Mary Stuart
On this occasion, however, the temperamental difference between Mary Stuart and Elizabeth Tudor was signally disclosed once more. Mary showed herself prompter to act and far more resolute, her courage being always impatient, swift and impetuous. Elizabeth, on the other hand, acting timidly as was her wont, hesitated too long. Before she had made up her mind to instruct her treasurer to equip an army and openly to support the insurgents, Mary had taken action. She issued a proclamation in which she dealt roundly with the rebels. “You are not satisfied to heap wealth upon wealth, honours upon honours, you want to have ourselves and our kingdom altogether in your hands that you may deal with them as you will, and compel them to act wholly in accordance with your desire—in a word, you want to be kings yourselves, and leave us nothing more than the nominal title of ruler of the kingdom.” Without losing an hour, the intrepid woman mounted her horse and, armed with pistols, her young husband wearing gilt armour riding by her side, surrounded by those of the nobles who had remained true to her, she set forth against the rebels at the head of a quickly assembled army. The wedding march had become a war march. This resoluteness was justified by the result. Most of the opposing barons were daunted by the display of royal energy—all the more seeing that the promised aid from England was not forthcoming, and Elizabeth continued to send dubious words instead of an army. One after another, with hanging heads, they returned to pay allegiance to their rightful ruler. Moray alone remained stout-hearted, but before he, forsaken by his allies, could gather a new army, he was a defeated man and had to flee. The victorious royal pair followed him hot-foot, so that it was only by the skin of his teeth that he saved himself on 14th October 1565, through crossing the border onto English soil.
Mary’s victory was complete. All the peers of the Scottish realm now formed a solid front round Mary Stuart; once more Scotland was in the hands of a king and a queen. For a moment Mary’s confidence was so overwhelming that she was minded to take the offensive and cross the border into England, where she knew that the Catholic minority would welcome her as a deliverer. The more prudent among her advisers were able, with some difficulty, to hold this impulse in check. In any case, now that Elizabeth had put her cards on the table, the days of an exchange of courtesies between the cousins were over. The independent choice of a husband had been Mary’s first triumph over Elizabeth; the crushing of the rebellion was the second; henceforward she could look freely and proudly across the border and stare her “good sister” out of countenance.
Before these troubles had arisen, Elizabeth’s position had been far from enviable. Now, after the defeat of the Scottish rebels whose movement she had fomented, that position became alarming. Doubtless it has at all times been an international custom for rulers who have secretly instigated revolts in neighbouring lands to disavow the rebels when these are conquered. But since misfortunes never come singly, one of Elizabeth’s consignments of money to the Scottish lords had chanced to fall into the hands of Bothwell, Moray’s deadly enemy, when making a raid, so that plain proofs of the complicity of the Queen of England had been secured. A second grave inconvenience was caused by the fact that Moray, almost as a matter of course, had taken refuge in England, the country which had given him both open and tacit support. Nay, more, the defeated man actually put in an appearance in London. This was most embarrassing for the English ruler, accustomed though she was to play a double game! If she received Moray, the rebel, at court, this would imply that she approved or at least condoned his rebellion against Mary. If, on the other hand, she were to shame her secret ally by refusing him an audience, the affront might lead him to let the cat out of the bag, to explain to foreign courts that he had been Elizabeth’s pensioner. Scarcely on any other occasion did Elizabeth’s habit of playing double put her in a tighter place than this.
Fortunately, however, the sixteenth century was one when many notable comedies were composed. Elizabeth had the advantage of breathing the same vital atmosphere that Shakespeare and Ben Jonson were to breathe. A born actress, she could play her part as well as any queen of the stage; so that high comedy was already as much in vogue at Hampton Court and Westminster as later in the Globe or the Fortune Theatre. Hardly had she been informed of the arrival of her inconvenient ally, when she arranged for Cecil, the same evening, to put Moray through a sort of dress rehearsal of the part it would be incumbent upon him to play in order to save Queen Elizabeth’s honour.
