Meanwhile Bothwell had levied some troops, and thought himself in a
position to hold the country: accordingly, he set out with his army,
without even waiting for the Hamiltons, who were assembling their
vassals, and June 15th, 1567, the two opposed forces were face to face.
Mary, who desired to try to avoid bloodshed, immediately sent the French
ambassador to the Confederate lords to exhort them to lay aside their
arms; but they replied "that the queen deceived herself in taking them
for rebels; that they were marching not against her, but against
Bothwell." Then the king's friends did what they could to break off the
negotiations and give battle: it was already too late; the soldiers knew
that they were defending the cause of one man, and that they were going
to fight for a woman's caprice, and not for the good of the country:
they cried aloud, then, that "since Bothwell alone was aimed at, it was
for Bothwell to defend his cause". And he, vain and blustering as usual,
gave out that he was ready to prove his innocence in person against
whomsoever would dare to maintain that he was guilty. Immediately
everyone with any claim to nobility in the rival camp accepted the
challenge; and as the honour was given to the bravest, Kirkcaldy of
Grange, Murray of Tullibardine, and Lord Lindsay of Byres defied him
successively. But, be it that courage failed him, be it that in the
moment of danger he did not himself believe in the justice of his cause,
he, to escape the combat, sought such strange pretexts that the queen
herself was ashamed; and his most devoted friends murmured.
Then Mary, perceiving the fatal humour of men's minds, decided not to
run the risk of a battle. She sent a herald to Kirkcaldy of Grange, who
was commanding an outpost, and as he was advancing without distrust to
converse with the queen, Bothwell, enraged at his own cowardice, ordered
a soldier to fire upon him; but this time Mary herself interposed,
forbidding him under pain of death to offer the least violence. In the
meanwhile, as the imprudent order given by Bothwell spread through the
army, such murmurs burst forth that he clearly saw that his cause was
for ever lost.
That is what the queen thought also; for the result of her conference
with Lord Kirkcaldy was that she should abandon Bothwell's cause, and
pass over into the camp of the Confederates, on condition that they
would lay down their arms before her and bring her as queen to
Edinburgh. Kirkcaldy left her to take these conditions to the nobles,
and promised to return next day with a satisfactory answer. But at the
moment of leaving Bothwell, Mary was seized again with that fatal love
for him that she was never able to surmount, and felt herself overcome
with such weakness, that, weeping bitterly, and before everyone, she
wanted Kirkcaldy to be told that she broke off all negotiations;
however, as Bothwell had understood that he was no longer safe in camp,
it was he who insisted that things should remain as they were; and,
leaving Mary in tears, he mounted, and setting off at full speed, he did
not stop till he reached Dunbar.
Next day, at the time appointed, the arrival of Lord Kirkcaldy of Grange
was announced by the trumpeters preceding him. Mary mounted directly and
went to meet him; them, as he alighted to greet her, "My lord;" said
she, "I surrender to you, on the conditions that you have proposed to me
on the part of the nobles, and here is my hand as a sign of entire
confidence". Kirkcaldy then knelt down, kissed the queen's hand
respectfully; and, rising, he took her horse by the bridle and led it
towards the Confederates' camp.
Everyone of any rank in the army received her with such marks of respect
as entirely to satisfy her; but it was not so at all with the soldiers
and common people. Hardly had the queen reached the second line, formed
by them, than great murmurs arose, and several voices cried, "To the
stake, the adulteress! To the stake, the parricide!" However, Mary bore
these outrages stoically enough but a more terrible trial yet was in
store for her. Suddenly she saw rise before her a banner, on which was
depicted on one side the king dead and stretched out in the fatal
garden, and on the other the young prince kneeling, his hands joined and
his eyes raised to heaven, with this inscription, "O Lord! judge and
revenge my cause!" Mary reined in her horse abruptly at this sight, and
wanted to turn back; but she had scarcely moved a few paces when the
accusing banner again blocked her passage. Wherever she went, she met
this dreadful apparition. For two hours she had incessantly under her
eyes the king's corpse asking vengeance, and the young prince her son
praying God to punish the murderers. At last she could endure it no
longer, and, crying out, she threw herself back, having completely lost
consciousness, and would have fallen, if someone had not caught hold of
her. In the evening she entered Edinburgh, always preceded by the cruel
banner, and she already had rather the air of a prisoner than of a
queen; for, not having had a moment during the day to attend to her
toilet, her hair was falling in disorder about her shoulders, her face
was pale and showed traces of tears; and finally, her clothes were
covered with dust and mud. As she proceeded through the town, the
hootings of the people and the curses of the crowd followed her. At
last, half dead with fatigue, worn out with grief, bowed down with
shame, she reached the house of the Lord Provost; but scarcely had she
got there when the entire population of Edinburgh crowded into the
square, with cries that from time to time assumed a tone of terrifying
menace. Several times, then, Mary wished to go to the window, hoping
that the sight of her, of which she had so often proved the influence,
would disarm this multitude; but each time she saw this banner unfurling
itself like a bloody curtain between herself and the people--a terrible
rendering of their feelings.
