Maitland was smiling subtly. “Madam, leave this matter in our hands and Your Grace shall see nothing but that which is approved of by Parliament.”

“But remember,” she insisted, “nothing must be done to cast reflection on my honor and my conscience.”

“It shall be as Your Majesty wishes.”

They left her, and when they had gone she lay in bed, her heart pounding, as she reflected on what lay behind the words of those men.


THE BABY was christened James Charles with great pomp at Stirling. That was in the middle of December. Darnley, though in the castle, refused to appear. His attitude was giving rise to much gossip; and the castle was full of foreigners, for representatives from all countries had come to Scotland for the christening of the Prince.

Darnley was hinting that he was not the father of the child. He was whispering that each day the boy was growing more and more like the Italian music-maker. On other occasions he would stoutly declare that there could be no doubt that the child was his and that it was shameful that his wife would not live with him.

Oh to be rid of him! thought Mary. Could there be a divorce? Was it possible?

She had made an alarming discovery. She was to have Bothwell’s child. She asked herself how she could explain this pregnancy. Something must be done and done quickly.

She told no one. She must keep her secret until she could find a way out of her trouble. She loved intensely. She could have been happy. But her love was bringing her nothing but misery.

It would have been better if I had died before I knew this love, she told herself continually. It would have been far better if I had never lived to sin as I now sin.

How could she confess her wickedness? How could she seek the comfort of her religion when she dared not confess? How could she promise to reform her ways when she had not the power to do so, when her lover could so easily make her his slave?

On Christmas Eve she signed the pardon which would bring Morton, Ruthven, Lindsay and the other rebel lords back to Scotland. She knew that doing so was tantamount to signing Darnley’s death warrant.

Darnley knew it too. When he realized what had been done he lost no time in leaving the Castle of Stirling. He made for Glasgow, that territory which was under his fathers domination.

Only there could he feel safe from his enemies.


IT WAS JANUARY and the weather was bitter. Mary, alone with her thoughts, told herself again and again: I cannot do this thing.

And every time she answered herself: But I must.

Darnley was suffering from the smallpox, and safe in his father’s castle he was carefully guarded by his father’s men.

When Mary told Bothwell of the child he was by no means displeased.

“There must be no delay,” he said. “You must see that. Delay is dangerous for us now.”

“Why do you say these things?” she demanded, feeling half demented. “What good could come to us… even if we were rid of him? What of you? You are not free!”

He had laughed. “I’ll be free and ready when you are.”

“And Jean?”

“She will stand aside. There’ll be a divorce on the grounds of consanguinity. We are related.”

“So, we shall both be divorced and then—”

“Divorced! Divorce takes too long where Kings and Queens are concerned. Do not forget the child. It should not be born out of wedlock and it will not wait.”

She closed her eyes and tried to fight free of the spell he laid upon her. She thought fleetingly: If I could go to a nunnery…. If I could live out my life there…. But he had his arms about her; he was giving her those rough caresses which always brought memories of the Exchequer House.

He said: “He must be brought from his father’s territory. He could stay there for months surrounded by Lennox’s men, hiding in safety. He must be brought to Edinburgh.”

“Who will bring him?”

“There is only one who can.”

“No!” she cried.

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “He would come if you went to him. You could bring him from his father’s territory. We need him here in Edinburgh.”

“He is sick.”

“All the more reason why you should look after him.”

“I have told him that all is over between us.”

“Women… even queens… change their minds.”

She said faintly: “You had better speak plainly.”

“Go to him. Promise him anything. But bring him out of his hiding place.”

“Promise him… anything?”

Bothwell laughed. “It is hardly likely that he will be in a condition to ask you to redeem your promises.”

She turned away. “I cannot do this.”

He seized her, and forced her to look into his face.

“You will do it,” he said. “You will consider what it means to us, and you will do it.”