It would be hard for a dramatist to imagine anything more impudent than the comedy that was staged next morning. The French ambassador came to pay his respects, talking of this, that and the other, for how could he dream that he had been summoned to look on at an impudent farce? While he was discussing the political situation, a lackey entered and announced the Earl of Moray. The Queen knitted her brows. Who? Had she not misheard the name? Really, the Earl of Moray? How could this base rebel against her “good sister” have made his way to London? What unheard-of insolence for him to demand audience of her, whom all the world knew to be devoted to her Scottish cousin! Poor Elizabeth! At first, she could hardly contain her astonishment and indignation. Still, after brief and gloomy reflection, she made up her mind to receive the “scoundrel” but, God be praised, she need not see him alone! She begged the French ambassador to be good enough to remain as witness of her “honest” indignation.
Now it was Moray’s turn to play up. He did so with all due seriousness. His aspect as he entered was designed to show contrition and a sense of guilt. Humbly and timidly, with a mien altogether different from his customary stride, did he enter the room. He was clad in black, kneeled before Elizabeth, and began to address her in his native Doric. The Queen promptly interrupted him, commanding him to speak French, so that the ambassador could follow their conversation and no one would be able to say she had talked secrets with so opprobrious a rebel. Moray stammered a little, in assumed embarrassment, but Elizabeth went on, taking a high tone. She could not understand how he, a refugee who had been rebelling against her cousin and friend, dared to enter her court uninvited. There had, no doubt, been various misunderstandings between herself and Mary Stuart, but none of them had been serious. She, Elizabeth, had always regarded the Queen of Scotland as her good sister, and hoped that the pair of them would ever remain upon such excellent terms. Unless Moray satisfactorily proved that only in a moment of folly or in self-defence had he taken up arms against his lawful sovereign, Elizabeth would have him arrested, and would call him to account for his rebellious behaviour. Moray would do well to excuse himself as best he could.
Moray, having been carefully drilled by Cecil, knew that now he might say anything in the world except the truth. He knew that he must take all the blame upon himself, in order to exonerate Elizabeth in the ambassador’s eyes. Instead, therefore, of stating his grievances against Mary Stuart, he praised his half-sister to the skies. She had bestowed upon him lands, titles of honour and other rewards far beyond his merits; he had, for that reason, served her faithfully, and nothing but the dread of a conspiracy against his own person, nothing but the fear of assassination, had led him to behave as foolishly, as recklessly, as he had done. He had only come to Elizabeth hoping for her gracious help to induce the Queen of Scotland to forgive him.
This seemed already to exculpate very efficiently the woman who had fomented the whole affair. But Elizabeth needed more. The comedy had been staged, not merely that Moray, before the French ambassador, should take the blame on his own shoulders, but that, as witness for the crown, he might declare that Elizabeth had had nothing whatever to do with the affair. A thumping lie never means any more to a politician than empty breath, so Moray solemnly assured the ambassador that Queen Elizabeth “had known nothing whatever about the conspiracy, and had never encouraged him or his friends to disobey the orders of their lawful sovereign.”
Elizabeth had got what she wanted. She had been solemnly whitewashed, and was able, with theatrical emotion, to rail at her fellow conspirator in front of the ambassador. “Now
,” she exclaimed, “ye have told the truth; for neither did I, nor any in my name, stir ye up against your Queen, for your abominable treason might serve for example to move my own subjects to rebel against me; therefore pack you out of my presence, ye are but an unworthy traitor.” Moray bowed his head, perhaps to conceal a smile. He had not forgotten the many thousand pounds which, in the Queen’s name, had been handed to Lady Moray for him, and to some of the other rebel lords; nor had he forgotten Randolph’s imploring letters, nor yet the pledges of English military aid. He knew, moreover, that if for the time being he were prepared to accept the role of scapegoat, Elizabeth would not chase him forth into the desert. The French ambassador, meanwhile, stood respectfully listening and watching, for being a man of education he could enjoy a good comedy. Not until he got back to the embassy would he allow himself to smile, when sitting alone at his desk and writing a report to his royal master. Elizabeth, one may suppose, was not altogether happy in her mind, for she can hardly have believed that anyone could have taken these assurances at their face value. Still, no one had ventured to smile openly. Appearances had been kept up, and what did truth matter? Without a word more, sustained by the dignity of her voluminous skirts, she rustled out.
