The tragedy of my Lord Darnley's life lay in the fact that he was a
man born out of his proper station--a clown destined to kingship by the
accident of birth and fortune. By the blood royal flowing in his veins,
he could, failing others, have claimed succession to both the English
and the Scottish thrones, whilst by his marriage with Mary Stuart he
made a definite attempt to possess himself of that of Scotland.
The Queen of Scots, enamoured for a season of the clean-limbed grace and
almost feminine beauty (“ladyfaced,” Melville had called him once) of
this “long lad of nineteen” who came a-wooing her, had soon discovered,
in matrimony, his vain, debauched, shiftless, and cowardly nature. She
had married him in July of 1565, and by Michaelmas she had come to know
him for just a lovely husk of a man, empty of heart or brain; and the
knowledge transmuted affection into contempt.
Her natural brother, the Earl of Murray, had opposed the marriage,
chiefly upon the grounds that Darnley was a Catholic, and with Argyll,
Chatellerault, Glencairn, and a host of other Protestant lords, had
risen in arms against his sovereign and her consort. But Mary had chased
her rebel brother and his fellows over the border into England, and by
this very action, taken for the sake of her worthless husband, she sowed
the first seeds of discord between herself and him. It happened that
stout service had been rendered her in this affair by the arrogant
border ruffian, the Earl of Bothwell. Partly to reward him, partly
because of the confidence with which he inspired her, she bestowed
upon him the office of Lieutenant-General of the East, Middle, and West
Marches--an office which Darnley had sought for his father, Lennox.
That was the first and last concerted action of the royal couple.
Estrangement grew thereafter between them, and, in a measure, as it grew
so did Darnley's kingship, hardly established as yet--for the Queen had
still to redeem her pre-nuptial promise to confer upon him the crown
matrimonial--begin to dwindle.
At first it had been “the King and Queen,” or “His Majesty and Hers”;
but by Christmas--five months after the wedding--Darnley was known
simply as “the Queen's husband,” and in all documents the Queen's name
now took precedence of his, whilst coins bearing their two heads, and
the legend “Hen. et Maria,” were called in and substituted by a new
coinage relegating him to the second place.
Deeply affronted, and seeking anywhere but in himself and his own
shortcomings the cause of the Queen's now manifest hostility, he
presently conceived that he had found it in the influence exerted upon
her by the Seigneur Davie--that Piedmontese, David Rizzio, who had come
to the Scottish Court some four years ago as a starveling minstrel in
the train of Monsieur de Morette, the ambassador of Savoy.
It was Rizzio's skill upon the rebec that had first attracted Mary's
attention. Later he had become her secretary for French affairs and the
young Queen, reared amid the elegancies of the Court of France, grew
attached to him as to a fellow-exile in the uncouth and turbulent land
over which a harsh destiny ordained that she should rule. Using his
opportunities and his subtle Italian intelligence, he had advanced so
rapidly that soon there was no man in Scotland who stood higher with
the Queen. When Maitland of Lethington was dismissed under suspicion of
favouring the exiled Protestant lords, the Seigneur Davie succeeded him
as her secretary; and now that Morton was under the same suspicion, it
was openly said that the Seigneur Davie would be made chancellor in his
stead.
Thus the Seigneur Davie was become the most powerful man in Scotland,
and it is not to be dreamt that a dour, stiff-necked nobility would
suffer it without demur. They intrigued against him, putting it abroad,
amongst other things, that this foreign upstart was an emissary, of the
Pope's, scheming to overthrow the Protestant religion in Scotland. But
in the duel that followed their blunt Scotch wits were no match for his
Italian subtlety. Intrigue as they might his power remained unshaken.
And then, at last it began to be whispered that he owed his high favour
with the beautiful young Queen to other than his secretarial abilities,
so that Bedford wrote to Cecil:
“What countenance the Queen shows David I will not write, for the honour
due to the person of a queen.”
This bruit found credit--indeed, there have been ever since those who
have believed it--and, as it spread, it reached the ears of Darnley.
Because it afforded him an explanation of the Queen's hostility, since
he was without the introspection that would have discovered the true
explanation in his own shortcomings, he flung it as so much fuel upon
the seething fires of his rancour, and became the most implacable of
those who sought the ruin of Rizzio.
He sent for Ruthven, the friend of Murray and the exiled lords--exiled,
remember, on Darnley's own account--and offered to procure the
reinstatement of those outlaws if they would avenge his honour and make
him King of Scots in something more than name.
Ruthven, sick of a mortal illness, having risen from a bed of pain to
come in answer to that summons, listened dourly to the frothing speeches
of that silly, lovely boy.
