This time at Wingfield, knowing that my future is unfolding before me, knowing that I shall return to Scotland as acknowledged queen, is like being a girl again, with no equal for charm or beauty or wit, confident that my kingdom will be my own, that everything must always be perfect for me. And just as in France, I am admired and petted. Shrewsbury’s servants cannot do enough for me. No luxury is too extravagant for me. And every day, when he comes to ride with me, he brings me a little token: the little cup of mud of a swallow’s nest, with two big pearls inside instead of eggs, a posy of roses with a gold chain twisted around the stems, a set of silver ribbons, a book of poems in French, scented leather gloves, a diamond brooch.


The terms of my return to Scotland are finally and fully agreed. William Cecil, once my sworn enemy, has changed his mind—who knows why?—and taken my side. He has negotiated for me with my half brother, Lord Moray, and with Lord Maitland, and he has forged a good agreement that he is confident will hold. I am to return to Scotland as her true and recognized queen. I am to be free to practice my faith. The country will be Protestant, as they say they prefer, but there will be no persecution of either Papists or Puritans. My son will be raised as a Protestant.


Some of this I will change when I am back on the throne. I have no intention of raising a heretic child destined for nowhere but hell. The lords who sign for my restoration now were my enemies only last year and I will have revenge. I have a list of the men who swore together to murder my husband and I will bring them to justice; they need not think that they will escape. Bothwell will be at my side and he will have his own scores to settle. But I can sign this agreement for now, with a clear conscience, since it restores me to the throne. The Holy Father will forgive me any agreement I make, as long as it serves the greater good of getting me back on my throne. Actually I would sign an agreement with the devil himself if it would get me back to the throne. Nothing is more important to me, to the Holy Church, and to the future of Scotland than I am returned.


Once restored to my throne, I can punish my enemies and educate my people against heresy. Once there I can build my power with my friends and allies in England so that the moment Elizabeth dies, or when she faces invasion—and both are inevitable—then I am ready to move to take my second throne.


Cecil writes nothing about my betrothal with Howard, but he cannot be ignorant of it. I know that the Scots lords would never have agreed to have me back without a man at my side: they will have made my marriage a precondition of my return. They are so fearful of women in general and of me in particular that they would never rest until they had me wedded and bedded and sworn to wifely obedience. They would be in a terror that I would bring Bothwell down on them as king consort. They trust Thomas Howard in a way that they will never trust me, because he is a Protestant, because he is a man.


They will see. They will see their mistake. I will marry him and make him king consort, and they will still see that I shall have my own way, and I will still bring Bothwell down on them for my revenge.


I write faithfully to Thomas Howard, and my letters are as inviting and alluring as I can make them. Thank God, I know one thing: how to entice a man. I was not a French princess for nothing; I do know how to make a man fall in love, even at hundreds of miles’ distance. I know how to lead him on and draw back, come forward, make promises, renege, enchant, puzzle, confuse, seduce. I am irresistible in person, and I can be enchanting on paper. I write to him daily and I bring him onward and onward to ensure that he is mine.


As part of this campaign of seduction and compromise, I have embroidered for him a special cushion, which I think will amuse him. It shows a barren vine being pruned with a billhook and he will know that I mean that the barren line of the Tudors can be cut down to let the new growth of our children take the throne. No one can blame me for the design—though it is such a sharp slap at the spinster Elizabeth!—since it is a quotation from the Bible. What could be more tasteful and innocent? “Virtue flourishes by wounding” is the quotation that I have embroidered around the picture. Norfolk will see the slyest hint of treason in it, and if he has anything of a man about him he will be stirred by that provocative word “wounding.”


Bess understood it at once and was deliciously scandalized and swore when she first saw the design that I would not dare to stitch it.