Nothing can show better how great, for the time, had become the power of Mary Stuart, than that her English cousin and adversary should, after losing the battle, have been driven to such petty subterfuges in order to make a seemly retreat. The Queen of Scotland could raise her head proudly, for everything had happened as she had willed. The man of her choice wore the Scottish crown; the barons who had risen against her had returned to their allegiance or were outlawed in foreign lands. All the omens were favourable, and when she now bore a son to her young husband, the last and greatest of her dreams was fulfilled. This Stuart boy would be King of the united thrones of Scotland and England.
The omens were favourable. Fortunate stars shed their light like a silent blessing over the land. Now, one might suppose, Mary Stuart could rest in the enjoyment of the happiness she had harvested. But the law of her unruly nature was to suffer storm or to raise it. One whose heart is untamed cannot rest content when the outer world proffers happiness and peace. Impetuously this disorderly heart continued, from within, to create fresh disasters and new perils.
Chapter Eight
The Fatal Night in Holyrood
(9th March 1566)
IT IS PART OF THE NATURE OF EVERY TRUE PASSION neither to count nor to save, neither to hesitate nor to question. When one of a regal type of character loves, this implies unrestricted self-surrender and expenditure without thrift. During the first weeks of her marriage, Mary found it impossible to do enough to show her fondness for her young husband. Every day she surprised Darnley with some new gift—now a horse, now a suit of clothes; a hundred small and tender things, to follow up the bestowal of the greatest things in her power to bestow—the royal tide and the warmth of her heart. Reporting to London, Randolph, the English ambassador, wrote: “All honour that may be attributed unto any man by a wife, he hath it wholly and fully. All praise that may be spoken of him, he lacketh not from herself. All dignities that she can indue him with are already given and granted. No man pleaseth her that contenteth not him; and what may I say more? She hath given over unto him her whole will, to be ruled and guided as himself best liketh.” Mary Stuart was not one to do things by halves; she gave with both hands. Now that she was passionately in love, she was wholly obedient and ecstatically humble.
Great gifts, however, are advantageous only to one who is worthy of them; for others, they are dangerous. Strong characters become yet stronger through a sudden accession of power, since power is their natural element; weak characters, on the other hand, are ruined by unmerited good fortune. Triumph, instead of teaching them humility, makes them arrogant; and, childish in their folly, they believe that the favour of fortune is a testimony to their own worth.
It was not long before Mary’s unrestrained and voluptuous delight in giving proved disastrous to this narrow-minded and vain youth, who still stood in need of a tutor instead of becoming the master and lord of a generous and high-spirited queen. For as soon as Darnley perceived what power he had gained, he became pretentious and overbearing. He accepted his wife’s gifts as nothing more than tributes due to him and took the guerdon of her royal love as something that accrued to him by right as a man. Having become a master, he felt entitled to treat his wife as a slave. A poor creature with a “heart of wax” (to quote Mary’s own contemptuous words about him later), the spoilt lad threw off all restraint, suffered from what would nowadays be called “swelled head”, and meddled autocratically in affairs of state. The courtliness and modesty that he had assumed in the days of his wooing were now discarded as superfluous. It was no longer necessary for him to write verses to Mary, or to be gentle in his manner. At the council he assumed dictatorial airs, speaking rudely and loudly; he drank deep with his boon companions, and on one occasion, when the Queen tried to withdraw him from unworthy associates, he berated her so shamefully that the poor woman, thus publicly humiliated, burst into tears. Since his wife had granted him the title of King (the title and nothing more), he believed himself to be in very truth a king, and impetuously demanded the “crown matrimonial”, that is to say joint powers of rule. Indeed, this beardless lad of nineteen was already dreaming of autocracy, of becoming the sole and irresponsible head of the Scottish realm. Yet everyone knew that his presumption was not backed up by any effective will, that a conceited boy was intoxicating himself with his own rodomontade, and that the braggart believed himself to be a man because he displayed the arrogance of an upstart. Inevitably, before long, Mary herself came to recognise, with shame, that her first and most devoted love had been squandered upon one who was both ungrateful and unworthy.
