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-a-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 of it. 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 he 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.