“No doubt you'll be right about yon fellow Davie,” he agreed sombrely,
and purposely he added things that must have outraged Darnley's every
feeling as king and as husband. Then he stated the terms on which
Darnley might count upon his aid.
“Early next month Parliament is to meet over the business of a Bill
of Attainder against Murray and his friends, declaring them by their
rebellion to have forfeited life, land, and goods. Ye can see the power
with her o' this foreign fiddler, that it drives her so to attaint her
own brother. Murray has ever hated Davie, knowing too much of what lies
'twixt the Queen and him to her dishonour, and Master Davie thinks so to
make an end of Murray and his hatred.”
Darnley clenched teeth and hands, tortured by the craftily administered
poison.
“What then? What is to do?” he cried,
Ruthven told him bluntly.
“That Bill must never pass. Parliament must never meet to pass it. You
are Her Grace's husband and King of Scots.”
“In name!” sneered Darnley bitterly.
“The name will serve,” said Ruthven. “In that name ye'll sign me a bond
of formal remission to Murray and his friends for all their actions and
quarrels, permitting their safe return to Scotland, and charging the
lieges to convoy them safely. Do that and leave the rest to us.”
If Darnley hesitated at all, it was not because he perceived the irony
of the situation--that he himself, in secret opposition to the Queen,
should sign the pardon of those who had rebelled against her precisely
because she had taken him to husband. He hesitated because indecision
was inherent in his nature.
“And then?” he asked at last.
Ruthven's blood-injected eyes considered him stonily out of a livid,
gleaming face.
“Then, whether you reign with her or without her, reign you shall as
King o' Scots. I pledge myself to that, and I pledge those others, so
that we have the bond.”
Darnley sat down to sign the death warrant of the Seigneur Davie.
It was the night of Saturday, the 9th of March.
A fire of pine logs burned fragrantly on the hearth of the small closet
adjoining the Queen's chamber, suffusing it with a sense of comfort,
the greater by contrast with the cheerlessness out of doors, where an
easterly wind swept down from Arthur's Seat and moaned its dismal way
over a snowclad world.
The lovely, golden-headed young queen supped with a little company of
intimates: her natural sister, the Countess of Argyll, the Commendator
of Holyrood, Beaton, the Master of the Household, Arthur Erskine, the
Captain of the Guard, and one other--that, David Rizzio, who from an
errant minstrel had risen to this perilous eminence, a man of a swarthy,
ill-favoured countenance redeemed by the intelligence that glowed in
his dark eyes, and of a body so slight and fragile as to seem almost
misshapen. His age was not above thirty, yet indifferent health, early
privation, and misfortune had so set their mark upon him that he had
all the appearance of a man of fifty. He was dressed with sombre
magnificence, and a jewel of great price smouldered upon the middle
finger of one of his slender, delicate hands.
Supper was at an end. The Queen lounged on a long seat over against the
tapestried wall. The Countess of Argyll, in a tall chair on the Queen's
left, sat with elbows on the table watching the Seigneur Davie's fine
fingers as they plucked softly at the strings of a long-necked lute. The
talk, which, intimate and untrammelled, had lately been of the child
of which Her Majesty was to be delivered some three months hence, was
flagging now, and it was to fill the gap that Rizzio had taken up the
lute.
His harsh countenance was transfigured as he caressed the strings, his
soul absorbed in the theme of his inspiration. Very softly--indeed, no
more than tentatively as yet--he was beginning one of those wistful airs
in which his spirit survives in Scotland to this day, when suddenly the
expectant hush was broken by a clash of curtain-rings. The tapestries
that masked the door had been swept aside, and on the threshold,
unheralded, stood the tall, stripling figure of the young King.
Darnley's appearance abruptly scattered the Italian's inspiration. The
melody broke off sharply on the single loud note of a string too rudely
plucked.
That and the silence that followed it irked them all, conveying a sense
that here something had been broken which never could be made whole
again.
Darnley shuffled forward. His handsome face was pale save for the two
burning spots upon his cheekbones, and his eyes glittered feveredly. He
had been drinking, so much was clear; and that he should seek the Queen
thus, who so seldom sought her sober, angered those intimates who had
come to share her well-founded dislike of him. King though he might be
in name, into such contempt was he fallen that not one of them rose
in deference, whilst Mary herself watched his approach with hostile,
mistrusting eyes.
“What is it, my lord?” she asked him coldly, as he flung himself down on
the settle beside her.
He leered at her, put an arm about her waist, pulled her to him, and
kissed her oafishly.
