Chapter XI: Appassionata

Grange, that fine commander, got his back to the sun and gave the lords the morning advantage. ‘We shall want no more than that,’ he told Morton; ‘by ten o’clock they will be here, and by noon we shall be through with it.’

‘Shall we out banner, think you?’ says Morton.

‘Nay, my lord, nay. Keep her back the now.’ Grange was fighting with his head, disposing his host according to the lie of the ground, and his reserves also. He took the field before dawn, and had every man at his post by seven o’clock. There was a ground mist, and the sea all blotted out: everything promised great heat.

They were to be seen, a waiting host, when the Queen crested Carbery Hill and watched her men creep round about; with Erskine beside her she could make them out—arquebusiers, pikemen, and Murrays from Atholl on the lowest ground (Tillibardine leading them), on either wing horsemen with spears. They had a couple of brass field-pieces in front. One could see the chiefs walking their horses up and down the lines, or pricking forward to confer, or clustering together, looking to where one pointed with his staff. There was Morton on his white horse, himself, portly man, in black with a steel breastplate—white sash across it—in his steel bonnet a favour of white. White was their badge, then; for, looking at them in the mass, the host was seen to be spattered with it, as if in a neglected field of poppies and corncockles there grew white daisies interspersed. The stout square man in leather jerkin and buff boots was Grange—on a chestnut horse; with him to their right rode Atholl on a black—Atholl in a red surtout, and the end of his fine beard lost in the white sash which he too had. Who is the slim rider in black—haunting Atholl like a shadow? Who but careful Mr. Secretary Lethington could have those obsequious shoulders, that attentive cock of the head? Lethington was there, then! Ah! and there, by one’s soul, was Archie Douglas’s grey young head, and his white minister’s ruff, where a red thread of blood ought to be. Glencairn was there, Lindsay, Sempill, Rothes—all those strong tradesmen, who had lied for their profit, and were now come to claim wages: all of them but the trader of traders, the white-handed prayerful man, the good Earl of Moray, safe in France, waiting his turn.

So prompt as they stood down there in the grey haze, all rippling in the heat; without sound of trumpet or any noise but the whinnying of a horse; without any motion save now and then, when some trooper plunged out of line and must pull back—that thing of all significant things about them was marked by the Queen, who stood shading her eyes from the sun atop of Carbery Hill. ‘Oh, Erskine!’ she said, ‘oh, Bothwell! they have no standard. Against whom, then, do we fight?’

Bothwell, exasperated by anxiety, made short answer: ‘It is plain enough to see what and who they are. They are men—desperate men. They are men for whom loss means infamous death. For, mark you well, madam, if Morton lose this day he loses his head.’

‘Ay,’ she gloomed, ‘and many more shall lose theirs. I will have Lindsay’s and Archie’s—and you shall have Lethington’s.’

‘I would have had that long ago, if you had listened to me. And now you see whether I was right or wrong. But when women take to ruling men——’

She touched his arm. ‘Dear friend, for whom I have suffered many things, do not reproach me at this hour.’ The tears were in her eyes—she was always quick at self-pity.

But he had turned his head. ‘Ha! they need me, I see. Forgive me, madam, I must have a word with Ormiston.’ He saluted and rode down to meet his allies. Monsieur Du Croc, the French Ambassador, approached her, hat in hand. He was full of sympathy; but, with his own theories of how to end this business, could not give advice.

Sir James Melvill, watching the men come up, shook his head at the look of them. ‘No heart in their chance—no heart at all,’ he was heard to say.

The Queen’s forces deployed across the eastern face of Carbery Hill in a long line which, it was clear, was not of equal strength with the lords’. It became less so as the day wore; for had you looked to its right you would have seen a continual trickle of stooping, running men crossing over to the enemy. These were deserters at the eleventh hour; Bothwell rode one of them down, chased him, and when he fell drove his horse over him and over in a blind fury of rage, trampling him out of semblance to his kind. It stayed the leak for a while; but it began again, and he had neither heart nor time to deal with it. Where were the Hamiltons who should have been with her? Where, alas, were the Gordons? In place of them the Borderers and Foresters looked shaggy thieves—gypsies, hill-robbers, savage men, red-haired, glum-faced, many without shoes and some without breeches. The tressured Lion of Scotland was in Arthur Erskine’s hold: at near ten o’clock Bothwell bade him display it. It unfurled itself lazily its full length; but there was no breath of air. It clung about the staff like so much water-weed; and they never saw the Lion. No matter; it would be a sign to that watchful host in the plain: now let us see what flag they dare to fly. They waited tensely for it, a group of them together—the Queen with her wild tawny hair fallen loose, her bare thin neck, her short red petticoat and blue scarf; Bothwell biting his tongue; Ormiston, Des-Essars, sage Monsieur Du Croc.

