When attempts are made to repress truth by force, it seeks an outlet by cunning. What could not be said in the open and by day could be posted on the walls during the night. The morning after the issue of the proclamation, placards were pasted up in the marketplace and even on the gates of the royal palace at Holyrood. These placards denounced as the murderers Bothwell, his accomplice Sir James Balfour, together with the Queen’s servants Bastien and Joseph Rizzio. Other names were mentioned in other lists. Two names, however, were found in them all, Bothwell and Balfour, Balfour and Bothwell.
Had she not been, as it were, under a spell, had not her reason been completely overmastered by passion, had not her will been in thrall, there is one thing which Mary Stuart would certainly have now decided upon, when the popular voice was speaking so plainly; she would have broken off all connection with Bothwell. Had even a gleam of reasonableness persisted in her darkened mind, she would have had nothing more to do with him. At any rate she would have avoided converse with him until, by some clever scheming, she had secured “official” proof of his innocence. Meanwhile, under one pretext or another, she would have dismissed him from the court. The one thing which she should have avoided was allowing this man, whom current talk declared to have been the murderer of her husband the King of Scotland, to continue to hold sway in the late King’s house. Above all, since public opinion unanimously regarded him as the chief of the assassins, she should have avoided making him chief of the inquiry which ostensibly aimed at the discovery of the “unknown miscreants”.
But this was not the limit of her folly. On the illicit proclamations, besides Bothwell and Balfour, her two servants Bastien and Joseph Rizzio had been denounced as confederates. What, then, should Mary have instantly done? Common sense demanded that she should hand over this pair of understrappers to the court for trial. Instead of doing so, committing a blunder which was tantamount to self-incrimination, she privately dismissed the two men from her service. They were furnished with passports and hastily smuggled across the border. It was the very opposite of what she should have done to safeguard her own honour. Even crazier was her conduct in another respect. Prudence demanded that she should mourn more conspicuously for her assassinated spouse than she had mourned for Francis II. Instead, after a bare week in retreat, she left Holyrood to visit Lord Seton in his castle. She could not even bring herself to make the requisite gesture of court mourning, and as if to flaunt her folly in the face of the world, she received as visitor at Seton House—whom? James Bothwell, the man whose portrait was being hawked in the streets of Edinburgh with the legend: “This is the King’s murderer.”
But Scotland is not the world. Although the conscience-stricken lords and the intimidated burgesses held their peace, making as if, with the King’s interment, all interest in his murder had come to an end—at the courts of London, Paris and Madrid the dreadful deed was by no means regarded with the same equanimity. For Scotland, Darnley had been nothing more than a tiresome foreigner, of whom the world could be rid in the usual way as soon as he became too much of a nuisance. For the courts of Europe, Darnley was a crowned and anointed King, scion of an illustrious family, a man of the highest rank; his cause was theirs. It need hardly be said that no one believed the official report for a moment. From the first, throughout Europe, it was universally held that Bothwell had been the murderer-in-chief and that Mary had been his confidante. Even the Pope and the papal legate denounced the unhappy woman in the strongest terms. But what chiefly disturbed the minds of foreign princes was not so much the murder itself. The sixteenth century was not greatly troubled about moral questions, or likely to be squeamish about a bagatelle such as a political assassination. It was but a couple of generations since Machiavelli had published The Prince, and ever since (as indeed before!) murder for “reasons of state” had been regarded as a trifling matter, or at most a venial sin. There was scarcely a royal house in Europe without some such skeleton in its cupboard. Henry VIII had made no bones about the execution of wives he wanted to get rid of. Philip II would not have liked to be pressed with questions about the murder of his son Don Carlos. The Borgias (Pope Alexander III and his son Cesare) have an evil reputation as poisoners. Still, there is a distinction to be drawn. The aforesaid princes did their dark deeds by proxy, and liked to keep their own hands “clean”. What her fellow sovereigns expected from Mary Stuart was a strenuous and personable attempt at self-exculpation, and what they took amiss was her ostentatious indifference. Coldly at first, and then with rising indignation, they watched their imprudent sister, who did nothing to avert suspicion, who refrained from having a few commoners hanged and quartered, who went on amusing herself by playing pall-mall and had as her chosen companion the man who was unquestionably the chief instigator of the murder. With honest anger Mary’s trusty ambassador in Paris reported that her impassivity was making a very bad impression. “You yourself have become the object of calumny here, being regarded as having planned and commanded this crime.” With a frankness which will for ever redound to the credit of this churchman, he told the Queen that, unless she atoned for the murder in the most explicit and uncompromising manner, it would be better for her to have lost her life and her all.