Now, in a woman’s life, there can be no worse humiliation than to discover she has given herself to one who does not deserve or appreciate the gift, and never will a true woman pardon either herself or the man for so gross a mistake. When the love passion has once flamed high between a man and a woman, it would be unnatural were it to lapse into mere coolness and smooth civility; love, in cases of bitter disappointment, is speedily metamorphosed into hatred and contempt. Thus Mary Stuart, who was never one to show moderation in her feelings, having recognised Darnley to be a pitiful specimen of mankind, withdrew her favour from him more suddenly and swiftly than a thoughtful and calculating woman would have done. She swung from one extreme to the other. Piece by piece, she took away from Darnley what she had unreflectingly, uncalculatingly, given him in the first flush of passion. There was no more talk of his being effective joint ruler, of the “crown matrimonial” which in former days she had conceded to her sixteen-year-old husband Francis II. Wrathfully, Darnley became aware that he was no longer summoned to important sittings of the council, and he was enraged when he was forbidden to include the royal emblem in his coat of arms. Instead of becoming the autocrat he had hoped to be, he found that he had been degraded to the position of prince consort, and that instead of, as he had dreamt, playing the chief part, he was, at court, barely allowed a consultative voice. Soon his wife’s contemptuous treatment of him was copied by the courtiers. Rizzio no longer showed him state documents and, without consulting him, signed the Queen’s letters with the “iron stamp”. The English ambassador refused to address him as “Your Majesty”. At Christmas, only six months after the honeymoon, Randolph reported “strange alterations” at the Scottish court. “Until recently it was the custom here to speak of the King and the Queen, but of late Darnley has only been spoken of as the Queen’s husband. He had grown accustomed to see his name put first beneath all edicts, but now it occupies the second place. Not long ago, coins were struck bearing the joint heads of ‘Henricus et Maria’, but they have been withdrawn from circulation and new ones have been issued … Some private disorders there are among themselves, but because they may be but amantium irae or household words as poor men speak, i
t maketh no matter if it grow no further.”
But it did grow further. To the slights which the paper King had to suffer in his own court were now superadded the more grievous slights of a husband who believes himself betrayed. For years past, Mary, upright though she was by nature, had had to learn that lying is needful in politics, but she remained unable to counterfeit where her personal feelings were involved. As wife, she must give herself wholly or not at all. Lukewarm emotions and half-heartedness were impossible to her. As soon as it had become clear to her that she had given the treasure of her love to a worthless wight, directly the fancied Darnley of the honeymoon had been replaced by a foolish, vain, impudent and ungrateful youth such as Mary’s husband actually was, physical attraction was replaced by physical repulsion. It was now intolerable to her to go on surrendering her body to this man from whom her heart had been estranged. The instant she was aware of being with child, she began to shun Darnley’s embraces on any and every pretext. She was ailing, she was tired; she could always find some such reason for refusing herself to him, and whereas, during the first months of their married life (Darnley, in his anger, revealed these connubial privacies), Mary had been the more forthcoming of the two, she now shamed her husband by frequently rejecting his advances. Even in this most intimate sphere, where he had first won power over her, Darnley, to his profound mortification, found himself deprived of the ordinary privileges of a husband.
He lacked the moral strength to keep his frustration to himself. He shouted it from the housetops, chattered about it in every tavern, raged and threatened, talked fatuously of revenge. But the more bombastic his language, the more absurd an impression did he produce until, within a few months, the royal title notwithstanding, he was regarded as nothing better than a tiresome and capricious outsider to whom the courtiers showed the broad of their backs. No longer did people incline their heads reverentially; they merely smiled when Henricus rex Scotiae voiced his demands. To one who is or would be a ruler, however, universal contempt is more dangerous than universal hatred.