"The whore won't sign!" he screamed. "But we'll make her sign, won't
we?" He reached out and clutched Mary's arm, as if he were trying to
break the bones. He tore the skin with his rough fingernails. With
his other hand he shoved a pen in her hand, and, covering it with his,
formed the words and scratched out Marie R. on each of three separate
pieces of paper, none of which she was allowed to read.
"There!" He threw the pen down and picked up the papers and blew on
them to dry the ink. "It is done!" Triumphantly he rolled them up.
"They lack the seals," she said in a faint voice.
"Those are easy enough to procure. But thank you for reminding me," he
said, bowing mockingly. "Your Majesty. But no, it's no longer that.
What are you now? Lady Bothwell?"
"I am your anointed Queen, and nothing can change that, nothing,
nothing!"
"Soon there will be two anointed rulers in Scotland," he said. "If you
can find suitable attire, perhaps we'll let you attend the coronation.
Would you like that? You always enjoy fetes, celebrations, don't you?
You've wasted enough money on them. The ceremony will be Protestant,
of course. So you see, you really did waste those thousands of pounds
you spent on the Catholic baptism."
"There cannot be two anointed rulers, and you know it."
"Can't there? What about Saul and David? Saul did as bad a job as
you, and so God himself directed that he be replaced, even while he
still lived. You still live, but for how long?" Humming, he descended
the stairs, the rolled papers tucked under his arm.
Melville followed with a downcast look, Ruthven could not meet her
eyes, and George Douglas looked ashamed. The two notaries trailed
after them.
Nicholas Throckmorton had little to do in his quarters in Edinburgh. He
had arrived almost a month ago, hastening north in the belief that the
Lords would be swayed by Elizabeth's threats and promises, and eager to
placate her. He had expected to be able to confer with Mary and to
negotiate her release. Instead he had been forbidden to see her or
even send her letters. The Lords were in no mood to be conciliatory,
and they seemed indifferent to Elizabeth's wishes. When he had, in a
moment of daring, told them that Elizabeth would punish them if they
harmed even a hair of Mary's head, they had shrugged and said that
would be regrettable,
but that Scotland would survive any English pillaging, as it always had
before.
He leaned his head on his hand. What could he do when there was
nothing the Scots either feared or wanted from England? They seemed
confidently self-sufficient, and politely but firmly rejected his
meddling.
He took pen and ink and began another letter to Queen Elizabeth.
Writing gave him the feeling that he was doing something, that he was
not entirely useless to her. He wanted to capture the dangerous mood
here, the almost reckless defiance of fate and custom.
The people were ridding themselves of a monarch on moral grounds. The
common people did not ascribe to Elizabeth's neat theory that it was
"not in God's ordinance the Prince and Sovereign to be in subjugation
to them that by nature and law are subjected to her." They had come to
the shocking conclusion that "the Queen hath no more liberty nor
privilege to commit murder or adultery than any other private person,
neither by God's law, nor by the laws of the realm." The sovereign was
no longer above the law not in Scotland.
The Lords were in complete control they and the shrieking Knox. They
had outlawed Bothwell, put a price on his head, and sent soldiers north
to capture him. The Queen's adherents had no leader and were
hopelessly disorganized and demoralized. They said they had succeeded
in obtaining the Queen's abdication, that she had granted permission
for the Prince's coronation and for a regency. They also said she had
lost any hope of an heir by Bothwell.
It is to be feared that this tragedy will end in the Queen's person,
after the coronation, as it did begin in the person of David the
Italian, and the Queen's husband. I believe I have preserved her life
for this time, but for what continuance is uncertain .. .
he was writing, when he heard the heavy tread of footsteps on the
stairs. He rose and flung open the door. Lord Lindsay and Maitland
were standing there, about to knock. Others were behind them.
"You spare us the trouble, sir," said Lindsay, with a disarming smile.
He waited, smugly, to be invited in.
"Pray enter," said Throckmorton, glad he had covered up the letter as a
precaution.
"We have the honour to invite you to attend the coronation of the new
King," said Glencairn. "It will be held at Stirling two days from
now."
"So you have seen the Queen?" Throckmorton asked, deferring an
answer.
"The late King's daughter, you mean, and the mother of the King?" asked
Lindsay.
"Just as the Pope is also the Bishop of Rome, I suppose?" said
Throckmorton. "I mean the fair lady imprisoned at Lochleven. What you
style her does not affect what she is."
"Quite so." Lindsay laughed at some private joke. "She signed the
papers,
and we affixed the Privy Seal afterwards. Oh, the poor lady was so
burdened with her cares she simply could not carry on. The loss of her
dear Both-well " He exploded with laughter, making a noise like the
hind end of a cow.