Here were plain words from a friend. Had there been a spark of reason left in her mind, had she still possessed any will of her own, this exhortation would have stirred her. Queen Elizabeth’s letters of condolence convey an even plainer message. For, by a remarkable coincidence, no one in the world was better fitted to understand Mary Stuart in this terrible crisis than the woman who, throughout life, was her harshest adversary. Elizabeth, contemplating Mary’s crime, seemed to be watching herself in a mirror; for Mary was in the same situation, exposed to universal and probably justified suspicion, as Elizabeth herself had been in the days of her most ardent passion for Robert Dudley. Just as in Mary’s case an unwanted husband, so in Elizabeth’s case an inconvenient wife, had to be swept out of the path to clear the way to a fresh marriage. With or without Elizabeth’s knowledge (the mystery of that matter will never be solved), murder had been committed when, one morning, Amy Robsart, Robert Dudley’s wife, had been slain by “unknown miscreants”. As, now, all glances were suspiciously directed at Mary Stuart, so, then, they had been directed at Elizabeth Tudor. Why, Mary Stuart herself, at that time still Queen of France, had made mock of the cousin who, wishing to marry her Master of the Horse, had connived at his making an end of his own wife. With the same confidence as now the world regarded Bothwell as the murderer, so then it had regarded Dudley as a murderer and the Queen of England as his confederate. Thus the memory of her own former troubles made Elizabeth the best, the most trusty adviser, of her sister in misfortune. With much shrewdness and force of character, Elizabeth had saved her honour by promptly commanding an inquiry—fruitless, of course, but nevertheless an inquiry. In the end she had stilled gossip and scandal by renouncing her dearest wish, that of marrying the gravely compromised Leicester. This renunciation made the world believe that the Queen of England could have had no part in the murder. Elizabeth wanted a like renunciation on the part of the Queen of Scotland.
Elizabeth’s letter under the date of 24th February 1567 is further remarkable in its sincerity as a missive from one human being to another. It really has the human touch. “Madam,” she writes, in genuine concern,
my ears have been so much shocked, by my distress, and my heart appalled, at hearing the horrible report of the abominable murder of your husband, my slaughtered cousin, that I have scarcely as yet spirit to write about it—but although nature constrains me to lament his death, so near to me in blood as he was, I must tell you boldly that I am far more concerned for you than I am for him. Oh, madam! I should neither perform the office of a faithful nor that of an affectionate friend, if I studied rather to please your ears than to preserve your honour—therefore I will not conceal from you that people, for the most part, say “that you will look through your fingers at this deed, instead of revenging it??
?, and that you have not cared to touch those who have done you this pleasure, as if the deed had not been without the murderers having had that assurance. I implore you to believe me that I myself would not for all the gold in the world cherish such a thought in my heart. I would never allow so evil a guest to harbour in my heart by having so bad an opinion of any sovereign, and still less of one to whom I wish as much good as my heart can conceive or as you yourself could desire. Therefore I exhort you, counsel you and implore you to take this affair so much to heart that you will not be afraid to wreak vengeance even on him who stands nearest to you, should he be guilty; and that no consideration whatever will withhold you from giving the world a proof that you are as noble a ruler as you are a righteous woman.
Elizabeth, apt to be so double-faced, probably never wrote a more sincere or kindly epistle than this. To Queen Mary, despite her numbed senses, it must have come like a pistol shot, and at length awakened her to realities. Here was another accusing finger directed against Bothwell. Again she was assured that any consideration for him would be taken as evidence of complicity in her husband’s murder. But, let me reiterate, Mary Stuart’s condition during these weeks was one of complete enslavement. She was so “shamefully enamoured”, wrote one of Elizabeth’s spies in his report to London, “that she had been heard to say she would go with him to the world’s end in a white petticoat, leaving all rather than forsake him.” Appeals were uttered to deaf ears; reason could make no headway against the stir in her blood. Because she had forgotten herself, she believed that the world would forget her and her crime.
