But it was exciting to try to see into the future and Dr Dee was a good friend of mine. If I hinted to him that I wished someone to act in a certain way he would often be able to bring it about. He could suggest to them that some danger was looming, some good coming to them if they did this and that. Yes, he was a good friend and a handy man to have around; and if one did not entirely believe in him, it was advisable to make a show of doing so for how could I be sure when I would want him to delude someone into thinking that he or she should take the doctor's advice.

When I was traveling in the area of Mortlake I called on him for he had a residence in that part. He had buried his wife only that morning and I thought my visit might cheer him. I would not let him entertain me as he must be mourning his wife, but I took a look into his interesting library where he had many volumes, globes and strange-looking objects. Among these was the magic mirror into which one could look and sometimes, if the time was right, see something of the future.

Robert looked over my shoulder as I gazed into the mirror so that his face was reflected there. I laughed aloud and then I saw Robert exchange looks with Dr Dee and I guessed he had tried to arrange with the doctor to show me his picture when I looked in the mirror.

Dr Dee said I should have eternal youth and boundless wealth as soon as he had discovered the elixir of life which he was on the point of doing.

It was all very interesting and though I did not believe half of it, it amused me in a way and comforted me too. Perhaps like most people I believed what I wanted to believe—which can be a wonderful antidote to the sorrows of life. On the other hand if one would be wise, one must know when one is doing it and perhaps allow oneself the indulgence as long as one recognizes it for what it is. The great secret of success in life, I was coming to believe, was self-awareness; and I was fortunate in having those two selves—the wise and the frivolous—and to know when one must give way to the other.

I fancied this was something which my sister of Scotland was lacking.

That was very soon to be proved true.


* * *

IT WAS HARD to believe that we were hearing the truth. Surely even Mary could not be so stupid.

Rumor was rife, and wild rumor at that. Bothwell was Mary's lover. There was even a tale of his having raped her in the Exchequer House in Edinburgh. I thought about that a great deal imagining her horror—or was it delight?—to be so subdued by the man who, according to all accounts, was something of a brigand and in complete contrast, I should imagine, to young ineffectual Darnley.

There followed the story of that mysterious night in Kirk o' Field when Darnley had been murdered. I could scarcely wait for the news. My messengers from Scotland were ordered to bring me any news immediately. I wanted to piece together the evidence. I desperately desired to know everything that was happening. I could not help being reminded of the death of Amy Robsart. She had been an unwanted wife; Darnley was an unwanted husband; and a bold lover was seeking to take possession of a wife and a crown.

Oh Mary, I thought, you are in acute danger. Do you realize that? I did, when something similar happened to me.

There was a difference. This was proved murder. Nobody could say that of Amy's death.

There had been an explosion which had clearly been intended to kill Darnley but when the premises had been searched the bodies of Darnley and his servant were found in the garden in their nightgowns. They were untouched by the explosion yet… mysteriously dead.

There could only be one explanation. The two men had been murdered and the explosion arranged to hide the crime.

This it had failed to do. Villainy was exposed.

And who wanted to be rid of Darnley? Who but the Queen and her lover Bothwell?

More news came.

Bothwell riding through the streets of Edinburgh, brandishing his sword, calling on any who accused him to come out and he would tackle them single-handed. He must have been a magnificent man for all his crudity and villainy.

He was tried for murder, but of course it had been arranged that he should not be found guilty, and the verdict should be: “James, Earl of Bothwell, is acquitted of any art or part in the slaughter of the King.”

And there he was riding through the streets of Edinburgh once more shouting to the people of Edinburgh to come out and tackle him if any thought it was not a true and just verdict.

Who could have doubted that it was unjust, but who would have the courage to come out and say so?

You are in mortal danger now, Mary, I thought. Did she ever think of me and wonder what my feelings had been when Robert's wife was found dead at the bottom of a staircase? If she did not, she was a fool. She should remember how I had acted and see that her only chance was to be as aloof, calm and wise as I, now very forcibly, realized I had been. But when had Mary ever been calm or wise or strong?

She threw away her hopes, her life, her crown most likely when she married James Bothwell.

It was not even as though he had been free. He was married to a virtuous lady and it was necessary for him to obtain a divorce before he could marry Mary.

How could Mary have been so foolish! But then her life had been so comfortable during her youth she had never faced death as I had… many times. She had never had to learn how to dissimulate, to act with the utmost caution, to cajole, to pretend, to survive. She had had none of those lessons for which I now thanked God, much as I had suffered when I was learning them.

But Bothwell naturally had his divorce and she married him; and the whole world—the world of adulterers, poisoners and ruthless schemers— held up its hands in horror at the actions of this poor, simple and too loving woman.

Her family, the Guises, were horrified and scarcely owned her; Catherine de' Medici declared in public that she was too shocked to give expression to her thoughts although, of course, had she done so truthfully she would have told of her delight in the fall of the girl whom she had hated and driven from France; Philip of Spain was contemptuously silent. I alone felt pity, perhaps because something not dissimilar could have happened to me.

And this was the woman, this poor weak foolish woman, who would be Queen of England!

Little James was taken from her and given into the care of the Earl and Countess of Marr; and the Queen must ride beside Bothwell to stand against those who came to depose her.

There was the disaster of Carberry Hill, and I wondered how much she grieved to fight against her own subjects.

I could picture her, though nothing so humiliating had ever happened to me. Whatever I had suffered, I had always had the sympathy of the people. I do believe that if I had lost that I should have lost heart. But Mary deserved their scorn. Had she regretted her submission to Bothwell, her abandoning of her self-respect: her placing herself under the domination of such a man, as she rode into Edinburgh with the mob screaming abuse at her? “Burn the whore!” they had shouted. “Death to the murderess!”

I could imagine her dirty and disheveled. Was that beauty, of which the poets had sung, apparent then?

So they had kept her in the Provost's House while through the night the mob screamed outside. I could see their cruel faces in the red glow of the torches and Mary there cringing, mourning the glory she had lost.

And so she became their prisoner. Lochleven first, where she charmed the suceptible young Douglas sufficiently for him to help her escape.

She had some loyal subjects—enough to enable her to go into battle at Langside against her enemies, to be followed by what seemed inevitable defeat. Mary was put to flight once more and knowing that at that time Scotland was no place for her unless she wanted to go back into captivity, she made her decision which, characteristically, was an unwise one … though I had no reason to complain of this!

I wondered how she reasoned as she waited there with the few friends left to her, to gaze no doubt across the Solway Firth to England and out to France.

Her family were now displeased with her; she knew that the Queen Mother of France was her enemy. Should she go to France? There was another choice. England! Foolish woman, did she think I would forget that she had emblazoned the arms of England on her shield? Did she think I would ever forget that she had called herself Queen of England?

She knew nothing of the world, nothing of people. Certainly she did not understand such as I was. She had listened too long to the poets, and she believed that her beauty had given her a right to act in a manner which would not be acceptable from others. She had never learned the art of survival as I had.

I was in a state of great excitement when I received word from the Earl of Northumberland that Mary had arrived in England. She had landed at the little village of Workington where Sir Henry Curwen had given her shelter at Workington Hall until the Earl decided that she would be more comfortable at Cockermouth in the home of a certain Henry Fletcher, a rich merchant of the district. Northumberland was not in residence in his own castle. He thought Mary could stay with the Fletchers until he received instructions from me as to what should be done with her.

There was a letter from Mary for me in which she referred to me as her dear sister and begged for my help.

“I entreat you to send for me as soon as possible,” she wrote, “for I am in a pitiable condition, not only for a queen but for a gentlewoman, having nothing in the world but what I had on my person when I escaped…”