Mary Stuart

  While Elizabeth and her ministers in London had for weeks been fully informed of the details (though the English Queen had no thought of conveying a friendly warning to her cousin and “good sister”), and while Moray was waiting across the border ready to spring into the saddle and John Knox had already prepared the sermon in which he was to extol the murder as “a deed most worthy of all praise”—Mary Stuart, betrayed on every hand, was utterly without forebodings and void of suspicion. During the last few days Darnley, making treachery more hideous by simulated affection, had been kindlier than usual, so that there was nothing to show, at sunset on the appointed day, what a night of horror was awaiting her with its promise of doom that would overshadow her for years to come. Rizzio had received an anonymous warning, to which he paid no heed, for in the afternoon when Darnley came to ask him to play a game of tennis, the musician cheerfully accepted the invitation of his former comrade.

  Now it was dark. Mary, following her usual custom at this period, had commanded that supper be served in the turret chamber adjoining her bedroom on the first storey of the tower. It was a little cabinet, fitted only for the entertainment of a small company—a few nobles and Mary’s half-sister were seated round the heavy oaken table, which was lit by wax candles in silver candelabra. Opposite the Queen sat David Rizzio, dressed as a fine gentleman, his head covered (the French fashion in those days), and wearing a coat trimmed with damask and fur. He was in a cheerful conversational vein, probably expecting that there would be some music after supper, or that in some other way the time would be passed pleasantly. There was no sign of anything unusual—until the tapestry which veiled the Queen’s bedroom was drawn aside and Darnley, the King, the husband, entered. Everyone rose to greet him; place was made for the distinguished guest at the crowded table, beside his wife, round whom he put his arm affectionately, kissing her with a Judas kiss. Lively talk was resumed; plates rattled and glasses clinked; then there was some agreeable music.

  But again the hangings were drawn aside. Now all were amazed, angered and startled, for this time the newcomer, looking like a black angel in full armour, naked sword in hand, was one of the conspirators, Patrick, Lord Ruthven, generally dreaded and believed to be a sorcerer. His face was ghastly pale, for he was dangerously ill, in a high fever, and had only left his bed in order to participate in the night’s fell work. His fiery eyes disclosed a fierce determination. The Queen, instantly boding ill—for no one except her husband was entitled to use the private spiral staircase, the “limanga”, leading from Darnley’s ground-floor apartment into her bedroom—asked Ruthven by what right he forced himself unannounced into her presence. Cold-bloodedly and contemptuously he answered: “There is no harm intended to Your Grace, nor to anyone but yonder poltroon, David; it is he with whom I have to speak.”

  Rizzio turned pale beneath his plumed cap, and clasped his hands together beneath the table. He instantly realised what was coming. None but his sovereign, none but Mary, could now protect him, since Darnley made no move to rebuke the presumptuous Ruthven, but sat looking on unconcerned. Now Mary spoke in answer to the intruder:

  “What hath he done?” she enquired.

  Ruthven shrugged his shoulders and answered:

  “Ask the King your husband, madam.”

  Mary involuntarily turned to Darnley. But in this decisive hour the weakling, who had for so long been urging others to the deed of murder, lost heart. He had not the courage to take his place by Ruthven’s side. Feigning ignorance he said:

  “I know nothing of the matter.”

  Shiftily he turned his eyes away.

  Now more heavy footfalls and the clash of weapons were heard behind the tapestry. One after another, the conspirators mounted the spiral staircase and formed a wall of armed men blocking Rizzio’s retreat. Escape this way being impossible, Mary tried to save her faithful servant by a parley. If David had committed any wrong, she said, “I promise to exhibit him before the lords of parliament, that he may be dealt with according to the usual forms of justice.” Meanwhile let Ruthven and the others withdraw from her apartment. Rebellion, however, does not know the meaning of obedience.