None stirred. All eyes were upon them, and all faces blank. After all,
he was the King and she his wife. And then upon the silence, ominous
as the very steps of doom, came a ponderous, clanking tread from the
ante-room beyond. Again the curtains were thrust aside, and the Countess
of Argyll uttered a gasp of sudden fear at the grim spectre she beheld
there. It was a figure armed as for a tourney, in gleaming steel from
head to foot, girt with a sword, the right hand resting upon the hilt of
the heavy dagger in the girdle. The helmet's vizor was raised, revealing
the ghastly face of Ruthven--so ghastly that it must have seemed the
face of a dead man but for the blazing life in the eyes that scanned the
company. Those questing eyes went round the table, settled upon Rizzio,
and seemed horribly to smile.
Startled, disquieted by this apparition, the Queen half rose, Darnley's
hindering arm still flung about her waist.
“What's this?” she cried, her voice sharp.
And then, as if she guessed intuitively what it might portend, she
considered her husband with pale-faced contempt.
“Judas!” she called him, flung away from his detaining arm, and stood
forth to confront that man in steel. “What seek ye here, my lord--and in
this guise?” was her angry challenge.
Ruthven's burning eyes fell away before her glance. He clanked forward a
step or two, flung out a mailed arm, and with a hand that shook pointed
to the Seigneur Davie, who stood blankly watching him.
“I seek yon man,” he said gruffly. “Let him come forth.”
“He is here by my will,” she told him, her anger mounting. “And so are
not you--for which you shall be made to answer.”
Then to Darnley, who sat hunched on the settle:
“What does this mean, sir?” she demanded.
“Why--how should I know? Why--why, nothing,” he faltered foolishly.
“Pray God that you are right,” said she, “for your own sake. And you,”
she continued, addressing Ruthven again and waving a hand in imperious
dismissal, “be you gone, and wait until I send for you, which I promise
you shall be right soon.”
If she divined some of the evil of their purpose, if any fear assailed
her, yet she betrayed nothing of it. She was finely tempered steel.
But Ruthven, sullen and menacing, stood his ground.
“Let yon man come forth,” he repeated. “He has been here ower lang.”
“Over long?” she echoed, betrayed by her quick resentment.
“Aye, ower lang for the good o' Scotland and your husband,” was the
brutal answer.
Erskine, of her guards, leapt to his feet.
“Will you begone, sir?” he cried; and after him came Beaton and the
Commendator, both echoing the captain's threatening question.
A smile overspread Ruthven's livid face. The heavy dagger flashed from
his belt.
“My affair is not with any o' ye, but if ye thrust yersels too close
upon my notice--”
The Queen stepped clear of the table to intervene, lest violence should
be done here in her presence. Rizzio, who had risen, stood now beside
her, watching all with a white, startled face. And then, before more
could be said, the curtains were torn away and half a score of men,
whose approach had passed unnoticed, poured into the room. First came
Morton, the Chancellor, who was to be dispossessed of the great seal
in Rizzio's favour. After him followed the brutal Lindsay of the Byres,
Kerr of Faudonside, black-browed Brunston, red-headed Douglas, and a
half-dozen others.
Confusion ensued; the three men of the Queen's household were instantly
surrounded and overpowered. In the brief, sharp struggle the table was
overturned, and all would have been in darkness but that as the table
went over the Countess of Argyll had snatched up the candle-branch, and
stood now holding it aloft to light that extraordinary scene. Rizzio, to
whom the sight of Morton had been as the removal of his last illusion,
flung himself upon his knees before the Queen. Frail and feeble of body,
and never a man of his hands, he was hopelessly unequal to the occasion.
“Justice, madame!” he cried. “Faites justice! Sauvez ma vie!”
Fearlessly, she stepped between him and the advancing horde of
murderers, making of her body a buckler for his protection. White
of face, with heaving bosom and eyes like two glowing sapphires, she
confronted them.
“Back, on your lives!” she bade them.
But they were lost to all sense of reverence, even to all sense of
decency, in their blind rage against this foreign upstart who had
trampled their Scottish vanity in the dust. George Douglas, without
regard for her condition either as queen or woman--and a woman almost
upon the threshold of motherhood--clapped a pistol to her breast and
roughly bade her stand aside.
Undaunted, she looked at him with eyes that froze his trigger-finger,
whilst behind her Rizzio grovelled in his terror, clutching her
petticoat. Thus, until suddenly she was seized about the waist and half
dragged, half-lifted aside by Darnley, who at the same time spurned
Rizzio forward with his foot.
The murderers swooped down upon their prey. Kerr of Faudonside flung
a noose about his body, and drew it tight with a jerk that pulled the
secretary from his knees. Then he and Morton took the rope between
them, and so dragged their victim across the room towards the door.
