In the dim light of her single candle, and while making false moans and
retching noises, Mary unfolded the letters.
To His Most Christian Majesty Charles IX of France Sire:
I left Scotland to let the King of Denmark hear the great and manifest
wrongs done to the Queen of Scotland, his near kinswoman, and to me in
particular. Intending thereafter in all diligence to seek Your
Majesty, I have been cast by a storm on the coast of Norway and thence
have come to Denmark. Here I found Monsieur de Dancay, your
ambassador, to whom I have made full discourse of my affairs, praying
him to acquaint you by express messenger, which he has promised. Not
doubting the performance of his promise, I entreat Your Majesty very
humbly to have regard to the good will to do you service that I have
shown all my life, in which course I intend to continue. May it please
you to honour me with such an answer as you would give to one who has
no hope in any but Your Majesty, save in God.
Sire, I commit me very humbly to your good grace and pray Almighty God
to grant you a happy and long life. From Copenhagen, the twelfth of
November.
Your very humble and very obedient servant, James, Duke of Orkney.
The twelfth of November past! Nothing had been done, no action taken
by France. The letter, with its dignified appeal, had gained him
nothing.
She emitted a long, low sound of suffering that was not feigned. The
world was turning its back on them. And Frederick, she suddenly
remembered, was one of Queen Elizabeth's erstwhile suitors. England
would have his ear.
She opened the other letter with trembling hands.
My dearest wife
I write this as you once wrote me, almost as if I am speaking to
myself, not knowing if you will ever see it, but in writing to you it
is the same as writing to myself. For we are one. I feel that more
strongly now than ever; even more so than when we were together.
So we are both in prison, being held against our wills. Yours is worse
than mine, my beloved, for your gaolers are your enemies, whereas mine
have nothing personal against me. In Bergen I was detained on local
matters, and here I am held as a political pawn. I have hopes of being
able eventually to convince them that they hold me to no purpose. No
one will pay ransom for me, and I am of little political consequence
now. My only use, which it grieves me to have failed, was to gain aid
for you.
If it ever, in any way, would be of service to you to stop being my
wife, then avail yourself of that avenue. It may be all I can render
to you. But know that it is a political gift I bestow on you, not
something I will ever honour in my heart, where you will always be my
wife.
Be strong, and love me always, as I love you.
James.
She bent over the little stool in the room and gave herself up to a
storm of weeping.
&
Holy Week began with a rainy Palm Sunday. As they had no priest on the
island, there was no way to celebrate the sacred days. Lady Douglas
had suggested in a horrible inspiration that they invite John Knox to
come and preach to them a suggestion that fortunately was impossible,
owing to Knox's indisposition.
So Mary had to provide for her own means of honouring the days. She
had her devotionals and book of hours, and requested that her household
keep silence during the morning and evening, and fast, and that those
of her faith join her in prayer and meditation.
The island was now wearing a new sheen of green, so bright it was
vibrant. Each branch of the trees was covered in a translucent green
mist, each tree having its own different shade; when the sun shone
through the bushes and trees early and late in the day, everything was
bathed in the tender green glow.
The sad liturgy of betrayal, parting, torment, and death enveloped
Mary.
Never had the events seemed so near, so ever-present. The spying
Judas, who had lived with Jesus and known him intimately, betraying him
for money: Lord James. The stalwart, brave, but in the end helpless
Peter: Bothwell. The crowd, which had yelled "Hosanna!" and spread
their cloaks, six days later crying for his crucifixion: the Lords and
the mob at Edinburgh, screaming, "give us Barabbas!" and "burn the
whore!" The religious leaders, who ought to have been the most just,
planning the murder. Caiaphas, the high priest, who said it was
expedient that one person should die for the people: John Knox. The
Sanhedrin: Lords of the Covenant. The Roman officials, who were
supposed to be unbiased, siding with the mob: the French, the
English.
The parting with the disciples: Mary leaving Bothwell on that windy
field of battle and watching him gallop off. More I could tell you,
but you could not bear it now. Now comes the prince of this world.. ..
Are you come out, as against a thief, with swords and with staves to
take me? What accusation ao you bring against this man? If he were
not a malefactor, we would not have delivered him up unto thee.
Everyone scattered: Behold the hour cometh, yea, is now come, that you
should be scattered, every man to his own, and shall leave me alone.
The Hamiltons who never came, the Gordons who never came, the Borderers
on Carberry Hill who melted away in the hot afternoon. Yes, her forces
were scattered, in hiding, or had made their peace with the Lords.