  Ruthven had already advanced towards the trembling Rizzio; another of the conspirators threw a noose over the Italian’s shoulders and began to drag him away. Tumult ensued, during which the supper table was upset and the lights were extinguished. Rizzio, unarmed and a weakling, neither warrior nor hero, clung to the Queen’s robe, uttering cries of terror. He had caught Mary’s last word “justice” and screamed: “Madonna, io sono morto, giustizia, giustizia!”—My lady, I am dead, justice, justice! Another of the band pressed the muzzle of a loaded pistol against Mary’s side, and would, as the conspirators had intended, have shot her, had not another pulled back his arm, while Darnley himself intervened, holding his wife fast, partly (beyond question) to protect her, while the murderers hurried the shrieking and resisting Rizzio out of the supper room. As they dragged him through the bedroom, he clung to the bedclothes, still crying to the Queen for help, but the ruthless assassins clubbed his fingers to make him let go, and forced him on into the state apartment, where they flung themselves on him with their swords and daggers. Apparently they had intended only to arrest the Italian, and the next day to hang him in due form in the marketplace; but their excitement and blood lust carried them away. So madly and so carelessly did they stab him, that in their savagery they wounded one another. The floor became a pool of blood. Not until their victim had bled to death from fifty wounds did they desist from their brutality. Then the mutilated body of Mary Stuart’s most loyal friend was flung through the open casement into the courtyard below.

  Crazed with grief, Mary listened to the death shrieks of her devoted servant. Ailing and pregnant as she was, she lacked strength to drag herself from Darnley’s grasp, but with all the energy of her passionate soul she revolted against the humiliation put upon her by these bandits in her own palace. Darn-ley could press her hand, but not her lips, and she railed at him wildly to show her contempt for the coward. She termed him traitor and son of a traitor; she blamed herself for having raised him from being a nonentity to sit upon a throne. What had, up to now, been nothing more than a wife’s dislike for her husband, hardened in this memorable hour to inextinguishable hatred. Vainly did Darnley try to excuse his conduct, reminding her that for some months she had refused to accept his embraces, and that she had long been accustomed to give more time to Rizzio than to himself, her lawful husband. Now Ruthven returned and, exhausted by what he had done, sank into a chair. Mary overwhelmed him with threats and invectives. As a wild beast in a cage will, when infuriated, fling itself against the bars, so did she rage against the pair of them. If Darnley had been able to read the meaning of her looks, he would have shrunk back in horror from the murderous hatred which flamed up against him. Had his mind been more alert, he would have realised the deadly menace of her saying that she no longer regarded herself as his wife, and would never rest “until he had a sorer heart than she had then”. Darnley, who was capable of only brief and petty passion, did not realise that she was unconsciously passing a death sentence upon him. When, worn out by what she had witnessed, she mutely allowed herself to be led to her room, he believed her energy to be broken, and that she would once more become his obedient wife. He was to learn, however, that hatred which knows how to be silent is more dangerous than open threats, and that one who offered a deadly affront to this woman summoned death to touch his own shoulder.

  Rizzio’s screams, the clash of arms in the royal apartment, had aroused the palace. Sword in hand, those who were faithful to the Queen, Bothwell above all and Huntly, rushed out of their rooms. The conspirators, however, had guarded against every possibility. Holyrood was surrounded by armed men; the exits were barred, lest the town should send help to the Queen. Bothwell and Huntly, in order to fetch help and save the Queen’s life, had to jump out of the windows. Hearing from them what had happened and was like to happen, the provost of Edin
burgh sounded the tocsin. Five hundred burgesses assembled round Holyrood, demanding sight of the Queen and to have speech with her. Instead, however, they were received by Darnley, who falsely declared that nothing serious had happened, only “that the Italian secretary is slain, because he has been detected in an intrigue with the Pope, the King of Spain and other foreign potentates, for the purpose of destroying the true evangile and introducing popery again into Scotland.” The good people had better go home to their beds. Naturally the provost did not venture to doubt a king’s word; the burgesses went home and Mary, who had vainly tried to get word with her subjects, was kept under guard in her apartment. The court ladies and the servants were debarred from entry; a triple guard was posted at the gates and doors of the palace. This night, for the first time in her life, the Queen of Scotland and the Isles became a prisoner. The conspiracy had been completely successful. In the courtyard lay the mangled corpse of her most trusty henchman; at the head of her enemies was her own husband; his were to be the royal rights, while she herself was not even allowed to leave her room. At one blow she had been dragged down from her high position, was powerless, forsaken, without friends or helpers, an object of scorn. In this dreadful night she seemed to have lost everything, but a strong heart is hardened beneath the hammer of destiny. Always when her liberty, her honour, her queenship, were at stake, Mary Stuart found more vitality within herself than in all her assistants or servitors.