However, all this hatred was meant still more for Bothwell than for her:
they were pursuing Bothwell in Darnley's widow. The curses were for
Bothwell: Bothwell was the adulterer, Bothwell was the murderer,
Bothwell was the coward; while Mary was the weak, fascinated woman, who,
that same evening, gave afresh proof of her folly.
In fact, directly the falling night had scattered the crowd and a little
quiet was regained, Mary, ceasing to be uneasy on her own account,
turned immediately to Bothwell, whom she had been obliged to abandon,
and who was now proscribed and fleeing; while she, as she believed, was
about to reassume her title and station of queen. With that eternal
confidence of the woman in her own love, by which she invariably
measures the love of another, she thought that Bothwell's greatest
distress was to have lost, not wealth and power, but to have lost
herself. So she wrote him a long letter, in which, forgetful of herself,
she promised him with the most tender expressions of love never to
desert him, and to recall him to her directly the breaking up of the
Confederate lords should give her power to do so; then, this letter
written, she called a soldier, gave him a purse of gold, and charged him
to take this letter to Dunbar, where Bothwell ought to be, and if he
were already gone, to follow him until he came up with him.
Then she went to bed and slept more calmly; for, unhappy as she was, she
believed she had just sweetened misfortunes still greater than hers.
Next day the queen was awakened by the step of an armed man who entered
her room. Both astonished and frightened at this neglect of propriety,
which could augur nothing good, Mary sat up in bed, and parting the
curtains, saw standing before her Lord Lindsay of Byres: she knew he was
one of her oldest friends, so she asked him in a voice which she vainly
tried to make confident, what he wanted of her at such a time.
"Do you know this writing, madam?" Lord Lindsay asked in a rough voice,
presenting to the queen the letter she had written to Bothwell at night,
which the soldier had carried to the Confederate lords, instead of
taking to its address.
"Yes, doubtless, my lord," the queen answered; "but am I already a
prisoner, then, that my correspondence is intercepted? or is it no
longer allowed to a wife to write to her husband?"
"When the husband is a traitor," replied Lindsay, "no, madam, it is no
longer allowed to a wife to write to her husband--at least, however, if
this wife have a part in his treason; which seems to me, besides, quite
proved by the promise you make to this wretch to recall him to you."
"My lord," cried Mary, interrupting Lindsay, "do you forget that you are
speaking to your queen."
"There was a time, madam," Lindsay replied, "when I should have spoken
to you in a more gentle voice, and bending the knee, although it is not
in the nature of us old Scotch to model ourselves on your French
courtiers; but for some time, thanks to your changing loves, you have
kept us so often in the field, in harness, that our voices are hoarse
from the cold night air, and our stiff knees can no longer bend in our
armour: you must then take me just as I am, madam; since to-day, for the
welfare of Scotland, you are no longer at liberty to choose your
favourites."
Mary grew frightfully pale at this want of respect, to which she was not
yet accustomed; but quickly containing her anger, as far as possible--
"But still, my lord," said she, "however disposed I may be to take you
as you are, I must at least know by what right you come here. That
letter which you are holding in your hand would lead me to think it is
as a spy, if the ease with which you enter my room without being asked
did not make me believe it is as a gaoler. Have the goodness, then, to
inform me by which of these two names I must call you."
"Neither by one nor the other, madam; for I am simply your
fellow-traveller, chief of the escort which is to take you to Lochleven
Castle, your future residence. And yet, scarcely have I arrived there
than I shall be obliged to leave you to go and assist the Confederate
lords choose a regent for the kingdom."
"So," said Mary, "it was as prisoner and not as queen that I surrendered
to Lord Kirkcaldy. It seems to me that things were agreed upon
otherwise; but I am glad to see how much time Scotch noblemen need to
betray their sworn undertakings".
"Your Grace forgets that these engagements were made on one condition,"
Lindsay answered.
"On which?" Mary asked.
"That you should separate for ever from your husband's murderer; and
there is the proof," he added, showing the letter, "that you had
forgotten your promise before we thought of revoking ours."
"And at what o'clock is my departure fixed?" said Mary, whom this
discussion was beginning to fatigue.
"At eleven o'clock, madam."
"It is well, my lord; as I have no desire to make your lordship wait,
you will have the goodness, in withdrawing, to send me someone to help
me dress, unless I am reduced to wait upon myself."
And, in pronouncing these words, Mary made a gesture so imperious, that
whatever may have been Lindsay's wish to reply, he bowed and went out.
Behind him entered Mary Seyton.