He struggled blindly as he went, vainly clutching first at an overset
chair, then at a leg of the table, and screeching piteously the while
to the Queen to save him. And Mary, trembling with passion, herself
struggling in the arms of Darnley, flung an angry warning after them.
“If Davie's blood be spilt, it shall be dear blood to some of you!
Remember that, sirs!”
But they were beyond control by now, hounds unleashed upon the quarry of
their hate. Out of her presence Morton and Douglas dragged him, the rest
of the baying pack going after them. They dragged him, screeching still,
across the ante-chamber to the head of the great stairs, and there they
fell on him all together, and so wildly that they wounded one another
in their fury to rend him into pieces. The tattered body, gushing blood
from six-and-fifty wounds, was hurled from top to bottom of the stairs,
with a gold-hilted dagger--Darnley's, in token of his participation in
the deed--still sticking in his breast.
Ruthven stood forward from the group, his reeking poniard clutched in
his right hand, a grin distorting his ghastly, vulturine face. Then he
stalked back alone into the royal presence, dragging his feet a little,
like a man who is weary.
He found the room much as he had left it, save that the Queen had sunk
back to her seat on the settle, and Darnley was now standing over her,
whilst her people were still hemmed about by his own men. Without a “by
your leave,” he flung himself into a chair and called hoarsely for a cup
of wine.
Mary's white face frowned at him across the room.
“You shall yet drink the wine that I shall pour you for this night's
work, my lord, and for this insolence! Who gave you leave to sit before
me?”
He waved a hand as if to dismiss the matter. It may have seemed to him
frivolous to dwell upon such a trifle amid so much.
“It's no' frae lack o' respect, Your Grace,” he growled, “but frae lack
o' strength. I am ill, and I should ha' been abed but for what was here
to do.”
“Ah!” She looked at him with cold repugnance. “What have you done with
Davie?”
He shrugged, yet his eyes quailed before her own.
“He'll be out yonder,” he answered, grimly evasive; and he took the wine
one of his followers proffered him.
“Go see,” she bade the Countess.
And the Countess, setting the candle-branch upon the buffet, went out,
none attempting to hinder her.
Then, with narrowed eyes, the Queen watched Ruthven while he drank.
“It will be for the sake of Murray and his friends that you do this,”
she said slowly. “Tell me, my lord, what great kindness is there between
Murray and you that, to save him from forfeiture, you run the risk of
being forfeited with him?”
“What I have done,” he said, “I have done for others, and under a bond
that shall hold me scatheless.”
“Under a bond?” said she, and now she looked up at Darnley, standing
ever at her side. “And was the bond yours, my lord?”
“Me?” He started back. “I know naught of it.”
But as he moved she saw something else. She leaned forward, pointing to
the empty sheath at his girdle.
“Where is your dagger, my lord?” she asked him sharply.
“My dagger? Ha! How should I know?”
“But I shall know!” she threatened, as if she were not virtually a
prisoner in the hands of these violent men who had invaded her palace
and dragged Rizzio from her side. “I shall not rest until I know!”
The Countess came in, white to the lips, bearing in her eyes something
of the horror she had beheld.
“What is it?” Mary asked her, her voice suddenly hushed and faltering.
“Madame--he is dead! Murdered!” she announced.
The Queen looked at her, her face of marble. Then her voice came hushed
and tense:
“Are--you sure?”
“Myself I saw his body, madame.”
There was a long pause. A low moan escaped the Queen, and her lovely
eyes were filled with tears; slowly these coursed down her cheeks.
Something compelling in her grief hushed every voice, and the craven
husband at her side shivered as her glance fell upon him once more.
“And is it so?” she said at length, considering him. She dried her eyes.
“Then farewell tears; I must study revenge.” She rose as if with labour,
and standing, clung a moment to the table's edge. A moment she looked at
Ruthven, who sat glooming there, dagger in one hand and empty wine-cup
in the other; then her glance passed on, and came to rest balefully
on Darnley's face. “You have had your will, my lord,” she said, “but
consider well what I now say. Consider and remember. I shall never rest
until I give you as sore a heart as I have presently.”
That said she staggered forward. The Countess hastened to her, and
leaning upon her arm, Mary passed through the little door of the closet
into her chamber.
That night the common bell was rung, and Edinburgh roused in alarm.
Bothwell, Huntly, Atholl, and others who were at Holyrood when Rizzio
was murdered, finding it impossible to go to the Queen's assistance, and
fearing to share the secretary's fate--for the palace was a-swarm with
the murderers' men-at-arms--had escaped by one of the windows. The alarm
they spread in Edinburgh brought the provost and townsmen in arms to the
palace by torchlight, demanding to see the Queen, and refusing to depart
until Darnley had shown himself and assured them that all was well
with the Queen and with himself. And what time Darnley gave them this
reassurance from a window of her room, Mary herself stood pale and taut
amid the brutal horde that on this alarm had violated the privacy of her
chamber, while the ruffianly Red Douglas flashed his dagger before her
eyes, swearing that if she made a sound they would cut her into collops.
