"That banner!" she cried, seeing the ugly white satin banner with the
figures of Darnley and the baby James and his prayer of "Judge and
avenge my cause, O Lord."
"Pay it no mind. It is there merely to take your heart out of the
battle. After it's over, I'll cut it up and use it for horse
trappings."
"Where is Huntly?" she cried. "And Hamilton, with his men? Why do
they not come?"
"Our best tactic would be to delay the fighting in hopes that they will
come and reinforce us," he said. "But it is difficult to delay too
long. The men may, in hunger and boredom, desert."
"Desert?"
"It is a possibility," Bothwell said. "After all, the bulk of our army
are not trained soldiers but merely villagers who happened to fall in
with us on the march. They may drift away, and we could hardly even
call it desertion."
The difficulty of the position now became clear. Their armies were
evenly matched in numbers, but the royal army lacked weapons, food, and
dedication. It would melt in the hot sun, and might even collapse in
the fighting. Inaction was deadly, but action was a gamble as well.
"I will work the men south, searching for ground advantage," Bothwell
said, squinting over at the rebel troops.
Mary could see movement there. Evidently they were doing the same
thing.
As Bothwell rode off, Mary found herself trembling. Her horse snorted
and pawed the ground.
"Waiting is torture," she said to Mary Seton, who was sitting her horse
so gravely she looked desolate. "Of all the things I am ever asked to
do, I find waiting to be the most difficult."
"It goes against your nature," Seton said. "Oh, Your Majesty, why have
you "
"Stop. Do not say another word," Mary commanded. "It is a question
you have no right to ask."
She turned back to watch the men on the other side. Some of them were
splashing cold water on their faces, filling their helmets and
drinking. The heat of the day was rising, but her men could not get
close enough to approach the little stream that offered relief.
Suddenly she was very shaken. The heat, itself unseasonable, seemed to
be an enemy who had joined the rebels' ranks.
The sun rose higher, and no one moved. Both armies looked at each
other, but as each commanded a hill, neither side wanted to be at a
disadvantage in attempting to charge the other. From the direction of
Edinburgh no column of dust rose to show Huntly or Hamilton on his
way.
Bothwell rode up to her. He was sweating in his leather clothing and
metal helmet. "No one stirs," he said disdainfully. "A battle in
which no one moves!" The only motion was the rising columns of heat,
now ascending in wavy lines toward the sky.
"They want us to charge," she said. "Do not give them what they
want."
He looked at her in amusement. "I believe you might make a good
general. Do you, then, command me to stay still?"
"No. I trust your judgement. As for myself, I would ride out into
them now, shooting my pistols."
"Look!" said Bothwell. "Someone has broken ranks."
Coming down off the hill were some fifty horsemen surrounding a rider.
The body of them splashed across the little stream and made their way
determinedly toward the royal standard.
"Fire on them!" cried Mary. "Do not let them come within range of
us!"
"Nay, they have a white flag. They wish to talk." Bothwell spurred
his horse and gave orders for some of his mounted soldiers to meet
them. About thirty rode out and formed an escort for the rider and his
men.
"Philibert du Croc!" gasped Mary. It was the French ambassador, the
little man who had refused to attend her marriage.
"Your Majesty," he said, saluting her. With her leave, he dismounted
and came to her. He bowed and kissed her hand, bending his round,
fluffy-haired head. Then he straightened and smiled.
"Alas! My good lady, what anguish it would cause your mother-in-law
and the King of France to see you in such trouble!" he said. "And the
Lords of the Congregation, who have sent me, assure you that they are
your very humble and obedient servants."
Mary felt a jarring laugh escape her. "Is this how they show it,
then?"
"Madam," he whispered, "they say that if you will withdraw yourself
from the wretch who holds you captive, they will recognize you as their
sovereign, and serve you on their knees as the humblest and most
obedient of subjects."
"The wretch, they call him!" Now her laughter rang out. "It was they
who signed a petition urging me to marry him, it was they who
pronounced him innocent of any crime, and now they turn on him! But if
they are willing to acknowledge their duty, and request 77131 pardon, I
will forgive them, and receive them with open arms."
Bothwell came up and shouldered his way over to them. He held out his
hand to du Croc, who refused to take it.
"So!" said Bothwell, in a loud voice that carried up the hill. "What
are the Lords about? What do they want?"
Du Croc cleared his throat and spoke loudly himself. "I have just come
from speaking with them, and they assure me that they are very humble
subjects and servants of the Queen." He edged up to Bothwell and added
in a very low voice, "But they are your mortal foes."
Bothwell looked at him scornfully. "They gave me many assurances," he
said, his voice ringing out. "What harm have I ever done them? I
never wished to displease any, but have sought to gratify them all.