They saw two men come out of the line bearing two spears close together. At a word they separated, backing from each other: a great white sheet was displayed, having some picture upon it—green, a blot like blood, a wavy legend above. One could make out a tree; but what was the red stain? They talked—the Queen very fast and excitedly. She must know what this was—she would go down and find out—it was some insult, she expected. Was that red a fire? Who would go? Des-Essars offered, but she refused him. She chose Lord Livingstone for the service, and he went, gallantly enough—and returned, a scared old optimist indeed. However, she would have it, so she learned that they had the King lying dead under a tree, and the Prince his son praying at his feet—with the legend, ‘Judge and avenge my cause, O Lord!’ The red was not a fire, but the Prince’s robe. The Queen cried out: ‘Infamy! Infamy! They carry their own condemnation—do you not see it?’ If anybody did, he did not say so.

* * * * *

Monsieur Du Croc had his way at last, and was allowed to carry messages between the hosts. The burden of all that he brought back was that the lords would obey the Queen if she would give up the murderers, whom they named. The offer was ludicrous, coming from Morton—but when she ordered Du Croc back to expose it, he fairly told her to read below the words. They had come for Lord Bothwell. ‘I will die sooner than let him be touched,’ said she. ‘Let some one—Hob Ormiston, go you—fetch Grange to speak with me.’ Hob went off, with a white scarf in his held-up hand; and the Queen rode half-way down the hill for the parley. The great banner dazzled her: it was noticed that she bent her head down, as one rides against the sun.

Grange came leisurely up towards her—a rusty man of war, shrewd, terse, and weathered. He could only report what his masters bade him: they called for the surrender of the murderers. She flamed and faced him with her royal anger. ‘And I, your sovereign lady, bid you, Grange, go over there and bring the murderers to me. Look, there goes one on his white horse! And there shirk two after him, hiding behind him—the one with a grey head, and the other with a grey face. Fetch you me those.’

‘Bah!’ snarled Bothwell, ‘we talk for ever. Let me shoot down this dog.’ A Hepburn—quiet and sinewy—stepped out of the ranks with a horse-pistol. Grange watched him without moving a muscle; but ‘Oh!’ cried the Queen, ‘what villainy are you about?’ She struck down the pistol-arm,—as once before she had struck down Fawdonsyde’s.

Bothwell, red in the face, said, ‘Let us end this folly. Let him who calls for me come and fetch me. I will fight with him here and now. Go you, Grange, and bring my Lord Morton hither.’

‘No need for his lordship, if I will serve your turn, Earl of Bothwell,’ says Grange.

But Bothwell said, ‘Damn your soul, I fight with my equals. None knows it better than you.’ He would have no one below an Earl’s rank—himself being now, you must recollect, Duke of Orkney and Zetland—and it should be Morton for choice.

Grange, instructed by the Queen, rode back. They saw Morton accost him, listen, look over the valley. He called a conference—they talked vehemently: then Morton and Lindsay pricked forward up the hill, and stopped within hailing distance.

‘You, Bothwell,’ cried Morton, ‘come you down, then; and have at you here.’

The Queen’s high voice called clearly back. ‘He shall never fight with you, murderer.’

Lindsay bared his head. ‘Then let him take me, madam; for I am nothing of that sort.’

‘No, no, Lindsay,’ said Bothwell; ‘I have no quarrel with you.’

The Earl of Morton had been looking at Bothwell in his heavy, ruminating way, as if making up his mind. While the others were bandying their cries, the Queen’s voice flashing and shrieking above the rest, he still looked and turned his thoughts over. Presently—in his time—he gave Lindsay his sword and walked his horse up the hill to the Queen’s party. He saluted her gravely. ‘With your gracious leave, madam, I seek to put two words into my Lord Bothwell’s ear. You see I have no sword.’