When at last they withdrew and left her to herself, they left her
no illusions as to her true condition. She was a prisoner in her own
palace. The ante-rooms and courts were thronged with the soldiers of
Morton and Ruthven, the palace itself was hemmed about, and none might
come or go save at the good pleasure of the murderers.
At last Darnley grasped the authority he had coveted. He dictated
forthwith a proclamation which was read next morning at Edinburgh Market
Cross--commanding that the nobles who had assembled in Edinburgh to
compose the Parliament that was to pass the Bill of Attainder should
quit the city within three hours, under pain of treason and forfeiture.
And meanwhile, with poor Rizzio's last cry of “justice!” still ringing
in her ears, Mary sat alone in her chamber, studying revenge as she
had promised. So that life be spared her, justice, she vowed, should
be done--punishment not only for that barbarous deed, but for the very
manner of the doing of it, for all the insult to which she had been
subjected, for the monstrous violence done her feelings and her very
person, for the present detention and peril of which she was full
conscious.
Her anger was the more intense because she never permitted it to diffuse
itself over the several offenders. Ruthven, who had insulted her so
grossly; Douglas, who had offered her personal violence; the Laird
of Faudonside, Morton, and all the others who held her now a helpless
prisoner, she hew for no more than the instruments of Darnley. It was
against Darnley that all her rage was concentrated. She recalled in
those bitter hours all that she had suffered at his vile hands, and
swore that at whatever cost to herself he should yield a full atonement.
He sought her in the morning emboldened by the sovereign power he
was usurping confident that now that he showed himself master of the
situation she would not repine over what was done beyond recall, but
would submit to the inevitable, be reconciled with him, and grant him,
perforce--supported as he now was by the rebellious lords--the crown
matrimonial and the full kingly power he coveted.
But her reception of him broke that confidence into shards.
“You have done me such a Wrong,” she told him in a voice of cold hatred,
“that neither the recollection of our early friendship, nor all the hope
you can give me of the future, could ever make me forget it. Jamais!
Jamais je n'oublierai!” she added, and upon that she dismissed him so
imperiously that he went at once.
She sought a way to deal with him, groped blindly for it, being as yet
but half informed of what was taking place; and whilst she groped, the
thing she sought was suddenly thrust into her land. Mary Beaton, one of
the few attendants left her, brought her word later that day that the
Earl of Murray, with Rothes and some other of the exiled lords, was
in the palace. The news brought revelation. It flooded with light
the tragic happening of the night before, showed her how Darnley was
building himself a party in the state. It did more than that. She
recalled the erstwhile mutual hatred and mistrust of Murray and Darnley,
and saw how it might serve her in this emergency.
Instantly she summoned Murray to her presence with the message that
she welcomed his return. Yet, despite that message, he hardly
expected--considering what lay between them--the reception that awaited
him at her hands.
She rose to receive him, her lovely eyes suffused with tears. She
embraced him, kissed him, and then, nestling to him, as if for comfort,
her cheek against his bearded face, she allowed her tears to flow
unchecked.
“I am punished,” she sobbed--“oh, I am punished! Had I kept you at home,
Murray, you would never have suffered men to entreat me as I have been
entreated.”
Holding her to hin, he could but pat her shoulder, soothing her, utterly
taken aback, and deeply moved, too, by this display of an affection for
him that he had never hitherto suspected in her.
“Ah, mon Dieu, Jamie, how welcome you are to one in my sorrow!” she
continued. “It is the fault of others that you have been so long out of
the country. I but require of you that you be a good subject to me, and
you shall never find me other to you than you deserve.”
And he, shaken to the depths of his selfish soul by her tears, her
clinging caresses, and her protestations of affection, answered with
an oath and a sob that no better or more loyal and devoted subject than
himself could all Scotland yield her.
“And, as for this killing of Davie,” he ended vehemently, “I swear by my
soul's salvation that I have had no part in it, nor any knowledge of it
until my return!”
“I know--I know!” she moaned. “Should I make you welcome, else? Be my
friend, Jamie; be my friend!”
He swore it readily, for he was very greedy of power, and saw the door
of his return to it opening wider than he could have hoped. Then he
spoke of Darnley, begging her to receive him, and hear what he might
have to say, protesting that the King swore that he had not desired the
murder, and that the lords had carried the matter out of his hands and
much beyond all that he had intended.
