Morton tried several keys that he had obtained from an Edinburgh
locksmith, but none opened the lock, as it appeared to be a foreign
one. So he took up a hammer and file and broke open the box. He
dented the lid slightly, but that did not hinder his lifting it up to
reveal a pile of folded papers and letters lying inside.
"Ah!" he said. "Documents. Let us see what they are!" Quickly he
began unfolding them. His face fell with disappointment.
"A long French poem," he said. He laid it aside and took out
another.
"A letter. In French. It pertains to ... something about a servant."
He put it aside, too.
"Now this .. It was yet another French letter. His eyes skimmed it. It
was even duller than the other one, with classical allusions to
Medea.
Love letters. His heart sank, and he felt like a fool for having
summoned all the Lords to come and see a stack of love letters.
He picked up another. This one, also in French, mentioned the Earl of
Lennox. It had to do with his retainers.
The next piece of paper proved to be a marriage contract. It was dated
April fifth, 1567; in it Mary promised to marry Bothwell. Naturally
it, too, was in French. Well, no wonder he had kept it. It was a
legal document proving her intent.
"What was the date?" Maitland asked.
"April fifth," he replied, then it hit him. "Three weeks before the
'abduction." This proves it was false! He and the Queen planned it!
They were in collusion together!"
Eagerly he pulled out another letter. This time the phrases leapt out
at him. " "And thereupon hath preached unto me that it was a foolish
enterprise, and that with mine honour I could never marry you, seeing
that being married you did carry me away." " He looked around at the
other Lords.
He grabbed another letter out, a very long one, written on several
sheets of paper. His face turned first white, then pink. He stammered
with excitement.
"Oh! This letter it is a strange nightmare, all feverish and full of
fits and starts, but it it proves O Holy God "
"Read it!" said Maitland.
"I cannot. It is too long! But you can each read it, taking care not
to harm or smudge it. It says oh, listen to this: "Alas! I never
deceived anybody, but I remit myself wholly to your will; and send me
word what I shall do, and whatsoever happen to me, I will obey you. To
be short, I have learned that he is suspicious, and yet he trusts my
word." "
Maitland snorted. "This means nothing. No names are mentioned. For
that matter, is it addressed, dated, or signed?"
"No," Morton admitted.
"If you were writing an adulterous love letter, would you sign it?"
asked the Earl of Atholl with a smirk.
"No," said Morton, who had written many. "But there is more. The King
is mentioned. "The King sent for Joachim and asked him, why I did not
lodge nigh to him." "
"Altogether too vague," said Erskine. "It could refer to anything. It
could be written by a servant, for that matter."
"Not this!" Morton said triumphantly. " "But now to make him trust me
I must feign something unto him; and therefore when he desired me to
promise that when he should be well we should make but one bed I told
him feigning to believe his fair promises, that if he did not change
his mind between this time and that, I was contented." "
"So?" argued Erskine. "This only proves it was written by the Queen,
then."
"And why was she writing such things to Bothwell? Here is why: "I am
glad to write unto you when other folk be asleep, seeing that I cannot
do as they do, according to my desire, that is between your arms my
dear life whom I beseech God to preserve from all ill." "
"So they were lovers, and she seems to regard God as some sort of
celestial procurer," said Glencairn. "Amusing, but everyone suspected
as much."
"Suspected and proved are not the same thing! This proves they were
lovers before Darnley's death! And that she went to Glasgow with
secret motives. That was why she brought him back. It was a plan!"
"It does seem to tend that way," admitted Atholl. He held out his hand
to receive one of the documents.
The Lords spent the rest of the afternoon perusing the letters, quoting
suitable phrases with great glee, as if they had discovered hidden
treasures.
" "Being gone from the place where I had left my heart, it may be
easily judged what my countenance was.. .." "
" "But fear not but the place shall continue till death." "
" "Now if to please you, my dear life, I spare neither honour,
conscience, nor hazard, nor greatness, take it in good part, and not
according to the interpretation of your false brother-in-law, to whom I
pray you, give no credit against the most faithful lover that ever you
had or shall have." "
The men tittered. "It sounds like a lovesick child," said Lord Home.
"But then, Bothwell seemed to inspire such passion in the female
breast. How do we know all of these are from the Queen? He had many
conquests, and it would have been like him to have kept all the letters
and gloated over them. Or left them out to make whoever it was of the
moment jealous. I suspect that was their real function. "
"Well, whatever their original function for the Earl, they'll serve
quite another for us. With these, gentlemen, we can justify keeping
the Queen in captivity."