The Queen looked at once to her husband. He nodded, gave his sword to Huntly, and said, ‘I am ready for you.’ They moved ten yards apart; Morton talked and the other listened.

‘Bothwell, my man,’ he said, ‘there’s no a muckle to pick between us, I doubt—I played one card and you another; but I have the advantage of ye just now, and am no that minded to take it up. Man!’ he chuckled, ‘ye stumbled sorely when ye let them find for the powder!’

‘Get on, get on,’ says Bothwell, drawing a great breath.

‘I will,’ Morton said. ‘I am here to advise ye to make off while you can. Go your ways to Dunbar, and avoid the country for a while. I’ll warrant you you’ll not be followed oversea. All my people will serve the Queen—have no fear for her. Now, take my advice; ’tis fairly given. I’ve no wish to work you a mischief—though, mind you, I have the power—for you and I have been open dealers with each other this long time. And you brought me home—I’m not one to forget it. But—Lord of Hosts! what chance have you against Grange?’ He waited. ‘Come now, come! what say you?’

Lord Bothwell considered it, working his strong jaw from side to side: a fair proffer, an honourable proffer. He looked at the forces against him—though he had no need; he knew them better men than his, because Grange was a better man than he. That banner of murder—the cry behind it—the Prince behind the cry, up on the rock of Stirling: in his heart he knew that he had lost the game. No way to Stirling—no way! But the other way was the sea-way—the old free life, the chances of the open water. Eh, damn them, he was not to be King of Scots, then! But he had known that for a week. He turned his head and saw the sea like molten gold, and far off, dipped in it, a little ship with still sails—Ho! the sea-way!

‘By God, Morton,’ he said, ‘you may be serving me. I’ll do it.’

‘Go and tell her,’ says Morton; and they both went back to the Queen.

Both took off their bonnets. Bothwell said: ‘Madam, we must avoid blood-shedding if we may, and I have talked with my lord of Morton. He makes an offer of fair dealing, which I have taken. I have a clear road to Dunbar, thence where I will. All these hosts will follow you if I am not there. They pay me the compliment of high distrust, you perceive. After a little, I doubt not but you shall see me back again where I would always be. Madam, get the Prince in your own hands: all depends upon him. And now, kiss me, sweetheart, for I must be away.’

She heard him—she understood him—she believed him. She was curious to observe that she felt so little. Her voice when she answered him had no spring in it—it was worn and thin, with a little grating rasp in it—an older voice.

‘It may be better so. I hate to shed good blood. Whither shall I write to you? At Dunbar? In England? Flanders?’ There had been a woman in Dunkirk—she remembered that.

He was looking away, answering at random, searching whom he should take with him, or on whom he could reckon to follow him if he asked. ‘I will send you word. Yes, yes, you will write to me. You shall know full soon. But now I cannot stay.’

Morton had returned to his friends.

‘Paris, come you with me. Ormiston, are you for the sea? No? Stay and be hanged, then. Hob? What, man, afraid? Where is Michael Elliott? Where is Crookstone? What Hepburn have I?’ He collected six or eight—both the Ormistons decided for him—Powrie and Wilson, Dalgleish, one or two more.

He took the Queen’s hand gaily. ‘Farewell, fair Queen!’ he said; and she, ‘Adieu, my lord.’ He leaned towards her: ‘One kiss, my wife!’ but she drew back. ‘Your lips are foul—you have kissed too many—no, no.’ ‘I must have it—you must kiss me’—he pressed against her. For a while she was agitated, defending herself; but then, with a sob, ‘Ay, take what you will of me,’ she said—‘it is little worth.’ He got his cold kiss, and rode fast through his scattering host. This going of his was the Parthian shot. He had beaten her. Desire was dead.

The Queen sat still—with a face like a rock. ‘Has he gone?’ she asked Des-Essars in a whisper.

‘Yes, thank God,’ said he.

She shook herself into action, gathered up the reins, and turned to Erskine. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘we will go down to them now.’