Because it suited her deep purpose, Mary consented, feigning to be
persuaded. She had realized that before she could deal with Darnley, and
the rebel lords who held her a prisoner, she must first win free from
Holyrood.
Darnley came. He was sullen now, mindful of his recent treatment, and in
fear--notwithstanding Murray's reassurance--of further similar rebuffs.
She announced herself ready to hear what he might have to say, and she
listened attentively while he spoke, her elbow on the carved arm of her
chair, her chin in her hand. When he had done, she sat long in thought,
gazing out through the window at the grey March sky. At length she
turned and looked at him.
“Do you pretend, my lord, to regret for what has passed?” she challenged
him.
“You tempt me to hypocrisy,” he said. “Yet I will be frank as at an
Easter shrift. Since that fellow Davie fell into credit and familiarity
with Your Majesty, you no longer treated me nor entertained me after
your wonted fashion, nor would you ever bear me company save this Davie
were the third. Can I pretend, then, to regret that one who deprived
me of what I prized most highly upon earth should have been removed? I
cannot. Yet I can and do proclaim my innocence of any part or share in
the deed that has removed him.”
She lowered her eyes an instant, then raised them again to meet his own.
“You had commerce with these traitor lords,” she reminded him. “It is
by your decree that they are returned from exile. What was your aim in
this?”
“To win back the things of which this fellow Davie had robbed me, a
share in the ruling and the crown matrimonial that was my right, yet
which you denied me. That and no more. I had not intended that Davie
should be slain. I had not measured the depth of their hatred of that
upstart knave. You see that I am frank with you.”
“Aye, and I believe you,” she lied slowly, considering him as she spoke.
And he drew a breath of relief, suspecting nothing of her deep guile.
“And do you know why I believe you? Because you are a fool.”
“Madame!” he cried.
She rose, magnificently contemptuous.
“Must I prove it? You say that the crown matrimonial which I denied
you is to be conferred on you by these lawless men? Believing that, you
signed their pardon and recall from exile. Ha! You do not see, my lord,
that you are no more than their tool, their cat's-paw. You do not see
that they use you but for their ends, and that when they have done with
you, they will serve you as they served poor Davie? No, you see none of
that, which is why I call you a fool, that need a woman's wit to open
wide your eyes.”
She was so vehement that she forced upon his dull wits some of
the convictions she pretended were her own. Yet, resisting those
convictions, he cried out that she was at fault.
“At fault?” She laughed. “Let my memory inform your judgment. When these
lords, with Murray at their head, protested against our marriage, in
what terms did they frame their protest? They complained that I had set
over them without consulting them one who had no title to it, whether
by lineal descent of blood, by nature, or by consent of the Estates.
Consider that! They added, remember--I repeat to you the very words
they wrote and published--that while they deemed it their duty to endure
under me, they deemed it intolerable to suffer under you.”
She was flushed, and her eyes gleamed with excitement. She clutched
his sleeve, and brought her face close to his own, looked deep and
compellingly into his eyes as she continued:
“Such was their proclamation, and they took arms against me to enforce
it, to pull you down from the place to which I had raised you out of the
dust. Yet you can forget it, and in your purblind folly turn to these
very men to right the wrongs you fancy I have done you. Do you think
that men, holding you in such esteem as that, can keep any sort of faith
with you? Do you think these are the men who are likely to fortify
and maintain your title to the crown? Ask yourself, and answer for
yourself.”
He was white to the lips. As much by her vehement pretence of sincerity
as by the apparently irrefragable logic of her arguments, she forced
conviction upon him. This brought a loathly fear in its train, and the
gates of his heart stood ever wide to fear. He stepped aside to a chair,
and sank into it, looking at her with dilating eyes--a fool confronted
with the likely fruits of his folly.
“Then--then--why did they proffer me their help? How can they achieve
their ends this way?”
“How? Do you still ask? Do you not see what a blind tool you have been
in their crafty hands? In name at least you are king, and your signature
is binding upon my subjects. Have you not brought them back from exile
by one royal decree, whilst by another you have dispersed the Parliament
that was assembled to attaint them of treason?”
She stepped close up to him, and bending over him as he sat there,
crushed by realization, she lowered her voice.
“Pray God, my lord, that all their purpose with you is not yet complete,
else in their hands I do not think your life is to be valued at an
apple-paring. You go the ways poor Davie went.”
He sank his handsome head to his hands, and covered his face. A while
he sat huddled there, she watching him with gleaming, crafty eyes. At
length he rallied. He looked up, tossing back the auburn hair from his
white brow, still fighting, though weakly, against persuasion. “It is
not possible,” he, cried. “They could not! They could not!”