For a while, throughout the month of March 1567, Mary might well believe that her passivity was having the right effect. Scotland was silent, the legal authorities were blind and deaf, and Bothwell (strangely enough!) with the best will in the world, was unable to lay his hands upon the “unknown miscreants”—although the name of the murderer-in-chief was being whispered in every house. All knew who was the guilty man, but all were afraid to claim the promised reward and utter the dreaded name out loud. At length a voice was raised in denunciation. The murdered King’s father, the Earl of Lennox, was in high repute among the Scottish nobles, and the authorities had to pay heed to him when he complained that weeks had elapsed without bringing the murderers of his son to justice. Mary Stuart, since the leader of the assassins was her paramour, and since Lethington, who had been a confederate, guided her with his counsels, gave an evasive answer, saying that she would do her best and would bring the affair before parliament. But Lennox knew that these words meant nothing, and reiterated his demands. It was essential, he said, to arrest forthwith those whose names had been anonymously placarded in Edinburgh.
So specific a demand was not easy to elude. Again, however, Mary shuffled. She would be glad to do what Lennox asked, but so many names had been placarded, most of them of persons who obviously had nothing to do with the murder. Let her father-in-law himself declare the names of those whom he regarded as guilty. She hoped, doubtless, that fear of Bothwell, the dictator, would prevent Lennox from mentioning the latter’s name. Meanwhile, however, Lennox took steps to secure his own safety and to strengthen his position. He got into touch with Elizabeth and placed himself under her protection. Meticulously, therefore, he named the persons against whom he demanded an investigation. First came Both-well, then Balfour, then David Chalmers and some of Mary Stuart’s and Bothwell’s serving men, who had long since been spirited across the border lest their tongues should be loosened by the rack. Now, to her consternation, Mary began to realise that the comedy of “looking through her fingers” had come to an end. Lennox’s persistence, she felt, must be backed up by the energy and authority of Queen Elizabeth. By this time too Catherine de’ Medici had plainly intimated that she regarded Mary Stuart as “dishonoured”, and that Scotland need expect no friendship from France so long as the murder had not been properly investigated in the law courts. There was a swift change of scene, replacing the contention that inquiry was “futile” by another comedy, that of a public legal inquiry. Mary was compelled to agree that Bothwell (small folk would be dealt with later) should defend himself before a court of his peers. On 28th March 1567, a summons was sent to the Earl of Lennox, commanding him to appear in Edinburgh on 12th April and formulate his charges against Bothwell.
Bothwell was by no means the man to present himself in a penitent’s robe and humbly bow before his judges. If he was ready for a trial by his peers, it was only because he was determined that there should be a “cleansing”—not a sentence, but an acquittal. He made his preparations with his customary energy. First of all he induced the Queen to put him in command of all the fortresses in Scotland, thus gaining control of the available weapons and ammunition throughout the country. He knew that might was right, so he summoned his borderers to Edinburgh and equipped them as if for battle. Shamelessly, with the audacity and lawlessness characteristic of the man, he established a reign of terror in Edinburgh. He publicly announced that, if he could discover by whom the “treasonable painted tickets” were designed and posted, he would wash his hands in their blood—this threat being intended as a warning to Lennox. He swaggered about with his hand on his sword hilt, while his followers had their dirks ready, openly declaring that they had no mind to allow the lord of their clan to be arrested as a criminal. Let Lennox dare to come and accuse him! Let the judges try to condemn the dictator of Scotland!
Such preparations were too unambiguous to leave a doubt in Lennox’s mind as to what awaited him. He might go to Edinburgh to accuse Bothwell, but there was little chance that Bothwell would allow him to leave the city alive. Once more he turned to his patroness Elizabeth, who thereupon sent an urgent letter to Mary warning her for the last time that any open breach of the peace would expose her to suspicion of complicity.
