The other queen

1569, DECEMBER, COVENTRY: MARY

Iam trembling with excitement and I cannot hide it. I cannot make my face serene or my voice calm. I am a French princess, I should be under complete self-control, but I want to dance around the room and scream with delight. It seems that the storm I have summoned has broken on England like a great wave at sea. My army has won the whole of the North and today captured the port of Hartlepool for the Spanish armada, which will land there. The Pope will declare for me and order every Roman Catholic in England to take arms for me. I cannot hide my joy and my excitement, so I tell Mary Seton to announce that I am ill and that I must stay in my room. I dare not let anyone see me.

Hartlepool is a deepwater port, and the Spanish fleet has only to come the short voyage from the Netherlands. They could sail overnight and be here tomorrow. They could be at sea now, even now. When the Spanish army is landed it has only to march across country to me. I am now counting my time in captivity in days.

I hear a tap at the outer door of my rooms and a quiet voice outside. It is Shrewsbury: I would know his diffident tones anywhere. Mary Seton tells me he has come to inquire after my health.

“Let him enter,” I say, and rise from my chair and straighten my skirts. I glance in my looking glass. I am flushed and my eyes are bright. He will think I am feverish, rather than thrilled.

“Your Grace,” he says, and comes in and bows.

I give him my hand to kiss. “My dear Shrewsbury.”

He smiles at my pronunciation of his name and he looks carefully into my face. “I heard you were unwell. I was worried about you. But I see you are more beautiful than ever.”

“I have a slight fever,” I say, “but I don’t think it is anything serious.”

Mary Seton steps over to the window, out of our way.

“Would you wish to see a doctor? I could send to London for a physician.” He hesitates. “No, I cannot promise that. I am not sure we could get someone to make the journey in these troubled times. May I see if there is a trustworthy local man?”

I shake my head. “I will be well tomorrow, I am sure.”

“These are difficult times,” he says. “It is not surprising that you are unwell. I have been hoping to take you back to Wingfield Manor for the twelve days of Christmas; you will be more comfortable there.”

“We can go to Wingfield?” I ask, wondering if he has new intelligence. Can he know where my army is now? Can he really hope to take me to a house that cannot be defended?

“I hope so,” he says, and in his uncertain tone I know that they are advancing on us, that he knows he is defeated, and Wingfield and Christmas is his dream of peace with me, not a real plan.

“Oh, it will be our second Christmas together,” I exclaim, and watch the color slowly rise under his skin.

“I did not know then…,” he starts and then falls silent. “If you are taken,” he says, and corrects himself. “When you are taken from me…”

“Are they close?” I whisper. “Do you expect them?”

He nods. “I may not say.”

“Don’t resist,” I say urgently. “I could not bear for you to be hurt for my sake. You will be hugely outnumbered, you know, and the men of Coventry won’t take up arms for Elizabeth. Please, just surrender.”

He smiles, a little sadly. “I have to do my duty to the queen. You know that.”

“I too cannot tell you some things,” I whisper. “I have secrets too. But I do know that they are a force, an overwhelming force. When they arrive I want you to promise to come to me, come to my side, and I will protect you.”

“It is I who should be protecting you,” he says. “That is my duty and also my…my…”

“Your what?” I think he will say “desire,” and then we will be on the very brink of a declaration. I know that I should not raise my eyes and my face to him, but I do, and I take a small step so that we are close as lovers.

“It is my habit,” he says simply. “I have a habit of obedience to my queen. And I am obliged. It is my obligation to Queen Elizabeth.” And he steps back from me, his eyes down. “I came only to see if you needed a physician,” he says, his gaze on his boots. “I am glad to find you well.” He bows, and leaves.

I let him go. I have my safety in his unacknowledged love for me: he is mine, even if he does not know it. I have my rescue in the army which is coming ever closer. My future marches towards me, step by step, and the young men of the North on their fast beautiful horses are coming to save me from Elizabeth. The finest army in Europe is coming in their great ships. I am about to regain my own.

If Bothwell has escaped, he will be on his way to me, by land, by sea, by foot, by horse, by ship; if he has to crawl on his hands and knees, he will. This will be a battle he will not miss. He hates the English like a man possessed; he hates them like the borderer he is. His kin have raided the English lands and suffered English attack for centuries. He would do anything to threaten them. To defeat them in open battle would be the delight of his life.

We will meet again as we parted, on a battlefield. He left me, after the dreadful long day on Carberry Hill, and he told me, at the last, everything. He predicted that the rebellious Scots lords would give their word for my safety and for his, but they would betray their own oath the minute he was out of sight. He said they would post him as an outlaw and arrest me. He begged me to let him fight our way out, to run together. But I thought I knew better. I said they could not harm me, I was of blood royal. They dared not harm me, I was certain to be safe. No one could touch me, my person was sacred, and he was my husband; they would never dare touch him.

He threw down his hat and swore at me; he said he might be damned but he knew they would harm me—my name and my crown would not protect me. He said I was a fool; had his own kidnap of me taught me nothing? Did I not see? Did I not know? The magic of royalty is an illusion that can be shattered by a man without a conscience. He shouted at me: did I think he was the only rapist in Scotland? Would I leave his protection now?

I lost my own temper in return. I swore he was wrong, that even the wickedest Scots lords know their king. I said they would never harm one of royal blood; they might be angry but they were not outright mad—they could not lay a hand on me.

And then he told me. He told me to my face the truth that I had sworn to discover but feared to hear. He told me that he and the rebel lords had made an alliance and sworn a covenant to kill Darnley, who had royal blood just as I do. They had joined together and signed a bond to kill Darnley, who was consort to a queen, father of the prince, and of blood royal himself. Bothwell put his heavy hands on my shoulders and said, “Marie, listen, your body is not sacred. If it ever was, it is not sacred anymore. I have had it. They all know that I had you, and without your consent. They all know you are a mortal woman. You can be raped, you can be seduced. You can be killed. You can be pushed into prison, you can be marched to the scaffold, and your head can be laid on the block. I have taught them that. God forgive me, I did not realize that was the lesson they would learn. I thought I would make you safe by making you mine, but all I have done is break your spell. I have shown them what can be done. I have shown them a man can do what he wants with you, with or without your consent.”

I did not even hear him. In that moment he told me the truth as he had never spoken before, and I was not listening. I just said, “Who? Tell me the names. Tell me the regicides that killed Darnley. They are dead men.”

In answer he reached into his doublet and brought out the very bond that they had sworn, folded carefully and kept for this moment. He said, “This is for you. It may be the last thing I can do for you. This is for you. It proves your absolute innocence in his murder and our guilt. This is my parting gift to you.”

And then he rode away from me without saying goodbye. Not another word.

The paper was the bond, and on it was the name of almost every great lord at my court, the treacherous, rebellious murderers: including my half brother James. They had sworn to join together to kill my husband, Darnley.

And—voilа—Bothwell’s name was at the top. He was as guilty as any of them. That was what he was trying to tell me, on that day when he left me. That they could all bring themselves to kill a sacred royal person, just like me, one of sacred royal blood, like me. Any man without a conscience could do it. Bothwell too.