  Chapter Nine

  Traitors Betrayed

  (March to June 1566)

  DANGER WAS BENEFICIAL TO Mary Stuart. Only in decisive moments, when she had to stake everything upon a last hazard, did it become plain that remarkable capacities were hidden away within her: iron resolution, all-embracing insight, fierce and heroic courage. But before the innermost energies could come into action, she needed a hard knock on one of her most sensitive points. Not until then did these otherwise dispersed forces become concentrated. One who tried to humiliate her produced so vigorous a reaction that every severe testing by destiny was advantageous to her.

  During this night of her first great humiliation, her character became transformed once and for all. In the fiery forge of a most terrible experience, when she saw that her unduly ready confidence in her husband, her brother, her friends and her subjects had been misplaced, this otherwise extremely feminine and soft-hearted woman grew as hard as steel, acquiring the resilience and tenacity of metal that has been properly treated in the fire. But, being double-edged like a rapier, her character became ambiguous after that dreadful night, which was the beginning of her disasters. The curtain had risen on the bloody tragedy of her life.

  Thoughts of vengeance filled her mind, now she was locked up in her own room, the prisoner of traitorous subjects, as she restlessly paced to and fro, pondering one way and another of breaking the circle of foes who environed her, meditating how she could make them atone for shedding the blood of her faithful servant (the blood which still stood in pools upon the floor)—how she could make them abase themselves before her, or bring them to the block, those who had so impudently forced themselves into her presence and had even laid hands upon her, their anointed sovereign. To her, who had hitherto always been a chivalrous fighter, any means now seemed justifiable in view of the outrage she had suffered. As part of the change which occurred in her, she, who had hitherto been impetuous and incautious, became cautious and reserved; she, who had been too honourable to tell falsehoods, learnt how to dissemble; she, whose theory and practice of life had been “fair play”, was now prepared to devote her exceptional capacities to the catching of traitors in their own snares.

  There are occasions when more can be learnt in a day than, at ordinary times, in months or years. Such a decisive lesson had now been taught to Mary Stuart, and would influence her for the rest of her life. The conspirators who, almost under her very eyes, had thrust their daggers into her trusty Rizzio had also stabbed deep into the confidingness and nonchalance of her nature. Henceforward she would not make the mistake of being ready to believe traitors, of being truthful to liars, of frankly disclosing her heart to the heartless! No, henceforward she would be crafty, would wear a mask over her feelings, would conceal her hatred, would seem friendly to her enemies, always awaiting with hidden hatred the hour when she could avenge her favourite’s murder! She would devote her powers to the concealment of her true thoughts, would cajole her adversaries while they remained drunken with the triumph of their success, would, for a day or two, seem humble in the presence of miscreants, that thereafter she might humiliate them for ever! Such infamous treason could be avenged only by one who was herself ready to play the traitor more dauntlessly and more cynically than the traitors themselves.

  Mary Stuart formed her plans with one of those lightning flashes of genius which, when the danger of death threatens, will often come even to persons of a dull and indifferent temperament. Her situation, as she instantly perceived, was hopeless so long as Darnley and the conspirators hung together. Only one thing could save her—to sow discord among her enemies. Since she could not break her chains by sudden violence, she must cunningly search for the weakest links; she must make one of the traitors betray the others. She knew well enough who was the weakling among these harsh men—had good reason to know. It was Darnley, the man with the “heart of wax” on which every finger could make a dint.