"Oh, listen to this! It cannot be the Queen who wrote this one, it's
too servile and whiny: "God forgive you and give you, my only friend,
the good luck and prosperity that your humble and faithful lover doth
wish unto you, who hopes shortly to be another thing to you, for the
reward of my pains. I have not made one word, and it is very late,
although I should never be weary in writing to you, yet I will end,
after kissing of your hands." It was probably that Norwegian woman who
followed him here and hung about, neglected," said Erskine. He
laughed.
"Gentlemen, I think it is of greatest importance that we let the world
know about this shocking proof, and in the Queen's own handwriting, of
the plot between her and Bothwell to murder the innocent King," said
Morton sternly. "Are we agreed?"
All the men nodded solemnly.
After the main party of them had left, Maitland and Archibald lingered
on. Maitland put his arm around Morion's neck familiarly. "Let us not
forget that it is we who planned the King's death, or at least were
considering it. It would be easy to forget, and thereby confuse our
stories and our evidence."
"We may have signed that paper, and we may have met at Whittingham, but
the truth is we didn't kill the King," Morton insisted stubbornly.
"Well, then," said Maitland, "I wonder who did? I mean, rca?"
The Lords marched in solemn procession down the Canongate, their
singing hearts at variance with their long faces. They were going to
the royal apartments at Holyrood to cleanse them, clear them out. The
Queen's reign was over.
There were six of them: Maitland, Morton, Erskine, Atholl, Glencairn,
and Douglas. Word had spread, and soon a crowd fell in behind them,
hoping for some spoils or at least a diversion this bright June day.
Since the Kirk had banished May Day revels, Robin Hood, and the riotous
fairs accompanying holy days, the populace had been hungry for high
jinks.
The Lords left the crowd behind when they entered the palace itself,
but encouraged them to remain in the courtyard. Once inside, the Lords
ascended the grand staircase and began happily honouring various sites
of violence or humiliation, creating a Protestant Stations of the
Cross. "Look,
here's the trunk where Riccio's body lay after it was stripped."
"Here's the landing where they threw him down." "Here's the room where
John Knox made the Queen cry." "Here's where he admonished the silly
Marys on their vanity." "This is where Riccio was first stabbed." "And
look, here's the staircase where Damley came up!"
The three rooms that had been Mary's private domain stood empty, with
everything still in its place. There was the supper table ("the one
that got overthrown and hit the Queen's belly") in the little room,
polished and bare except for two candlesticks. Her bed was made, its
green and yellow silk cover with its green silk fringe hanging neatly
down to the floor. Her little desk, inlaid with ivory and
mother-of-pearl, held a locked writing cabinet and an ivory box for
pens and ink. There was also a silver box with a green velvet cover
resting to one side. Everything had been precisely arranged and they
knew, before even looking, that the contents of the box would be in
order and held with scarlet ribbon.
Against one wall was a crucifix with a kneeler under it, flanked by two
candles. A small framed painting of the Virgin was nearby.
Large studded trunks were against another wall, locked. And there were
two smaller cabinets, painted with flowers and birds, with a mirror
lying atop one.
The men looked around silently. Habit made them want to speak softly,
to give honour, to watch how they stood and held their hats. Mary's
presence filled the room; for a moment it seemed impossible that she
was not there. Then the fact that she was not rushed over them, and it
seemed bizarre and unnatural.
All this was theirs, to do with as they would.
All this.
Glencairn was the first to take action. He grabbed the little writing
cabinet, the one with the story of Cupid and Psyche painted on it, and
twisted its handles. When it did not open, he lifted it over his head
and smashed it on the floor.
"It's French!" he said. "Something the French whore would have
brought with her!"
Maitland grimaced. "It is not necessary to destroy it."
"Let's see what's in it!" Glencaim bent down and tried to pull out the
drawers. When they still refused to open, he kicked it with his
studded boots and splintered the delicate wood. "Ah!" He emptied it.
A pile of papers and letters fell out.
"French dung!" he cried. "Look, they're all in French!"
"Yes, Glencairn. That is customary when writing to the French," said
Maitland. "Most people can read French," he added pointedly, knowing
Glencairn could not. He picked up the letters and skimmed them.
"This one is a copy of one written to Catherine de Medicis this is to
her goddaughter, little Marie d'Elboeuf this is to her aunt the Abbess
"
Glencairn was pulling out other papers. "Now here it is her ciphers!
Look at them!" His voice rose in genuine amazement. "There must be
sixty codes here!"
Maitland grabbed a handful. "So that's what Riccio did. Translate all
these. A boring, tedious job. No wonder she missed him. There wasn't
anyone else patient enough to do it. I certainly wasn't. We didn't
use all these when I was still principal secretary."
"What I want to know is, why is it necessary to use codes at all?"
growled Morton. "I mean, only spies and people who are involved in
underhanded things need to resort to codes." He shuffled around the
room, a look of distaste on his face, stopping to finger the tapestries
and the velvet covering of one table. This embroidery might go well in
his hall.