They only speak as they do because they envy my favour." He turned
around once, twice, revolving slowly, lifting up his head and speaking
to the multitude, but also to Mary personally. "But Fortune is free to
any who can win her and there is not a man of them" he pointed toward
the hillside "who but wishes himself in my place!" He took Mary's
hand.
Du Croc was staring.
"For the love of God," said Bothwell suddenly, "and to put the Queen
out of pain, and to spare the blood that will flow otherwise, let the
Lords select a man and I will fight him in single combat. Let that
decide the day. For my cause is so just I am sure God will decide in
my favour!"
"His quarrel is mine!" said Mary fiercely.
A body of men began to advance from the Lords, making their way across
the brook, spears at the ready.
"Look!" said Bothwell. "They approach! Now, if you wish to model
yourself on the man who attempted to mediate between Scipio and
Hannibal when the armies were about to engage, remember that he took up
a post of observation, where he could see the bravest pastime he had
ever beheld. If you wish to do the same, I can promise you a fight
well fought!"
Du Croc shook his head. "I have no wish to gaze on carnage. But you
are a great captain, speaking with such confidence when you cannot be
sure of your men. I will convey your request for combat to the Lords."
The old ambassador turned away and, mounting his horse, rode slowly
back over to the other side.
When he did not return, Bothwell mounted his war-horse and rode down to
the stream.
"I challenge someone of worthy rank to meet me in single combat!" he
cried. He rode up and down, his horse prancing nervously. At length
Mary could see someone come forward. It was James Murray of
Purdovis.
Bothwell returned to camp and called for his armour. The metal was hot
to the touch, and he was panting before he had even finished being
strapped into it. Rivulets of sweat ran down his face.
"Murray of Purdovis is not worthy!" she said. "You must not fight
him. It must be someone of your rank!"
"There is no one of my rank," he said. "The only other duke of
Scotland is the feeble old Chatelherault, who was exiled to France
after the Chase-about Raid. And, titles aside, there is no title of
equal honour as that of the Queen's husband."
A second challenge was issued, and this time the Lords put forward the
Earl of Morton as their champion.
"Yes! Run him through, like the traitor he is, and see if he even has
any blood!" she said.
Bothwell took out a water bottle and drained it. He had now been
wearing his armour for over an hour, and it was past four o'clock.
Almost twelve hours of tension and readiness had passed, but nothing
had happened. He had had nothing to eat all day. He did not feel
weak, but in some ways this seemed like a dream.
In the other camp, they could see that it was not Morton putting on
armour, but Lindsay. Morton had delegated his duty to a younger man.
Now he was bending and belting on a sword. It must be the sacred
"Bell-the-Cat" sword of yore, which Morton had endowed with almost
magical qualities.
"Oh, let him come!" cried Bothwell, raising his arms to heaven in a
plea for action. But from the other camp, no movement. Bothwell took
Mary's hand and kissed it.
"I go," he said.
She wanted to hang on to it, to prevent him, but he was so grimly
determined it would have been impossible. She watched him descend the
hill and go to the appointed place, with thousands of men looking on.
But Lindsay did not come out to meet him.
Suddenly she saw the Lords starting to advance, marching forward
sternly and resolutely under their gleaming banner. The sun was low in
the sky; the day was drawing to a close. Kirkcaldy of Grange, his
armour glinting, now led a charge of cavalry in a flanking movement,
coming up around the royal troops like an embrace.
The royal army broke and melted. The ranks had been thinning all
afternoon, as the weary, hungry men had grown tired of waiting. Now
they began to scramble away. Kirkcaldy yelled and put spurs to his
horse, raising his sword.
Bothwell turned and galloped back to his men, giving quick orders. Then
he rode to Mary.
"It is too late," he said. "We have lost the day. We waited too long,
for reinforcements that never came." He smiled a wavering smile. "Thus
it ends. For today."
"God! No! No!" She clutched at his smooth, metal-encased arm. She
tried to look in his eyes and see what he really wanted her to do, but
the shadow cast by the helmet covered them. "Is there nothing you can
do?"
"I cannot win with the troops I now have. Let us retreat to Dunbar!"
"There will be a massacre!" cried Mary, as she saw the attacking army
charging up the hill. "Stop!" she shouted, galloping into the midst
of what remained of her army. "Stop!" The rebel soldiers halted in
obedience. "You may tell your commanders that I will speak with them,
and discuss terms," she said. Her voice was clear and strong.
Bothwell rode up beside her. "Do not trust them. Let us retreat. It
is our only wise course of action. We can regroup there."
"No. They say they are loyal to me. They will not harm us."
"They will kill me, and they will do something bad to you as well."