She laughed, betwixt bitterness and sadness.
“Trust to that,” she bade him. “Yet look well at matters as they are
already. I am a prisoner here in these men's hands. They will not let
me go until their full purpose is accomplished--perhaps,” she added
wistfully, “perhaps not even then.”
“Ah, not that!” he cried out.
“Even that,” she answered firmly. “But,” and again she grew vehement,
“is it less so with you? Are you less a prisoner than I? D'ye think you
will be suffered to come and go at will?” She saw the increase of fear
in him, and then she struck boldly, setting all upon the gamble of a
guess. “I am kept here until I shall have been brought to such a state
that I will add my signature to your own and so pardon one and all for
what is done.”
His sudden start, the sudden quickening of his glance told her how
shrewdly she had struck home. Fearlessly, then, sure of herself, she
continued. “To that end they use you. When you shall have served it you
will but cumber them. When they shall have used you to procure their
security from me, then they will deal with you as they have ever sought
to deal with you--so that you trouble them no more. Ah, at last you
understand!”
He came to his feet, his brow gleaming with sweat, his slender hands
nervously interlocked.
“Oh, God!” he cried in a stifled voice.
“Aye, you are in a trap, my lord. Yourself you've sprung it.”
And now you behold him broken by the terror she had so cunningly evoked.
He flung himself upon his knees before her, and with upturned face and
hands that caught and clawed at her own, he implored her pardon for
the wrong that in his folly he had done her in taking sides with her
enemies.
She dissembled under a mask of gentleness the loathing that his
cowardice aroused in her.
“My enemies?” she echoed wistfully. “Say rather your own enemies. It
was their enmity to you that drove them into exile. In your rashness you
have recalled them, whilst at the same time you have so bound my hands
that I cannot now help you if I would.”
“You can, Mary,” he cried, “or else no one can. Withhold the pardon they
will presently be seeking of you. Refuse to sign any remission of their
deed.”
“And leave them to force you to sign it, and so destroy us both,” she
answered.
He ranted then, invoking the saints of heaven, and imploring her in
their name--she who was so wise and strong--to discover some way out of
this tangle in which his madness had enmeshed them.
“What way is there short of flight?” she asked him. “And how are we to
fly who are imprisoned here you as well as myself? Alas, Darnley, I fear
our lives will end by paying the price of your folly.”
Thus she played upon his terrors, so that he would not be dismissed
until she had promised that she would consider and seek some means of
saving him, enjoining him meanwhile to keep strict watch upon himself
and see that he betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
She left him to the chastening of a sleepless night, then sent for him
betimes on Monday morning, and bade him repair to the lords and tell
them that realizing herself a prisoner in their hands she was disposed
to make terms with them. She would grant them pardon for what was done
if on their side they undertook to be loyal henceforth and allowed her
to resume her liberty.
The message startled him. But the smile with which she followed it was
reassuring.
“There is something else you are to do,” she said, “if we are to turn
the tables on these traitorous gentlemen. Listen.” And she added matter
that begat fresh hope in Darnley's despairing soul.
He kissed her hands, lowly now and obedient as a hound that had been
whipped to heel, and went below to bear her message to the lords.
Morton and Ruthven heard him out, but betrayed no eagerness to seize the
opportunity.
“All this is but words that we hear,” growled Ruthven, who lay stretched
upon a couch, grimly suffering from the disease that was, slowly eating
up his life.
“She is guileful as the serpent,” Morton added, “being bred up in the
Court of France. She will make you follow her will and desire, but she
will not so lead us. We hold her fast, and we do not let her go without
some good security of what shall follow.”
“What security will satisfy you?” quoth Darnley.
Murray and Lindsay came in as he was speaking, and Morton told them of
the message that Darnley had brought. Murray moved heavily across to a
window-seat, and sat down. He cleared a windowpane with his hand, and
looked out upon the wintry landscape as if the matter had no interest
for him. But Lindsay echoed what the other twain had said already.
“We want a deal more than promises that need not be kept,” he said.
Darnley looked from one to the other of them, seeing in their
uncompromising attitude a confirmation of what the Queen had told him,
and noting, too--as at another time he might not have noted--their utter
lack of deference to himself, their King.
“Sirs,” he said, “I vow you wrong Her Majesty. I will stake my life upon
her honour.”
“Why, so you may,” sneered Ruthven, “but you'll not stake ours.”
“Take what security you please, and I will subscribe it.”
“Aye, but will the Queen?” wondered Morton.
“She will. I have her word for it.”
It took them the whole of that day to consider the terms of the articles
that would satisfy them. Towards evening the document was ready,
and Morton and Ruthven representing all, accompanied by Murray, and
introduced by Darnley, came to the chamber to which Her Majesty was
confined by the guard they had set upon her.