She surrendered to the Earl of Atholl, who, with Sempill and Lindsay, came up to fetch her. Followed by one or two of her friends—Des-Essars, Melvill, Du Croc, and Livingstone—she rode down the hill from her host and joined the other. Grange cantered up, bareheaded, to meet her, reined up short, took her hand and kissed it. Many followed him—Glencairn, Glamis, young Ruthven. Each had his kiss; but then came Archie Douglas smelling and smiling for his—and got nothing. She drew back from him shuddering: he might have been a snake, he said. Lethington was not to be seen. The host stood at ease awaiting her; the white banner wagged and dipped, as if mocking her presence. ‘Take that down,’ she said, with a crack in her dry throat; but no one answered her. She had to go close by the hateful thing—a daub of red and green and yellow—crowned Darnley crudely lying under a tree, a crowned child kneeling at his feet, spewing the legend out of his mouth. She averted her eyes and blinked as she passed it: an ominous silence greeted her, sullen looks; one or two steady starers showed scornful familiarity with ‘a woman in trouble’; one said ‘Losh!’ and spat as she passed.

She was led through the Murrays, Humes, and Lindsays; murmurs gathered about her; all eyes were on her now, some passionate, some vindictive, some fanatic. On a sudden a pikeman ran out of his ranks and pointed at her—his face was burnt almost black, his eyes showed white upon it. ‘Burn the hure!’ he raved, and when she caught her breath and gazed at him, he was answered, ‘Ay, ay, man. Let her burn herself clean. To the fire with her!’

Her fine heart stood still. ‘Oh!’ she said, shocked into childish utterance, ‘oh, Baptist, they speak of me. They will burn me—did you hear them?’ Her head was thrown back, her arm across her face. She broke into wild sobbing—‘Not the fire! Not the fire! Oh, pity me! Oh, keep me from them!’

‘Quick, man,’ said Atholl, ‘let us get her in.’ Orders were shortly given, lieutenants galloped left and right to carry the words. The companies formed; the monstrous banner turned about. Morton bade sound the advance; between him and Atholl she was led towards Edinburgh. ‘If Erskine is a man he will try a rescue,’ thought Des-Essars, and looked over his shoulder to Carbery Hill—now a bare brae. The Queen’s army had vanished like the smoke.

So towards evening they came to town, heralded by scampering messengers, and met by the creatures of the suburb, horrible women and the men who lived upon them—dancing about her, mocking obscenely, hailing her as a spectacle. She bowed her head, swaying about in the saddle. Way was driven through; they passed under the gates, and began to climb the long street, packed from wall to wall with raving, cursing people. They shook their fists at her, threw their bonnets; stones flew about—she might have been killed outright. The cries were terrible—‘Burn her, burn her! Nay, let her drown, the witch!’ Dust, heat, turmoil, a brown fetid air, hatred and clamour—the houses seemed to whirl and dizzy about her. The earth rocked; the people, glued in masses of black and white, surged stiffly, like great sea waves. Pale as death, with shut eyes and moving, dumb lips, she wavered on her seat, held up on either side by a man’s arm. Des-Essars prayed aloud that a stone might strike her dead.

They took her to a house by the Tron Church, a house in the High Street, and shut her in an upper room, setting a guard about the door. The white banner was planted before the windows, and the crowd swarmed all about it, shrieking her name, calling her to come out and dance before them. Her dancing was notorious, poor soul; many a mad bout had she had in her careless days. ‘Show your legs, my bonnie wife!’ cried some hoarse shoemaker. ‘You had no shame to do it syne.’ This lasted till near midnight—for when it grew dark torches were kindled from end to end of the street, drums and pipes were set going, and many a couple danced. The Queen during this hellish night was crouched upon the floor, hiding her face upon Mary Seton’s bosom. Des-Essars knelt by her, screening her from the windows. She neither spoke nor wept—seemed in a stupor. Food was brought her, but she would not move to take it; nor would she open her mouth when the cup was held at her lips.

Next morning, having had a few hours’ peace, the tumult began betimes—by six o’clock the din was deafening. She had had a sop in wine, and was calmer; talked a little, even peeped through the curtain at the gathering crowd. She watched it for, perhaps, an hour, until they brought the mermaid picture into action—herself naked to the waist, with a fish-tail—confronted it with the murder flag, and jigged it up against it. This angered her; colour burned in her white cheeks. ‘Infamous! Swine that they are! I will brave them all.’

Before they could stop her she had thrown open the window, and stood outside on the balcony, proudly surveying and surveyed.