I dare! I dare anything! Let the barren vine be cut down. Let Elizabeth, the bastard, be struck down. I am a fertile woman of twenty-six; I have conceived nothing but boys. Howard is a man who has already fathered sons. Who can doubt that either my young son James or our future sons—Stuart-Howards—will take Elizabeth’s empty throne?

1569, AUGUST,

WINGFIELD MANOR:

BESS

Anote from Cecil delivered in secret reads:


No, you are not mistaken in my intentions, dear Bess. I am as like to install her on the throne of Scotland as I am to point a pistol at the heart of England and destroy everything I love.


Every secret letter between her and our terrible enemies that comes to my hand convinces me of the greatness of the danger that she poses. How many letters elude me, only she will know, only the devil himself who directs her will know. Wait for news of her arrest for treason.


C

1569, AUGUST,

WINGFIELD MANOR:

MARY

Oh God, I am a fool, a fool, and now a heartbroken fool. I am damned by my stars, and betrayed by my friends, and abandoned by my God.


This new blow is almost too much for me to bear. The pain in my side is so great that I can hardly bear to put my foot to the ground; it is like a knife in my side. It is Rizzio’s wound bleeding from my own side. It is my stigmata.


Hamilton, my friend and spy in Scotland, writes to tell me that my half brother Lord Moray has suddenly reneged on his agreement and is now unwilling to let me return. He gives no reason, and indeed, there can be none except cowardice, greed, and faithlessness. The English are on the brink of signing our treaty with him; I have already given my word. But he has suddenly broken off, at the very last minute. He has taken fright and says he will not have me back in the country. Saints forgive him! He is a false-hearted, wicked man, but this last cruelty surprises me.


I should have known. I should have been prepared for his dishonesty. He is a usurper who drove me from my own throne, a bastard of my father’s mistaken begetting; I should have guessed he would not want his true queen returned. What can I do but supplant and replace him and, as soon as I can, behead him?


The shock throws me into illness. I cannot stop myself from crying. I take to my bed, and in rage and distress I write to Elizabeth that my brother is false through and through, a child conceived by mistake in lust, bad breeding coming out as dishonor. Then I remember that she too is a bastard of mistaken begetting, also occupying my throne, and I tear up the letter and painfully, slowly, forge something more dutiful and loving, and ask her, please, please, of her kindness, of her honor, to defend my rights as a fellow queen and as a sister, as the only woman in the world who can understand and sympathize with my plight.


Dear God, let her hear me and understand that she must, by the light of heaven, in all honor, help me. She cannot let me be thrown from my throne, thrown down to nothing. I am a queen three times over! I am her own cousin! Am I to end my life under house arrest, crippled with pain and weak with crying?


I take a sip of small ale from the cup by my bedside. I steady myself: it cannot be—it cannot be. God has chosen me and called me to be a queen; I cannot be defeated. I ring the bell for Mary Seton.


“Sit with me,” I say when she comes. “This is a long night for me. My enemies are working against me and my friends do nothing. I have to write a letter.”


She takes a stool at the fireside and tucks a shawl around her shoulders. She will wait with me for as long as I need. Sitting up in my bed, despite the pain in my side, I write again, using our special cipher to urge my betrothed, the duke, to tell Elizabeth that we are agreed to marry and that every lord in her own court supports this betrothal. I write sweetly and tenderly, urging him to be brave in this reversal of our fortunes. I never speak of my own well-being; I always speak of “us.”


If he will only hold fast we will get our way. If he can only persuade Elizabeth to support this marriage and to support us, then the treaty will still go ahead. Moray may not like my return, especially with a strong husband at my side—but he cannot refuse if Elizabeth will only stand my friend. Dear God, if only she will do her duty and be a good cousin to Thomas Howard, a good cousin to me, then I shall be restored and our troubles will be over. Dear God, how can she not do the right thing by me? Any monarch in Europe would put out a hand to save me. Why not she?


Then I write to the only man in the world that I trust:


Bothwell,


Come, please please come.


Marie

1569, SEPTEMBER,