around the blade, fell out and dropped on the
floor. Catherine Seyton caught it up with eager haste.
“It is my father's hand-writing,” she said, “and doubtless conveys his
best duteous advice to your Majesty; I know that it was prepared to be
sent in this weapon, but I expected another messenger.”
“By my faith, fair one,” thought Roland, “and if you knew not that I had
such a secret missive about me, I was yet more ignorant.”
The Queen cast her eye upon the scroll, and remained a few minutes
wrapped in deep thought. “Sir Robert Melville,” she at length said,
“this scroll advises me to submit myself to necessity, and to subscribe
the deeds these hard men have brought with them, as one who gives way to
the natural fear inspired by the threats of rebels and murderers. You,
Sir Robert, are a wise man, and Seyton is both sagacious and brave.
Neither, I think, would mislead me in this matter.”
“Madam,” said Melville, “if I have not the strength of body of the Lord
Herries or Seyton, I will yield to neither in zeal for your Majesty's
service. I cannot fight for you like these lords, but neither of them is
more willing to die for your service.”
“I believe it, my old and faithful counsellor,” said the Queen, “and
believe me, Melville, I did thee but a moment's injustice. Read what my
Lord Seyton hath written to us, and give us thy best counsel.”
He glanced over the parchment, and instantly replied,--“Oh! my dear and
royal mistress, only treason itself could give you other advice than
Lord Seyton has here expressed. He, Herries, Huntly, the English
ambassador Throgmorton, and others, your friends, are all alike of
opinion, that whatever deeds or instruments you execute within these
walls, must lose all force and effect, as extorted from your Grace by
duresse, by sufferance of present evil, and fear of men, and harm to
ensue on your refusal. Yield, therefore, to the tide, and be assured,
that in subscribing what parchments they present to you, you bind
yourself to nothing, since your act of signature wants that which alone
can make it valid, the free will of the granter.”
“Ay, so says my Lord Seyton,” replied Mary; “yet methinks, for the
daughter of so long a line of sovereigns to resign her birthright,
because rebels press upon her with threats, argues little of royalty,
and will read ill for the fame of Mary in future chronicles. Tush! Sir
Robert Melville, the traitors may use black threats and bold words, but
they will not dare to put their hands forth on our person.”
“Alas! madam, they have already dared so far and incurred such peril by
the lengths which they have gone, that they are but one step from the
worst and uttermost.”
“Surely,” said the Queen, her fears again predominating, “Scottish
nobles would not lend themselves to assassinate a helpless woman?”
“Bethink you, madam,” he replied, “what horrid spectacles have been seen
in our day; and what act is so dark, that some Scottish hand has not
been found to dare it? Lord Lindesay, besides his natural sullenness and
hardness of temper, is the near kinsman of Henry Darnley, and Ruthven
has his own deep and dangerous plans. The Council, besides, speak of
proofs by writ and word, of a casket with letters--of I know not what.”
“Ah! good Melville,” answered the Queen, “were I as sure of the
even-handed integrity of my judges, as of my own innocence--and yet----”
“Oh! pause, madam,” said Melville; “even innocence must sometimes for a
season stoop to injurious blame. Besides, you are here--”
He looked round, and paused.
“Speak out, Melville,” said the Queen, “never one approached my person
who wished to work me evil; and even this poor page, whom I have
to-day seen for the first time in my life, I can trust safely with your
communication.”
“Nay, madam,” answered Melville, “in such emergence, and he being the
bearer of Lord Seyton's message, I will venture to say, before him and
these fair ladies, whose truth and fidelity I dispute not--I say I will
venture to say, that there are other modes besides that of open trial,
by which deposed sovereigns often die; and that, as Machiavel saith,
there is but one step betwixt a king's prison and his grave.”
“Oh I were it but swift and easy for the body,” said the unfortunate
Princess, “were it but a safe and happy change for the soul, the woman
lives not that would take the step so soon as I--But, alas! Melville,
when we think of death, a thousand sins, which we have trod as
worms beneath our feet, rise up against us as flaming serpents. Most
injuriously do they accuse me of aiding Darnley's death; yet, blessed
Lady! I afforded too open occasion for the suspicion--I espoused
Bothwell.”
“Think not of that now, madam,” said Melville, “think rather of the
immediate mode of saving yourself and son. Comply with the present
unreasonable demands, and trust that better times will shortly arrive.”
“Madam,” said Roland Graeme, “if it pleases you that I should do so, I
will presently swim through the lake, if they refuse me other conveyance
to the shore; I will go to the courts successively of England, France,
and Spain, and will show you have subscribed these vile instruments from
no stronger impulse than the fear of death, and I will do battle against
them that say otherwise.”
The Queen turned her round, and with one of those sweet smiles which,
during the era of life's romance, overpay every risk, held her hand
towards Roland, but without “speaking a word. He kneeled reverently, and
kissed it, and Melville again resumed his plea.