  Mary’s first artifice was a psychological masterpiece. She declared that she had been seized by the pains of labour. Since she was in the fifth month of pregnancy, the excitement of the preceding night and the dragging away of her favourite to do him to death in a neighbouring room, were shocks that made a miscarriage likely enough. She feigned violent abdominal cramps, took to her bed and, in her supposed circumstances, it would have been incredible cruelty to forbid the access of her tire women and her doctor. That was all she wanted for the moment, since therewith her strict seclusion would be broken. Now she had the chance of communicating with Bothwell and Huntly, and of concerting with them means for her escape. Furthermore, by this assumed illness, she put the conspirators (her husband, above all) in a quandary. For the child in her womb was heir to the throne of Scotland and to the throne of England as well, and an overwhelming responsibility was thrust upon the father before the eyes of the world, since his action overnight had endangered the child’s life. Full of concern, Darnley appeared in his wife’s apartment.

  Now began a dramatic scene, perhaps, in its crowning improbability, comparable only to that scene in Shakespeare when Richard III, before the coffin of a man he has murdered, woos and wins the dead man’s widow. At Holyrood, likewise, the murdered man was still unburied; there, likewise, the murderer or one of the confederates was confronted by a person whom he had heinously betrayed; there, likewise, the art of misrepresentation acquired demonic skill. There was no witness to the scene. We are acquainted only with its opening and its end. Darnley entered his wife’s room, the room of the woman on whom, the night before, he had inflicted so gross a humiliation—the woman who, in the first outburst of righteous wrath, had announced her determination to be revenged. Like Kriemhild beside Siegfried’s corpse, she had yesterday still clenched her fists against the assassin. But, also like Kriemhild, she had, for the sake of her vengeance, learnt during the night to conceal her hatred. Darnley found, not the Mary of yesterday evening, the fierce and proud spirit of vengeance personified, but an unhappy, a broken-hearted woman, weary unto death, yielding, ill; a woman who looked submissively and tenderly at the strong, the tyrannical man who had shown himself to be her master. The conceited fool was able to enjoy the triumph that he had dreamt of the day before. At length Mary was wooing him once more. Since she had felt the weight of his iron hand, she, hitherto so arrogant, had become mild and gentle. Now that he had got the Italian rascal out of the way, she was once more ready to serve her true lord and master.

  To a man of outstanding intelligence, so rapid a change of front would have appeared suspicious. He would have recal
led her outcry of the night before, when, with flashing eyes, she had screamed that he was a traitor and the son of a traitor. He would have borne in mind that, as a daughter of the House of Stuart, she would be most unlikely to forgive a humiliation or to forget an affront. But Darnley was, like most empty-headed persons, exceedingly vain. Like stupids in general, he was blinded by flattery. Then, as a further and remarkable complication, of all the men with whom she had come into contact, this hot-headed youth was the one whose senses had been most effectually roused by Mary Stuart. He craved for the possession of her body, was in this respect her thrall, and nothing had embittered him more than her refusal, of late to accept his embraces. Now, wonder of wonders, the coveted woman declared herself wholly his, asked him to spend the night with her, no longer held aloof. Instantly his forces were undermined; he became once more her affectionate lover, her slave, her servant. No one can tell by what subtle arts of deception Mary effected this conversion which was as wondrous as that of Saul on the road to Damascus. Actually, within twenty-four hours after the murder of Rizzio, Darnley, who had just before betrayed Mary to the Scottish lords, had become her bondsman, willing to fulfil her slightest wish, and prepared to do his utmost to cheat his confederates of yesterday. More easily even than they had won him away from her, did the wife recover the allegiance of her serf. He disclosed to her the names of the conspirators, was ready and willing to flee with Mary, and was weak enough to become her instrument of vengeance in a way which would, in the end, make him betray the traitors. It was as a pliable tool that he left the room he had entered in so masterful a spirit. A few hours after her deepest abasement, Mary thus succeeded in breaking the front of her enemies. Without the conspirators being aware of it, the chief figure among them had entered into a conspiracy against them. Crude betrayal had been vanquished by the treason of genius.