She could refuse him nothing. He knew it, and she knew it. Now she cried: “No, I cannot do this thing. I never want to see him again, but I cannot do this.”

He did not urge her then. He laughed; he caressed her; he reduced her to that state of mind and body when she had no thought or wishes beyond the immediate moment.

“You will,” he said, “do this for me.”

And she knew she would.

When he had left her she remained alone and in torment.

She picked up her pen and, because she dared not write of the terrible thing which was in her mind, she wrote of her passion for the man who had completely enslaved her. She wrote of the tears she had wept on his account, of that first brutal encounter which had taken place before she had known this overwhelming love.


RIDING TOWARD Glasgow in the bitter weather, Mary felt like a woman in a trance. She knew that she would play the part which was desired of her. Her own will was subdued. Her lover had as complete possession of her mind as he had of her body. There was one thing which could help her do this: her hatred of Darnley.

When she reached the castle she was taken at once to Darnley. If he had sickened her before, he did so doubly now. The marks of his disease were on his face and the room was unpleasantly odorous. He wore a piece of fine gauze over his face to hide the disfigurement as best he could. But he was pleased to see her.

“It is good of Your Majesty to come hither to see me,” he said humbly.

“There is much I have to say to you. You are very sick.”

“I shall recover.”

She could not bear to look at him. She said: “Why have you behaved so badly? If you had not… But tell me why you write letters complaining of the cruelty of ’some people.’ You mean your wife, of course. What have I done to be treated so by you?”

“You will not forgive me. You turn from me. I long to resume our normal married life and you will have none of it. I know that I have acted very foolishly, even wickedly. Madam, I am very young. I am not twenty-one yet. I am younger than you are. Let us try again. There is only one thing I desire: to get back to that happy relationship which was ours. Oh, Mary, you loved me once. Have you forgotten?”

She shuddered. “It was so long ago. I did not know you then.”

“You knew part of me. I was like that. I could be like that again. I have been led astray by my own folly … by the folly of others. I think of you constantly … as my Queen and as my wife. How could I ever be content without you, having known you?”

“I cannot believe you to be sincere. I know you, remember. If I took you back there would be those hideous scenes… that shameful humiliation. I cannot forget what you have said to me, how you have humiliated me—not only in private, but before my subjects.”

“Then you would take me back? You would let me be with you again?”

“How could I trust you?”

“You could! You could!”

“Hush! Do not excite yourself so. It is bad for you. Lie still. Speak calmly.”

“Speak calmly when you are here, when you have ridden here to see me?”

“I am uncertain—” she began.

“Mary, I will be a good husband to you. Mary, why should we not be happy together? We have a child … a son. We could be happy.”

“If we were different people we might be. I … I have brought a horse-litter for you.”

He was pathetically alert. “Why so? Why so?”

“I wish to take you back with me to Edinburgh.”

“To take me back!” He looked wildly about the room. “To take me back, Mary? I have too many enemies at the Court. They have sworn to be revenged on me for …”

“For David’s death,” she said. Her eyes were brilliant as she looked full at him and went on: “It is just a year since David died.” The memory of David, pulling at her skirts as he was being dragged across the floor, gave her courage. He—this sick and repulsive boy lying in the bed—had had no compunction in sending David to his death. She went on: “That is what you are thinking of, is it not? You fear them because you plotted with them to kill David and then deserted them and informed against them.”

He nodded slowly and fearfully. He said: “I hear that they have plotted to do me harm. But I would not believe that you would join them in that. Why do you wish me to go back to Edinburgh?”

“Because so many talk of the strained relations between us. I would have us appear to the world to be living in amity together.”

“Mary,” he said, “I will come back on one condition. I will rise from my sickbed and come back to Edinburgh if you will give me your promise to be my wife … in all things.”

She hesitated.

He went on: “If not, I shall stay here. I want your solemn promise, Mary. You and I shall be at bed and board as husband and wife. Promise me this, and I will leave with you tomorrow.”