Maitland glared at him. "The exact wording of her statement is "
Maitland began, and pulled out a paper and read smoothly:
"As after long and intolerable pains and labour taken by us since our
arrival within our realm for government thereof, and keeping of the
lieges of the same in quietness, we have not only been vexed in our
spirit, body, and senses thereby, but also at length are altogether so
vexed thereof, that our ability and strength of body is not able longer
to endure the same. Therefore, and because nothing earthly can be more
comfortable and happy to us in this earth than in our lifetime to see
our dear son, the native Prince of this our realm, placed in the
kingdom thereof, and the crown royal set on his head, we, of our own
free will and special motion, have remitted and renounced the
government, guiding, and governing of this our realm of Scotland,
lieges, and subjects thereof, in favour of our said son."
Now Throckmorton would have laughed if it had not been unseemly. "The
language does not sound like Her Majesty's," he finally said.
"You mean "Her Grace," " said Lindsay. "What better proof that she is
no longer herself? However, she may be well enough to attend, as we
assume you will."
"Who else will attend?" Throckmorton asked.
"Oh, all the lords of Scotland."
"Name them."
"We have not finished notifying everyone," said Maitland.
"Well, of the ones you have notified?"
"Morton, Atholl, Erskine, Glencairn, Lord Home, Ruthven, Sanquhar."
"Hardly the majority of the leading lords. What of Huntly, Argyll,
Hamilton?"
Maitland coughed. "I have had trouble tendering the invitation to
them, as they are not in this part of the country."
"Come, sir, your answer!" said Lindsay.
"My answer must be no. I represent the Queen of England, who is
greatly displeased by these proceedings and will refuse to recognize
James as King. My attending the ceremony would seem to condone it."
"You knew you would refuse; you just wanted us to read the names and
the statements so you could report them back to your paymasters! Spy!"
snarled Lindsay.
"What a charming manner. Is this how you persuaded the Queen to sign?
If you treat the envoy of a neighbouring country thus, I can imagine
how you treat someone at your mercy," said Throckmorton in his slow
voice. He looked at Lindsay's half-lidded eyes. What an ugly man he
was.
"Come. We have other men to speak to," said Maitland, tugging on
Lindsay's sleeve. He gave Throckmorton an apologetic smile. "Good
day,
sir.
Throckmorton closed the door quietly, then returned to his letter.
All here await the return of the Lord James, the designated Regent. The
Lords of the Secret Council are of the mind that once he arrives, he
will take the burden from their shoulders. The Queen's friends hope
that her brother will be kind and free her once he is firmly in power.
But no one truly knows his mind, nor how he will wear the diadem of the
Regency. And I fear he may find it fits him so well that he will never
willingly lay it down for his nephew.
On July twenty-ninth, 1567 exactly two years since the marriage of his
parents little James Stuart was carried in procession from his nursery
at Stirling to be crowned King of Scots and Lord of the Isles. The
scanty line of men only four earls, seven barons, and one clergyman
made their way past the Chapel Royal at Stirling, where the Papist
baptism had been performed, carrying the regalia into the Protestant
kirk at the gates of the castle. A force of armed men guarded all
approaches to the castle grounds.
John Knox was waiting inside. He had been hastily called to preach the
sermon at this hasty ceremony, and he had hastened to accept. This was
a wondrous moment, one he had often dreamed of, but had left in the
Almighty's hands as to timing. The Catholic whore was gone, and never
more would there be a coronation ceremony in the old rite. This was a
glorious new beginning, and all because many years ago they had stepped
out in faith.
Here they came, his Lords of the Congregation: the flaming-haired Earl
of Morton, the long-faced Erskine, the handsome Ruthven. They bore the
baby up to the altar, where his throne awaited, then gathered on the
altar steps.
Lord Lindsay unrolled a declaration, and began to read it in loud,
ringing tones.
" "I swear in the presence of God and the Congregation here present
that the Queen our Sovereign did resign, willingly and without
compulsion, her royal estate and dignity to the Prince her son, and the
government of the realm to the several persons named in her commission
of regency." "
The justice clerk, Sir John Bellenden, brought out a gigantic Bible and
opened its pages. The Earl of Morton laid his pudgy left hand on it
and, holding up his other hand, took the Coronation Oath in Prince
James's name. The all-purpose Bishop of Orkney the same who had
married Mary and Bothwell when no one else would anointed the Prince
with the sacred oil. The Earl of Atholl stepped forward and put the
crown on the baby's head.
Now it was time, time for his message. Knox mounted the pulpit slowly.
His knees were quite stiff now, even in midsummer. He hoped he had
been guided to choose the correct text.
"This day, as we welcome our first Protestant sovereign, is the day we
have all prayed for. Surely God has preserved him for us, sheltering
him amid all the havoc and turmoil in our land. Just so did he for his
chosen people of Israel, keeping a king from David's line for them. For
the story, as told in Second Chronicles, chapter twenty-two, is this: