Yet Elizabeth was too good a politician, in spite of her liability to be carried away by a first impulse, to compromise herself by a longer display of her grief. The ball was not discontinued on that account, and the interrupted quadrille was resumed and finished.
The next day, Melville had his audience. Elizabeth received him to perfection, assuring him of all the pleasure that the news he brought had caused her, and which, she said, had cured her of a complaint from which she had suffered for a fortnight. Melville replied that his mistress had hastened to acquaint her with her joy, knowing that she had no better friend; but he added that this joy had nearly cost Mary her life, so grievous had been her confinement6. As he was returning to this point for the third time, with the object of still further increasing the queen of England's dislike to marriage—
"Be easy, Melville," Elizabeth answered him; "you need not insist upon it. I shall never marry; my kingdom takes the place of a husband for me, and my subjects are my children. When I am dead, I wish graven on my tombstone: 'Here lies Elizabeth, who reigned7 so many years, and who died a virgin8.'"
Melville availed himself of this opportunity to remind Elizabeth of the desire she had shown to see Mary, three or four years before; but Elizabeth said, besides her country's affairs, which necessitated9 her presence in the heart of her possessions, she did not care, after all she had heard said of her rival's beauty, to expose herself to a comparison disadvantageous to her pride. She contented herself, then, with choosing as her proxy10 the Earl of Bedford, who set out with several other noblemen for Stirling Castle, where the young prince was christened with great pomp, and received the name of Charles James.
It was remarked that Darnley did not appear at this ceremony, and that his absence seemed to scandalise greatly the queen of England's envoy. On the contrary, James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, had the most important place there.
This was because, since the evening when Bothwell, at Mary's cries, had run to oppose the murder of Rizzio, he had made great way in the queen's favour; to her party he himself appeared to be really attached, to the exclusion12 of the two others, the king's and the Earl of Murray's. Bothwell was already thirty-five years old, head of the powerful family of Hepburn, which had great influence in East Lothian and the county of Berwick; for the rest, violent, rough, given to every kind of debauchery, and capable of anything to satisfy an ambition that he did not even give himself the trouble to hide. In his youth he had been reputed courageous13, but for long he had had no serious opportunity to draw the sword.
If the king's authority had been shaken by Rizzio's influence, it was entirely14 upset by Bothwell's. The great nobles, following the favourite's example, no longer rose in the presence of Darnley, and ceased little by little to treat him as their equal: his retinue15 was cut down, his silver plate taken from him, and some officers who remained about him made him buy their services with the most bitter vexations. As for the queen, she no longer even took the trouble to conceal16 her dislike for him, avoiding him without consideration, to such a degree that one day when she had gone with Bothwell to Alway, she left there again immediately, because Darnley came to join her. The king, however, still had patience; but a fresh imprudence of Mary's at last led to the terrible catastrophe17 that, since the queen's liaison18 with Bothwell, some had already foreseen.
Towards the end of the month of October, 1566, while the queen was holding a court of justice at Jedburgh, it was announced to her that Bothwell, in trying to seize a malefactor19 called John Elliot of Park, had been badly wounded in the hand; the queen, who was about to attend the council, immediately postponed20 the sitting till next day, and, having ordered a horse to be saddled, she set out for Hermitage Castle, where Bothwell was living, and covered the distance at a stretch, although it was twenty miles, and she had to go across woods, marshes21, and rivers; then, having remained some hours tete-a-tete with him, she set out again with the same sped for Jedburgh, to which she returned in the night.
Although this proceeding22 had made a great deal of talk, which was inflamed23 still more by the queen's enemies, who chiefly belonged to the Reformed religion, Darnley did not hear of it till nearly two months afterwards—that is to say, when Bothwell, completely recovered, returned with the queen to Edinburgh.
Then Darnley thought that he ought not to put up any longer with such humiliations. But as, since his treason to his accomplices24, he had not found in all Scotland a noble who would have drawn26 the sword for him, he resolved to go and seek the Earl of Lennox, his father, hoping that through his influence he could rally the malcontents, of whom there were a great number since Bothwell had been in favour. Unfortunately, Darnley, indiscreet and imprudent as usual, confided27 this plan to some of his officers, who warned Bothwell of their master's intention. Bothwell did not seem to oppose the journey in any way; but Darnley was scarcely a mile from Edinburgh when he felt violent pains none the less, he continued his road, and arrived very ill at Glasgow. He immediately sent for a celebrated29 doctor, called James Abrenets, who found his body covered with pimples30, and declared without any hesitation31 that he had been poisoned. However, others, among them Walter Scott, state that this illness was nothing else than smallpox32.
Whatever it may have been, the queen, in the presence of the danger her husband ran, appeared to forget her resentment33, and at the risk of what might prove troublesome to herself, she went to Darnley, after sending her doctor in advance. It is true that if one is to believe in the following letters, dated from Glasgow, which Mary is accused of having written to Bothwell, she knew the illness with which he was attacked too well to fear infection. As these letters are little known, and seem to us very singular we transcribe34 them here; later we shall tell how they fell into the power of the Confederate lords, and from their hands passed into Elizabeth's, who, quite delighted, cried on receiving them, "God's death, then I hold her life and honour in my hands!"
FIRST LETTER
"When I set out from the place where I had left my heart, judge in what a condition I was, poor body without a soul: besides, during the whole of dinner I have not spoken to anyone, and no one has dared to approach me, for it was easy to see that there was something amiss. When I arrived within a league of the town, the Earl of Lennox sent me one of his gentlemen to make me his compliments, and to excuse himself for not having come in person; he has caused me to be informed, moreover, that he did not dare to present himself before me after the reprimand that I gave Cunningham. This gentleman begged me, as if of his own accord, to examine his master's conduct, to ascertain35 if my suspicions were well founded. I have replied to him that fear was an incurable36 disease, that the Earl of Lennox would not be so agitated37 if his conscience reproached him with nothing, and that if some hasty words had escaped me, they were but just reprisals38 for the letter he had written me.
"None of the inhabitants visited me, which makes me think they are all in his interests; besides, they speak of him very favourably39, as well as of his son. The king sent for Joachim yesterday, and asked him why I did not lodge40 with him, adding that my presence would soon cure him, and asked me also with what object I had come: if it were to be reconciled with him; if you were here; if I had taken Paris and Gilbert as secretaries, and if I were still resolved to dismiss Joseph? I do not know who has given him such accurate information. There is nothing, down to the marriage of Sebastian, with which he has not made himself acquainted. I have asked him the meaning of one of his letters, in which he complains of the cruelty of certain people. He replied that he was—stricken, but that my presence caused him so much joy that he thought he should die of it. He reproached me several times for being dreamy; I left him to go to supper; he begged me to return: I went back. Then he told me the story of his illness, and that he wished to make a will leaving me everything, adding that I was a little the cause of his trouble, and that he attributed it to my coldness. 'You ask me,' added he, 'who are the people of whom I complain: it is of you, cruel one, of you, whom I have never been able to appease41 by my tears and my repentance42. I know that I have offended you, but not on the matter that you reproach me with: I have also offended some of your subjects, but that you have forgiven me. I am young, and you say that I always relapse into my faults; but cannot a young man like me, destitute44 of experience, gain it also, break his promises, repent43 directly, and in time improve? If you will forgive me yet once more, I will promise to offend you never again. All the favour I ask of you is that we should live together like husband and wife, to have but one bed and one board: if you are inflexible45, I shall never rise again from here. I entreat46 you, tell me your decision: God alone knows what I suffer, and that because I occupy myself with you only, because I love and adore only you. If I have offended you sometimes, you must bear the reproach; for when someone offends me, if it were granted me to complain to you, I should not confide28 my griefs to others; but when we are on bad terms, I am obliged to keep them to myself, and that maddens me.'
"He then urged me strongly to stay with him and lodge in his house; but I excused myself, and replied that he ought to be purged47, and that he could not be, conveniently, at Glasgow; then he told me that he knew I had brought a letter for him, but that he would have preferred to make the journey with me. He believed, I think, that I meant to send him to some prison: I replied that I should take him to Craigmiller, that he would find doctors there, that I should remain near him, and that we should be within reach of seeing my son. He has answered that he will go where I wish to take him, provided that I grant him what he has asked. He does not, however, wish to be seen by anyone.
"He has told me more than a hundred pretty things that I cannot repeat to you, and at which you yourself would be surprised: he did not want to let me go; he wanted to make me sit up with him all night. As for me, I pretended to believe everything, and I seemed to interest myself really in him. Besides, I have never seen him so small and humble49; and if I had not known how easily his heart overflows50, and how mine is impervious51 to every other arrow than those with which you have wounded it, I believe that I should have allowed myself to soften53; but lest that should alarm you, I would die rather than give up what I have promised you. As for you, be sure to act in the same way towards those traitors54 who will do all they can to separate you from me. I believe that all those people have been cast in the same mould: this one always has a tear in his eye; he bows down before everyone, from the greatest to the smallest; he wishes to interest them in his favour, and make himself pitied. His father threw up blood to-day through the nose and mouth; think what these symptoms mean. I have not seen him yet, for he keeps to the house. The king wants me to feed him myself; he won't eat unless I do. But, whatever I may do, you will be deceived by it no more than I shall be deceiving myself. We are united, you and I, to two kinds of very detestable people [Mary means Miss Huntly, Bothwell's wife, whom he repudiated55, at the king's death, to marry the queen.]: that hell may sever11 these knots then, and that heaven may form better ones, that nothing can break, that it may make of us the most tender and faithful couple that ever was; there is the profession of faith in which I would die.
"Excuse my scrawl56: you must guess more than the half of it, but I know no help for this. I am obliged to write to you hastily while everyone is asleep here: but be easy, I take infinite pleasure in my watch; for I cannot sleep like the others, not being able to sleep as I would like—that is to say, in your arms.
"I am going to get into bed; I shall finish my letter tomorrow: I have too many things to tell to you, the night is too far advanced: imagine my despair. It is to you I am writing, it is of myself that I converse57 with you, and I am obliged to make an end.
"I cannot prevent myself, however, from filling up hastily the rest of my paper. Cursed be the crazy creature who torments58 me so much! Were it not for him, I could talk to you of more agreeable things: he is not greatly changed; and yet he has taken a great deal o f %t. But he has nearly killed me with the fetid smell of his breath; for now his is still worse than your cousin's: you guess that this is a fresh reason for my not approaching him; on the contrary, I go away as far as I can, and sit on a chair at the foot of his bed.
"Let us see if I forget anything:
"His father's messenger on the road;
The question about Joachim;
The-state of my house;
Subject of my arrival;
Joseph;
Conversation between him and me;
His desire to please me and his repentance;
The explanation of his letter;
Mr. Livingston.
"Ah! I was forgetting that. Yesterday Livingston during supper told de Rere in a low voice to drink to the health of one I knew well, and to beg me to do him the honour. After supper, as I was leaning on his shoulder near the fire, he said to me, 'Is it not true that there are visits very agreeable for those who pay them and those who receive them? But, however satisfied they seem with your arrival, I challenge their delight to equal the grief of one whom you have left alone to-day, and who will never be content till he sees you again.' I asked him of whom he wished to speak to me. He then answered me by pressing my arm: 'Of one of those who have not followed you; and among those it is easy for you to guess of whom I want to speak.'
"I have worked till two o'clock at the bracelet60; I have enclosed a little key which is attached by two strings61: it is not as well worked as I should like, but I have not had time to make it better; I will make you a finer one on the first occasion. Take care that it is not seen on you; for I have worked at it before everyone, and it would be recognised to a certainty.
"I always return, in spite of myself, to the frightful4 attempt that you advise. You compel me to concealments, and above all to treacheries that make me shudder62; I would rather die, believe me, than do such things; for it makes my heart bleed. He does not want to follow me unless I promise him to have the selfsame bed and board with him as before, and not to abandon him so often. If I consent to it, he says he will do all I wish, and will follow me everywhere; but he has begged me to put off my departure for two days. I have pretended to agree to all he wishes; but I have told him not to speak of our reconciliation63 to anyone, for fear it should make some lords uneasy. At last I shall take him everywhere I wish.... Alas64! I have never deceived anyone; but what would I not do to please you? Command, and whatever happens, I shall obey. But see yourself if one could not contrive65 some secret means in the shape of a remedy. He must purge48 himself at Craigmiller and take baths there; he will be some days without going out. So far as I can see, he is very uneasy; but he has great trust in what I tell him: however, his confidence does not go so far as to allow him to open his mind to me. If you like, I will tell him every thing: I can have no pleasure in deceiving someone who is trusting. However, it will be just as you wish: do not esteem66 me the less for that. It is you advised it; never would vengeance67 have taken me so far. Sometimes he attacks me in a very sensitive place, and he touches me to the quick when he tells me that his crimes are known, but that every day greater ones are committed that one uselessly attempts to hide, since all crimes, whatsoever68 they be, great or small, come to men's knowledge and form the common subject of their discourse69. He adds sometimes, in speaking to me of Madame de Rere, 'I wish her services may do you honour.' He has assured me that many people thought, and that he thought himself, that I was not my own mistress; this is doubtless because I had rejected the conditions he offered me. Finally, it is certain that he is very uneasy about you know what, and that he even suspects that his life is aimed at. He is in despair whenever the conversation turns on you, Livingston, and my brother. However, he says neither good nor ill of absent people; but, on the contrary, he always avoids speaking of them. His father keeps to the house: I have not seen him yet. A number of the Hamiltons are here, and accompany me everywhere; all the friends of the other one follow me each time I go to see him. He has begged me to be at his rising to-morrow. My messenger will tell you the rest.
"Burn my letter: there would be danger in keeping it. Besides, it is hardly worth the trouble, being filled only with dark thoughts.
"As for you, do not be offended if I am sad and uneasy to-day, that to please you I rise above honour, remorse70, and dangers. Do not take in bad part what I tell you, and do not listen to the malicious71 explanations of your wife's brother; he is a knave72 whom you ought not to hear to the prejudice of the most tender and most faithful mistress that ever was. Above all, do not allow yourself to be moved by that woman: her sham73 tears are nothing in comparison with the real tears that I shed, and with what love and constancy make me suffer at succeeding her; it is for that alone that in spite of myself I betray all those who could cross my love. God have mercy on me, and send you all the prosperity that a humble and tender friend who awaits from you soon another reward wishes you. It is very late; but it is always with regret that I lay down my pen when I write to you; however, I shall not end my letter until I shall have kissed your hands. Forgive me that it is so ill-written: perhaps I do so expressly that you may be obliged to re-read it several times: I have transcribed74 hastily what I had written down on my tablets, and my paper has given out. Remember a tender friend, and write to her often: love me as tenderly as I love you, and remember:
"Madame de Rere's words;
The English;
His mother;
The Earl of Argyll;
The Earl of Bothwell;
SECOND LETTER
"It seems that you have forgotten me during your absence, so much the more that you had promised me, at setting out, to let me know in detail everything fresh that should happen. The hope of receiving your news was giving me almost as much delight as your return could have brought me: you have put it off longer than you promised me. As for me, although you do not write, I play my part always. I shall take him to Craigmiller on Monday, and he will spend the whole of Wednesday there. On that day I shall go to Edinburgh to be bled there, unless you arrange otherwise at least. He is more cheerful than usual, and he is better than ever.
"He says everything he can to persuade me that he loves me; he has a thousand attentions for me, and he anticipates me in everything: all that is so pleasant for me, that I never go to him but the pain in my side comes on again, his company weighs on me so much. If Paris brought me what I asked him, I should be soon cured. If you have not yet returned when I go you know where, write to me, I beg you, and tell me what you wish me to do; for if you do not manage things prudently76, I foresee that the whole burden will fall on me: look into everything and weigh the affair maturely. I send you my letter by Beaton, who will set out the day which has been assigned to Balfour. It only remains77 for me to beg you to inform me of your journey.
"Glasgow, this Saturday morning."
THIRD LETTER
"I stayed you know where longer than I should have done, if it had not been to get from him something that the bearer of these presents will tell you it was a good opportunity for covering up our designs: I have promised him to bring the person you know to-morrow. Look after the rest, if you think fit. Alas! I have failed in our agreement, for you have forbidden me to write to you, or to despatch78 a messenger to you. However, I do not intend to offend you: if you knew with what fears I am agitated, you would not have yourself so many doubts and suspicions. But I take them in good part, persuaded as I am that they have no other cause than love—love that I esteem more than anything on earth.
"My feelings and my favours are to me sure warrants for that love, and answer to me for your heart; my trust is entire on this head: but explain yourself, I entreat you, and open your soul to me; otherwise, I shall fear lest, by the fatality79 of my star, and by the too fortunate influence of the stars on women less tender and less faithful than I, I may be supplanted80 in your heart as Medea was in Jason's; not that I wish to compare you to a lover as unfortunate as Jason, and to parallel myself with a monster like Medea, although you have enough influence over me to force me to resemble her each time our love exacts it, and that it concerns me to keep your heart, which belongs to me, and which belongs to me only. For I name as belonging to me what I have purchased with the tender and constant love with which I have burned for you, a love more alive to-day than ever, and which will end only with my life; a love, in short, which makes me despise both the dangers and the remorse which will be perhaps its sad sequel. As the price of this sacrifice, I ask you but one favour, it is to remember a spot not far from here: I do not exact that you should keep your promise to-morrow; but I want to see you to disperse81 your suspicions. I ask of God only one thing: it is that He should make you read my heart, which is less mine than yours, and that He should guard you from every ill, at least during my life: this life is dear to me only in so far as it pleases you, and as I please you myself. I am going to bed: adieu; give me your news to-morrow morning; for I shall be uneasy till I have it. Like a bird escaped from its cage, or the turtle-dove which has lost her mate, I shall be alone, weeping your absence, short as it may be. This letter, happier than I, will go this evening where I cannot go, provided that the messenger does not find you asleep, as I fear. I have not dared to write it in the presence of Joseph, of Sebastian, and of Joachim, who had only just left me when I began it."
Thus, as one sees, and always supposing these letters to be genuine, Mary had conceived for Bothwell one of those mad passions, so much the stronger in the women who are a prey82 to them, that one the less understands what could have inspired them. Bothwell was no longer young, Bothwell was not handsome, and yet Mary sacrificed for him a young husband, who was considered one of the handsomest men of his century. It was like a kind of enchantment83. Darnley, the sole obstacle to the union, had been already condemned84 for a long time, if not by Mary, at least by Bothwell; then, as his strong constitution had conquered the poison, another kind of death was sought for.
The queen, as she announces in her letter to Bothwell, had refused to bring back Darnley with her, and had returned alone to Edinburgh. Arrived there, she gave orders for the king to be moved, in his turn, in a litter; but instead of taking him to Stirling or Holyrood, she decided85 to lodge him in the abbey of the Kirk of Field. The king made some objections when he knew of this arrangement; however, as he had no power to oppose it, he contented himself with complaining of the solitude86 of the dwelling assigned him; but the queen made answer that she could not receive him at that moment, either at Holyrood or at Stirling, for fear, if his illness were infectious, lest he might give it to his son: Darnley was then obliged to make the best of the abode87 allotted88 him.
It was an isolated89 abbey, and little calculated by its position to dissipate the fears that the king entertained; for it was situated90 between two ruined churches and two cemeteries91: the only house, which was distant about a shot from a cross-bow, belonged to the Hamiltons, and as they were Darnley's mortal enemies the neighbourhood was none the more reassuring92: further, towards the north, rose some wretched huts, called the "Thieves' cross-roads". In going round his new residence, Darnley noticed that three holes, each large enough for a man to get through, had been made in the walls; he asked that these holes, through which ill-meaning persons could get in, should be stopped up: it was promised that masons should be sent; but nothing was done, and the holes remained open.
The day after his arrival at Kirk of Field, the king saw a light in that house near his which lie believed deserted93; next day he asked Alexander Durham whence it came, and he heard that the Archbishop of St. Andrew's had left his palace in Edinburgh and had housed there since the preceding evening, one didn't know why: this news still further increased the king's uneasiness; the Archbishop of St. Andrew's was one of his most declared enemies.
The king, little by little abandoned by all his servants lived on the first floor of an isolated pavilion, having about him only this same Alexander Durham, whom we have mentioned already, and who was his valet. Darnley, who had quite a special friendship for him, and who besides, as we have said, feared some attack on his life at every moment, had made him move his bed into his own apartment, so that both were sleeping in the same room.
On the night of the 8th February, Darnley awoke Durham: he thought he heard footsteps in the apartment beneath him. Durham rose, took a sword in one hand, a taper95 in the other, and went down to the ground floor; but although Darnley was quite certain he had not been deceived, Durham came up again a moment after, saying he had seen no one.
The morning of the next day passed without bringing anything fresh. The queen was marrying one of her servants named Sebastian: he was an Auvergnat whom she had brought with her from France, and whom she liked very much. However, as the king sent word that he had not seen her for two days, she left the wedding towards six o'clock in the evening, and came to pay him a visit, accompanied by the Countess of Argyll and the Countess of Huntly. While she was there, Durham, in preparing his bed, set fire to his palliasse, which was burned as well as a part of the mattress96; so that, having thrown them out of the window all in flames, for fear lest the fire should reach the rest of the furniture, he found himself without a bed, and asked permission to return to the town to sleep; but Darnley, who remembered his terror the night before, and who was surprised at the promptness that had made Durham throw all his bedding out of the window, begged him not to go away, offering him one of his mattresses97, or even to take him into his own bed. However, in spite of this offer, Durham insisted, saying that he felt unwell, and that he should like to see a doctor the same evening. So the queen interceded98 for Durham, and promised Darnley to send him another valet to spend the night with him: Darnley was then obliged to yield, and, making Mary repeat that she would send him someone, he gave Durham leave for that evening. At that moment Paris; of whom the queen speaks in her letters, came in: he was a young Frenchman who had been in Scotland for some years, and who, after having served with Bothwell and Seyton, was at present with the queen. Seeing him, she got up, and as Darnley still wished to keep her—
"Indeed, my lord, it is impossible," said she, "to come and see you. I have left this poor Sebastian's wedding, and I must return to it; for I promised to came masked to his ball."
The king dared not insist; he only reminded her of the promise that she had made to send him a servant: Mary renewed it yet once again, and went away with her attendants. As for Durham, he had set out the moment he received permission.
It was nine o'clock in the evening. Darnley, left alone, carefully shut the doors within, and retired99 to rest, though in readiness to rise to let in the servant who should come to spend the night with him. Scarcely was he in bed than the same noise that he had heard the night before recommenced; this time Darnley listened with all the attention fear gives, and soon he had no longer any doubt but that several men were walking about beneath him. It was useless to call, it was dangerous to go out; to wait was the only course that remained to the king. He made sure again that the doors were well fastened, put his sword under his pillow, extinguished his lamp for fear the light might betray him, and awaited in silence for his servant's arrival; but the hours passed away, and the servant did not come. At one o'clock in the morning, Bothwell, after having talked some while with the queen, in the presence of the captain of the guard, returned home to change his dress; after some minutes, he came out wrapped up in the large cloak of a German hussar, went through the guard-house, and had the castle gate opened. Once outside, he took his way with all speed to Kirk of Field, which he entered by the opening in the wall: scarcely had he made a step in the garden than he met James Balfour, governor of the castle.
"Well," he said to him, "how far have we got?
"Everything is ready," replied Balfour, "and we were waiting for you to set fire to the fuse". "That is well," Bothwell answered—"but first I want to make sure that he is in his room."
At these words, Bothwell opened the pavilion door with a false key, and, having groped his way up the stairs; he went to listen at Darnley's door. Darnley, hearing no further noise, had ended by going to sleep; but he slept with a jerky breathing which pointed100 to his agitation101. Little mattered it to Bothwell what kind of sleep it was, provided that he was really in his room. He went down again in silence, then, as he had come up, and taking a lantern from one of the conspirators102, he went himself into the lower room to see if everything was in order: this room was full of barrels of powder, and a fuse ready prepared wanted but a spark to set the whole on fire. Bothwell withdrew, then, to the end of the garden with Balfour, David, Chambers103, and three or four others, leaving one man to ignite the fuse. In a moment this man rejoined them.
There ensued some minutes of anxiety, during which the five men looked at one another in silence and as if afraid of themselves; then, seeing that nothing exploded, Bothwell impatiently turned round to the engineer, reproaching him for having, no doubt through fear, done his work badly. He assured his master that he was certain everything was all right, and as Bothwell, impatient, wanted to return to the house himself, to make sure, he offered to go back and see how things stood. In fact, he went back to the pavilion, and, putting his head through a kind of air-hole, he saw the fuse, which was still burning. Some seconds afterwards, Bothwell saw him come running back, making a sign that all was going well; at the same moment a frightful report was heard, the pavilion was blown to pieces, the town and the firth were lit up with a clearness exceeding the brightest daylight; then everything fell back into night, and the silence was broken only by the fall of stones and joists, which came down as fast as hail in a hurricane.
Next day the body of the king was found in a garden in the neighbourhood: it had been saved from the action of the fire by the mattresses on which he was lying, and as, doubtless, in his terror he had merely thrown himself on his bed wrapped in his dressing-gown and in his slippers105, and as he was found thus, without his slippers, which were flung some paces away, it was believed that he had been first strangled, then carried there; but the most probable version was that the murderers simply relied upon powder—an auxiliary106 sufficiently107 powerful in itself for them to have no fear it would fail them.
Was the queen an accomplice25 or not? No one has ever known save herself, Bothwell, and God; but, yes or no, her conduct, imprudent this time as always, gave the charge her enemies brought against her, if not substance, at least an appearance of truth. Scarcely had she heard the news than she gave orders that the body should be brought to her, and, having had it stretched out upon a bench, she looked at it with more curiosity than sadness; then the corpse108, embalmed109, was placed the same evening, without pomp, by the side of Rizzio's.
Scottish ceremonial prescribes for the widows of kings retirement110 for forty days in a room entirely closed to the light of day: on the twelfth day Mary had the windows opened, and on the fifteenth set out with Bothwell for Seaton, a country house situated five miles from the capital, where the French ambassador, Ducroc, went in search of her, and made her remonstrances111 which decided her to return to Edinburgh; but instead of the cheers which usually greeted her coming, she was received by an icy silence, and a solitary112 woman in the crowd called out, "God treat her as she deserves!"
The names of the murderers were no secret to the people. Bothwell having brought a splendid coat which was too large for him to a tailor, asking him to remake it to his measure, the man recognised it as having belonged to the king. "That's right," said he; "it is the custom for the executioner to inherit from the-condemned". Meanwhile, the Earl of Lennox, supported by the people's murmurs113, loudly demanded justice for his son's death, and came forward as the accuser of his murderers. The queen was then obliged, to appease paternal114 clamour and public resentment, to command the Earl of Argyll, the Lord Chief Justice of the kingdom, to make investigations115; the same day that this order was given, a proclamation was posted up in the streets of Edinburgh, in which the queen promised two thousand pounds sterling116 to whoever would make known the king's murderers. Next day, wherever this letter had been affixed117, another placard was found, worded thus:
"As it has been proclaimed that those who should make known the king's murderers should have two thousand pounds sterling, I, who have made a strict search, affirm that the authors of the murder are the Earl of Bothwell, James Balfour, the priest of Flisk, David, Chambers, Blackmester, Jean Spens, and the queen herself."
This placard was torn down; but, as usually happens, it had already been read by the entire population.
The Earl of Lennox accused Bothwell, and public opinion, which also accused him, seconded the earl with such violence, that Mary was compelled to bring him to trial: only every precaution was taken to deprive the prosecutor119 of the power of convicting the accused. On the 28th March, the Earl of Lennox received notice that the 12th April was fixed118 for the trial: he was granted a fortnight to collect decisive proofs against the most powerful man in all Scotland; but the Earl of Lennox, judging that this trial was a mere104 mockery, did not appear. Bothwell, on the contrary, presented himself at the court, accompanied by five thousand partisans120 and two hundred picked fusiliers, who guarded the doors directly he had entered; so that he seemed to be rather a king who is about to violate the law than an accused who comes to submit to it. Of course there happened what was certain to happen—that is to say, the jury acquitted121 Bothwell of the crime of which everyone, the judges included, knew him to be guilty.
The day of the trial, Bothwell had this written challenge placarded:
"Although I am sufficiently cleared of the murder of the king, of which I have been falsely accused, yet, the better to prove my innocence122, I am, ready to engage in combat with whomsoever will dare to maintain that I have killed the king."
The day after, this reply appeared:
"I accept the challenge, provided that you select neutral ground."
However, judgment123 had been barely given, when rumours124 of a marriage between the queen and the Earl of Bothwell were abroad. However strange and however mad this marriage, the relations of the two lovers were so well known that no one doubted but that it was true. But as everyone submitted to Bothwell, either through fear or through ambition, two men only dared to protest beforehand against this union: the one was Lord Herries, and the other James Melville.
Mary was at Stirling when Lord Herries, taking advantage of Bothwell's momentary125 absence, threw himself at her feet, imploring126 her not to lose her honour by marrying her husband's murderer, which could not fail to convince those who still doubted it that she was his accomplice. But the queen, instead of thanking Herries for this devotion, seemed very much surprised at his boldness, and scornfully signing to him to rise, she coldly replied that her heart was silent as regarded the Earl of Bothwell, and that, if she should ever re-marry, which was not probable, she would neither forget what she owed to her people nor what she owed to herself.
Melville did not allow himself to be discouraged by this experience, and pretended, to have received a letter that one of his friends, Thomas Bishop94, had written him from England. He showed this letter to the queen; but at the first lines Mary recognised the style, and above all the friendship of her ambassador, and giving the letter to the Earl of Livingston, who was present, "There is a very singular letter," said she. "Read it. It is quite in Melvine's manner."
Livingston glanced through the letter, but had scarcely read the half of it when he took Melville by the hand, and drawing him into the embrasure of a window,
"My dear Melville," said he, "you were certainly mad when you just now imparted this letter to the queen: as soon as the Earl of Bothwell gets wind of it, and that will not be long, he will have you assassinated127. You have behaved like an honest man, it is true; but at court it is better to behave as a clever man. Go away, then, as quickly as possible; it is I who recommend it."
Melville did not require to be told twice, and stayed away for a week. Livingston was not mistaken: scarcely had Bothwell returned to the queen than he knew all that had passed. He burst out into curses against Melville, and sought for him everywhere; but he could not find him.
This beginning of opposition128, weak as it was, none the less disquieted130 Bothwell, who, sure of Mary's love, resolved to make short work of things. Accordingly, as the queen was returning from Stirling to Edinburgh some days after the scenes we have just related, Bothwell suddenly appeared at the Bridge of Grammont with a thousand horsemen, and, having disarmed131 the Earl of Huntly, Livingston, and Melville, who had returned to his mistress, he seized the queen's horse by the bridle132, and with apparent violence he forced Mary to turn back and follow him to Dunbar; which the queen did without any resistance—a strange thing for one of Mary's character.
The day following, the Earls of Huntly, Livingston, Melville, and the people in their train were set at liberty; then, ten days afterwards, Bothwell and the queen, perfectly133 reconciled, returned to Edinburgh together.
Two days after this return, Bothwell gave a great dinner to the nobles his partisans in a tavern134. When the meal was ended, on the very same table, amid half-drained glasses and empty bottles, Lindsay, Ruthven, Morton, Maitland, and a dozen or fifteen other noblemen signed a bond which not only set forth135 that upon their souls and consciences Bothwell was innocent, but which further denoted him as the most suitable husband for the queen. This bond concluded with this sufficiently strange declaration:
"After all, the queen cannot do otherwise, since the earl has carried her off and has lain with her."
Yet two circumstances were still opposed to this marriage: the first, that Bothwell had already been married three times, and that his three wives were living; the second, that having carried off the queen, this violence might cause to be regarded as null the alliance which she should contract with him: the first of these objections was attended to, to begin with, as the one most difficult to solve.
Bothwell's two first wives were of obscure birth, consequently he scorned to disquiet129 himself about them; but it was not so with the third, a daughter of that Earl of Huntly who been trampled136 beneath the horses' feet, and a sister of Gordon, who had been decapitated. Fortunately for Bothwell, his past behaviour made his wife long for a divorce with an eagerness as great as his own. There was not much difficulty, then, in persuading her to bring a charge of adultery against her husband. Bothwell confessed that he had had criminal intercourse137 with a relative of his wife, and the Archbishop of St. Andrews, the same who had taken up his abode in that solitary house at Kirk of Field to be present at Darnley's death, pronounced the marriage null. The case was begun, pushed on, and decided in ten days.
As to the second obstacle, that of the violence used to the queen, Mary undertook to remove it herself; for, being brought before the court, she declared that not only did she pardon Bothwell for his conduct as regarded her, but further that, knowing him to be a good and faithful subject, she intended raising him immediately to new honours. In fact, some days afterwards she created him Duke of Orkney, and on the 15th of the same month—that is to say, scarcely four months after the death of Darnley—with levity138 that resembled madness, Mary, who had petitioned for a dispensation to wed52 a Catholic prince, her cousin in the third degree, married Bothwell, a Protestant upstart, who, his divorce notwithstanding, was still bigamous, and who thus found himself in the position of having four wives living, including the queen.
The wedding was dismal139, as became a festival under such outrageous140 auspices141. Morton, Maitland, and some base flatterers of Bothwell alone were present at it. The French ambassador, although he was a creature of the House of Guise142, to which the queen belonged, refused to attend it.
Mary's delusion143 was short-lived: scarcely was she in Bothwell's power than she saw what a master she had given herself. Gross, unfeeling, and violent, he seemed chosen by Providence144 to avenge145 the faults of which he had been the instigator146 or the accomplice. Soon his fits of passion reached such a point, that one day, no longer able to endure them, Mary seized a dagger147 from Erskine, who was present with Melville at one of these scenes, and would have struck herself, saying that she would rather die than continue living unhappily as she did; yet, inexplicable148 as it seems, in spite of these miseries149, renewed without ceasing, Mary, forgetting that she was wife and queen, tender and submissive as a child, was always the first to be reconciled with Bothwell.
Nevertheless, these public scenes gave a pretext150 to the nobles, who only sought an opportunity for an outbreak. The Earl of Mar1, the young prince's tutor, Argyll, Athol, Glencairn, Lindley, Boyd, and even Morton and Maitland themselves, those eternal accomplices of Bothwell, rose, they said, to avenge the death of the king, and to draw the son from hands which had killed the father and which were keeping the mother captive. As to Murray, he had kept completely in the background during all the last events; he was in the county of Fife when the king was assassinated, and three days before the trial of Bothwell he had asked and obtained from his sister permission to take a journey on the Continent.
The insurrection took place in such a prompt and instantaneous manner, that the Confederate lords, whose plan was to surprise and seize both Mary and Bothwell, thought they would succeed at the first attempt.
The king and queen were at table with Lord Borthwick, who was entertaining them, when suddenly it was announced that a large body of armed men was surrounding the castle: Bothwell and Mary suspected that they were aimed at, and as they had no means of resistance, Bothwell dressed himself as a squire151, Mary as a page, and both immediately taking horse, escaped by one door just as the Confederates were coming in by the other. The fugitives152 withdrew to Dunbar.
There they called together all Bothwell's friends, and made them sign a kind of treaty by which they undertook to defend the queen and her husband. In the midst of all this, Murray arrived from France, and Bothwell offered the document to him as to the others; but Murray refused to put his signature to it, saying that it was insulting him to think he need be bound by a written agreement when it was a question of defending his sister and his queen. This refusal having led to an altercation153 between him and Bothwell, Murray, true to his system of neutrality, withdrew into his earldom, and let affairs follow without him the fatal decline they had taken.
In the meantime the Confederates, after having failed at Borthwick, not feeling strong enough to attack Bothwell at Dunbar, marched upon Edinburgh, where they had an understanding with a man of whom Bothwell thought himself sure. This man was James Balfour, governor of the citadel154, the same who had presided over the preparation of the mine which had blown up Darnley, and whom Bothwell had, met on entering the garden at Kirk of Field. Not only did Balfour deliver Edinburgh Castle into the hands of the Confederates, but he also gave them a little silver coffer of which the cipher155, an "F" crowned, showed that it had belonged to Francis II; and in fact it was a gift from her first husband, which the queen had presented to Bothwell. Balfour stated that this coffer contained precious papers, which in the present circumstances might be of great use to Mary's enemies. The Confederate lords opened it, and found inside the three genuine or spurious letters that we have quoted, the marriage contract of Mary and Bothwell, and twelve poems in the queen's handwriting. As Balfour had said, therein lay, for her enemies, a rich and precious find, which was worth more than a victory; for a victory would yield them only the queen's life, while Balfour's treachery yielded them her honour.
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1
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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2
envoy
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| n.使节，使者，代表，公使 | |
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3
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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4
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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5
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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6
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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7
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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8
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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9
necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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11
sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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12
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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13
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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14
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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15
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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16
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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17
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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18
liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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19
malefactor
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| n.罪犯 | |
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20
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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21
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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22
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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23
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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25
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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26
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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27
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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28
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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29
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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30
pimples
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| n.丘疹，粉刺，小脓疱( pimple的名词复数 ) | |
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31
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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32
smallpox
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| n.天花 | |
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33
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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34
transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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35
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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36
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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37
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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38
reprisals
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| n.报复（行为）( reprisal的名词复数 ) | |
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39
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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40
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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41
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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42
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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43
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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44
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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45
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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46
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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47
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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48
purge
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| n.整肃，清除，泻药，净化；vt.净化，清除，摆脱；vi.清除，通便，腹泻，变得清洁 | |
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49
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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50
overflows
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| v.溢出，淹没( overflow的第三人称单数 )；充满；挤满了人；扩展出界，过度延伸 | |
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51
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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52
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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53
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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54
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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55
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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56
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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57
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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58
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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59
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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60
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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61
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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62
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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63
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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64
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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65
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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66
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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67
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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68
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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69
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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70
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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71
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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72
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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73
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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74
transcribed
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的过去式和过去分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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75
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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76
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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77
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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78
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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79
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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80
supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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82
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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83
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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84
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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85
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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86
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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87
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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88
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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90
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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91
cemeteries
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| n.（非教堂的）墓地，公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
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92
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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93
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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95
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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96
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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98
interceded
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| v.斡旋，调解( intercede的过去式和过去分词 )；说情 | |
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99
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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100
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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101
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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102
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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103
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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104
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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105
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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106
auxiliary
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| adj.辅助的，备用的 | |
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107
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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108
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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109
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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111
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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112
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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113
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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114
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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115
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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116
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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117
affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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118
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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119
prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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120
partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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121
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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122
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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123
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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124
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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125
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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126
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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127
assassinated
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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128
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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129
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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130
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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132
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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133
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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134
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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135
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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136
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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137
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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138
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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139
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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140
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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141
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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142
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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143
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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144
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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145
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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146
instigator
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| n.煽动者 | |
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147
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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148
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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149
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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150
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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151
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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152
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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153
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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154
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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155
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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