“Madam,” wrote the English Queen to the Scottish,
I should not be so unfeeling as to trouble you with this letter were it not that we are commanded to love the afflicted and that the cry of the unfortunate impels me. I learn, madam, that you have issued a proclamation to the effect that the judicial proceedings against those suspected of participation in the murder of your late husband and my deceased cousin will take place on the twelfth of the present month. It is of extreme importance that matters should not be obscured, as they very well might be, by secrecy or cunning. The father and the friends of the deceased have humbly begged me to ask you to postpone the inquiry, because they have noticed that these scoundrelly persons are trying to achieve by force what they cannot achieve by law. In my love for you, therefore, I cannot act otherwise than I now do, since you are the person most concerned, and I wish to tranquillise those who are innocent of so unspeakable a crime. Were you yourself not guiltless, this would be reason enough to rob you of your dignity as a princess and to expose you to the contempt of the multitude. Rather than such a thing should happen to you, I should wish for you an honourable tomb instead of a dishonourable life.
This new appeal to Mary’s conscience could not fail to arouse her benumbed senses. We cannot be certain, however, that the exhortation reached the Queen of Scotland in time. Bothwell was on guard, fearing neither death nor the devil, and least of all the English Queen. The special messenger to whom the letter had been entrusted for delivery was detained at the gates of the palace by Bothwell’s underlings. He was told that the Queen was asleep and could not receive him.
The special messenger, bearing a missive from one queen to another, wandered disconsolately about the streets. At length he obtained audience of Bothwell, who impudently opened the letter directed to Mary Stuart, read it, and thrust it into his pocket. We do not know whether he ever showed it to Mary, nor is the matter of importance. She was his bondslave, who dared to do nothing opposed to his will. It is even recorded that she was foolish enough to wave her hand to him from the window when, surrounded by his riders, he set forth to the Tolbooth. Thus she wished success to the notorious murderer on his way to participate in the
comedy of justice.
Even if Mary Stuart never received Elizabeth’s last warning, she was none the less warned. Three days before, her half-brother Moray took leave of her. He was, he told her, seized with a desire to travel through France to Italy, for he wanted “to see Venice and Milan.” Mary had had ample experience to show her that the sudden disappearance of Moray from the political theatre foreboded stormy weather, and that his determination to be absent from the comedy of justice was intended to signify disapproval. On this occasion, indeed, Moray was plain-spoken enough, and did not conceal the true reason for his journey. He told everyone who cared to listen to him that he had tried to arrest Sir James Balfour as one of the chief participants in the murder, and that Bothwell, wishing to protect a confederate, had prevented his doing so. A week later, in London, he candidly informed the Spanish ambassador de Silva that he felt it would be dishonourable to stay any longer in the Scottish kingdom while so strange and terrible a crime remained unpunished. We may assume then that James spoke candidly to his sister before taking leave. We know for a fact that Mary was in tears when he quitted her apartment. But she could not restrain him from going. Her energy had departed since she had become Bothwell’s slave. She could only let things take the course prescribed by a stronger will than hers. The Queen in her was subjugated, and she was nothing but an amorous woman.
On 12th April the comedy of justice, which began challengingly, ended in like manner. Bothwell rode to the Tolbooth, sword strapped to his side, dagger in his belt, surrounded by a train of armed followers, in the spirit of a warrior setting forth to storm a fortress. The number of the clansmen has perhaps been exaggerated, but according to current reports it was four thousand. Lennox, on the strength of an ancient edict, had been forbidden to bring more than six men with him if he entered the city. Lennox felt in no mind to face “justice” thus backed by overwhelming force. He knew that Elizabeth’s letter asking for a postponement of the proceedings had been sent to Mary, and that moral force was on his side. He was content, therefore, to send one of his feudatories to the Tolbooth, to read a written protest. The chief accuser being absent, the judges, some of whom had been intimidated, and others bribed by lands or money or titles, found it convenient to avoid exhaustive inquiry. They were freed from a burden. After deliberating among themselves upon a matter which had been decided beforehand, they unanimously exonerated Bothwell from “any art and part of the said slauchter of the King” on the ground that “no accusation had been brought against him”. This exculpation might have seemed insufficient to a man of honour, but Bothwell held it as a triumph. Harness clinking, he rode through the city, brandishing his drawn sword, and publicly challenging to a duel anyone who might venture to declare him guilty or in part guilty of the late King’s murder.