At first there was a hush—‘Whisht! She will likely speak till us,’ they told each other. But she said nothing, and gave them time to mark her tumbled bodice and short kirtle, her wild hair and stained face. They howled at her, mocking and gibing at her—the two banners flacked like tailless kites. Presently a horseman came at a foot’s pace through the press. The rider when he saw her pulled his hat down over his eyes—but it was too late. She had seen Lethington. ‘Ha, traitor, whose rat-life I saved once,’ she called out, in a voice desperately clear and cold, ‘are you come to join your friends against me? Stay, Mr. Secretary, and greet your Queen in the way they will teach you. Or go, fetch your wife, that she may thank her benefactress with you. Do you go, Mr. Secretary?’

He was, in fact, going; for the crowd had turned against him and was bidding him fetch his wife. ‘Give us the Popish Maries together, sir, and we’ll redd Scotland of them a’.’

‘Rid Scotland of this fellow, good people,’ cried the Queen, ‘and there will be room for one honest man.’

They jeered at her for her pains. ‘Who shall be honest where ye are, woman? Hide yourself—pray to your idols—that they keep ye from the fire.’

‘Oh, men, you do me wrong,’ she began to moan. ‘Oh, sirs, be pitiful to a woman. Have I ever harmed any?’

They shrieked her down, cursing her for a witch and a husband-killer. The flags were jigged together again—a stone broke the window over her head. Des-Essars then got her back by force.

It is amazing that she could have a thought in such a riot of fiends—yet the sight of Lethington had given her one. She feared his grey, rat’s face. She whispered it to Des-Essars. ‘Baptist, you can save me. Quick, for the love of Christ! The coffer! the coffer!’

He knew what she meant. That coffer contained her letters to Bothwell, her sonnets—therefore, her life. He understood her, and went away without a word. He took his sword, put a hood over his head, got out of the backside of the house, over a wall, into the wynd. Hence, being perfectly unknown, he entered the crowd in the High Street and worked his way down the Canongate. He intended to get into Holyroodhouse by the wall and the kitchen window, as he had done many a time, and notably on the night of David’s slaughter.[12]

* * * * *

Des-Essars had gone to save her life; but whether he did it or no, he did not come back. She wore herself to thread, padding up and down the room, wondering and fretting about him. This new anxiety made her forget the street; but towards evening, when her nerves were frayed and raw, it began to infuriate her—as an incessant cry always will. She suddenly began panting, and stood holding her breasts, staring, moving her lips, her bosom heaving in spite of her hands. ‘God! Mother of God! Aid me: I go mad,’ she cried, strangling, and ‘Air! I suffocate!’ and once more threw open the windows and let in the hubbub.

She was really tormented for air and breath. She tore at her bodice, split it open and showed herself naked to the middle.

‘Yes—yes—you shall look upon me as I was made. You shall see that I am a woman—loved once—loved much. See, see, my flesh!’ Horrible scandal!—but the poor soul was mad.

Soon after this some of the lords came to her—Lindsay, Morton, and Atholl. The windows, they said, must be closed at once; they feared a riot. They would take her back to Holyroodhouse if she would be patient. But she must be rendered decent: Atholl gave her his cloak. She had quieted immediately they came, and thanked them meekly.

They took her away at once. Mary Seton followed close, but was gently pushed back by Lord Morton. ‘No, no: she must come alone. You shall see her after a little. You cannot come now.’ For the first time in her life, as I believe, Mary Seton shed tears.

A very strong guard, with pikes presented, hedged her in. She reached Holyrood on foot, and was shut into her own cabinet. It was empty and dark but for the candle they had left with her. She snatched it up, and began a mad, fruitless hunt for her casket. It was not in its place—it was nowhere. She hunted until she dropped. She began to tear at herself and to shriek. Doom! Doom! She must be burned. They had taken her coffer. She was alone—condemned and alone.

Then Des-Essars crawled out of the dark on his hands and one knee, dragging a broken leg after him, and fell close beside her, and kissed the hem of her petticoat.

[12] The casket, which was not at Holyrood, is supposed to have been secured by Bothwell in the Castle, where it was to be found in due time. But Des-Essars did not know that. Nor is it clear to me how Bothwell had found opportunity to get it there.