She sat as if in state awaiting them, very lovely and very tearful,
knowing that woman's greatest strength is in her weakness, that tears
would serve her best by presenting her as if broken to their will.
In outward submission they knelt before her to make the pretence of
suing for the pardon which they extorted by force of arms and duress.
When each in his turn had made the brief pleading oration he had
prepared, she dried her eyes and controlled herself by obvious effort.
“My lords,” she said, in a voice that quivered and broke on every other
word, “when have ye ever found me blood-thirsty, or greedy of your lands
or goods that you must use me so, and take such means with me? Ye have
set my authority at naught, and wrought sedition in this realm. Yet I
forgive you all, that by this clemency I may move you to a better love
and loyalty. I desire that all that is passed may be buried in oblivion,
so that you swear to me that in the future you will stand my friends and
serve me faithfully, who am but a weak woman, and sorely need stout men
to be my friends.”
For a moment her utterance was checked by sobs. Then she controlled
herself again by an effort so piteous to behold that even the
flinty-hearted Ruthven was moved to some compassion.
“Forgive this weakness in me, who am very weak, for very soon I am to be
brought to bed as you well know, and I am in no case to offer resistance
to any. I have no more to say, my lords. Since you promise on your side
that you will put all disloyalty behind you, I pledge myself to remit
and pardon all those that were banished for their share in the late
rising, and likewise to pardon those that were concerned in the killing
of Seigneur Davie. All this shall be as if it had never been. I pray
you, my lords, make your own security in what sort you best please, and
I will subscribe it.”
Morton proffered her the document they had prepared. She conned it
slowly, what time they watched her, pausing ever and anon to brush aside
the tears that blurred her vision. At last she nodded her lovely golden
head.
“It is very well,” she said. “All is here as I would have it be between
us.” And she turned to Darnley. “Give me pen and ink, my lord.”
Darnley dipped a quill and handed it to her. She set the parchment
on the little pulpit at her side. Then, as she bent to sign, the pen
fluttered from her fingers, and with a deep, shuddering sigh she sank
back in her chair, her eyes closed, her face piteously white.
“The Queen is faint!” cried Murray, springing forward.
But she rallied instantly, smiling upon them wanly.
“It is naught; it is past,” she said. But even as she spoke she put a
hand to her brow. “I am something dizzy. My condition--” She faltered on
a trembling note of appeal that increased their compassion, and aroused
in them a shame of their own harshness. “Leave this security with me. I
will subscribe it in the morning--indeed, as soon as I am sufficiently
recovered.”
They rose from their knees at her bidding, and Morton in the name of all
professed himself full satisfied, and deplored the affliction they had
caused her, for which in the future they should make her their amends.
“I thank you,” she answered simply. “You have leave to go.”
They departed well satisfied; and, counting the matter at an end, they
quitted the palace and rode to their various lodgings in Edinburgh town,
Murray going with Morton.
Anon to Maitland of Lethington, who had remained behind, came one of
the Queen's women to summon him to her presence. He found her disposing
herself for bed, and was received by her with tearful upbraidings.
“Sir,” she said, “one of the conditions upon which I consented to the
will of their lordships was that an immediate term should be set to the
insulting state of imprisonment in which I am kept here. Yet men-at-arms
still guard the very door of my chamber, and my very attendants are
hindered in their comings and goings. Do you call this keeping faith
with me? Have I not granted all the requests of the lords?”
Lethington, perceiving the justice of what she urged, withdrew shamed
and confused at once to remedy the matter by removing the guards from
the passage and the stairs and elsewhere, leaving none but those who
paced outside the palace.
It was a rashness he was bitterly to repent him on the morrow, when
it was discovered that in the night Mary had not only escaped, but had
taken Darnley with her. Accompanied by him and a few attendants, she had
executed the plan in which earlier that day she had secured her scared
husband's cooperation. At midnight they had made their way along the now
unguarded corridors, and descended to the vaults of the palace, whence a
secret passage communicated with the chapel. Through this and across the
graveyard where lay the newly buried body of the Siegneur Davie--almost
across the very grave itself which stood near the chapel door they had
won to the horses waiting by Darnley's orders in the open. And they had
ridden so hard that by five o'clock of that Tuesday morning they were in
Dunbar.
In vain did the alarmed lords send a message after her to demand her
signature of the security upon which she had duped them into counting
prematurely.
Within a week they were in full flight before the army at the head of
which the prisoner who had slipped through their hands was returning
to destroy them. Too late did they perceive the arts by which she had
fooled them, and seduced the shallow Darnley to betray them.