Yet, in all the hours she spent praying, kneeling on the floor before
the crucifix, she now knew what the cold eyes of that figure were
telling her: If he had not been a malefactor, we would not have
delivered him up to you. She was not innocent. She had loved Bothwell
and taken him to her bed, and had wished in her heart to be delivered
from Damley. That someone had overheard that murmur deep within
herself and carried it out must be her burden. The fact that Darnley
had planned to murder her did not negate her own sin, for she had hated
him in her heart long before that.
O dear Lord, she prayed, in the beginning of the week, have mercy on me
and my sufferings. Deliver me from my enemies, and set me free. By
the end of the week she simply said, O Lord, have mercy on me, a
sinner.
Easter came in a blaze of glory, a brilliant, sparkling day that
rattled the tree branches and caused them to swoop and swing. From the
west a warm wind, laden with promise of summer and softness yet to
come, blew across the island. The Laird provided a feast in the hall,
and the garrison soldiers stuck dandelions in their buttonholes and
played handball on the green. The Douglas girls put on their perfumed
gloves and ate more of the steamed almond pudding and candied violets
in syrup at dinner than they should have. In the late afternoon the
entire castle enjoyed the spring day, strolling, singing, playing games
on the newly sprung grass. Lady Douglas and Mary took hands and did a
dance together. Lord Lindsay's wife, heavily pregnant,
sat on the grass with Mary Seton and applauded them. The wind lifted
off her hat, and nimble Willie ran after it and retrieved it before it
blew into the water.
April deepened and grew toward May. It had been a year since Bothwell
had embarked on his daring gamble to make their marriage acceptable by
abducting her to Dunbar. The very scents in the air, of lily of the
valley, of hawthorn, brought it back to her so vividly that she dreamed
of him night after night. In the dreams his presence was overlaid and
imbued with another, heady feeling: freedom. They had ridden and loved
and walked in freedom, and had not even known it, as fish are unaware
of the water they swim in, but gasp and writhe when taken out of it.
She ached for freedom. To be able to go into a room without being
guarded and watched. To be able to lie down without permission. To be
able to change the faces she looked at and the view she saw day after
day. Only in her dreams was she free, and then waking was painful.
The Laird's wife was brought to childbed and old Lady Douglas was in
attendance, and suddenly Mary was guarded less than before. Just to
have those eyes, that presence, removed, was like removing chains. The
new mother and grandmother were, for a little while, staying in the
round tower apartments.
Mary wrote to Queen Elizabeth, hoping that an opportunity would arise
for the letter to be carried out. Willie would manage somehow.
Madame, my Good Sister
The length of my weary imprisonment, and the wrongs I have received
from those on whom I have conferred so many benefits, are less annoying
to me than not having it in my power to acquaint you with the realities
of my calamities, and the injuries that have been done to me in various
ways. It may please you to remember that you have told me several
times "that, on receiving that ring you gave me, you would assist me in
any time of trouble." You know that Lord James has seized all I have.
Melville, to whom I have often sent secretly for this ring, as my most
precious jewel, says that he dare not let me have it. Therefore I
implore you to have compassion on your good sister and cousin, and
believe that you have not a more affectionate relative in the world.
You should also consider the importance of the example practised
against me.
I entreat you to be careful that no one knows that I have written to
you, for it would cause me to be treated worse than I am now. They
boast that their friends at your court inform them of all you say and
do.
God keep you from misfortunes, and grant me patience and His grace that
I may one day recount my calumnies to yourself, when I will tell you
more than I dare to write, which may prove of no small service to
yourself.
Your obliged and affectionate good sister and cousin,
Mary R. From my prison at Lochleven.
She folded the letter and hid it inside her prayer book. So far they
had not searched her devotional materials, as if anything Catholic were
untouchable.
On the last day of April the weather played games all day. Mary awoke
to a pelting rain, which seemed to soak into the very stones of the
tower. She could hear the water dripping and oozing through cracks in
the old walls. Outside, the ground could not absorb it all and pools
of water studded the grassy courtyard. But by noon the clouds had
fled, running across the sky like mythological maidens trailing their
skirts with satyrs in pursuit, leaving blue skies behind.
The strengthening sun sparkled on the puddles and dripping leaves and,
after an hour of warm mist, dried them up. After their drink, the
flowers opened with vibrant colour and danced in the spring air.
The perfume, the warm mist, was sensuously intoxicating. No wonder
they think witches come out tonight, Walpurgis Night, Mary thought. May
Day and the night before it's magic, and powerful. She had to smile at
herself. Before I came to Scotland, she thought, I had never heard of
Walpurgis. But now I have learned more about witches than I ever cared
to know.
A boat was approaching. Everyone turned to see who it was, and Mary's
heart leapt when she recognized George. He began waving, and the
guards made ready to open the gates.
George! Something must be afoot! Trying not to let herself get too
excited, Mary waited with the rest of the people as George emerged from
the gateway. He did not look at her, but saluted his father warmly.