Mary Stuart (31 page)

The flight from Lochleven was as romantically effected as was proper to the romantic life of this Queen. Mary Stuart or George Douglas had enlisted the services of a lad of sixteen, Willie Douglas, who served as page in the castle, which he had entered as a foundling in infancy. Willie was a bright youth, who played his role well. Under the strict regime that now prevailed at Lochleven it was decreed that, when the family supped in the great hall and the guards also came in to supper, the gates should be locked and the keys should be laid on the table close to the hand of the castellan, Sir William Douglas, Laird of Lochleven, who would keep them under his pillow during the night. On the evening in question, the sharp-witted youngster, while serving at table, dropped a napkin over the keys, and then, when the company had been richly supplied with wine and was carrying on a cheerful conversation, he made off with the keys enveloped in the napkin. Thereafter everything was carried out as had been prearranged. Mary Stuart put on the dress of one of her tirewomen; the boy ran downstairs, unlocked the doors, and when the disguised Queen had made her exit, he locked them again from the outside. On the way to the Kinross shore, he dropped the bunch of keys into the lake and, to increase the difficulty of pursuit, he towed all the castle boats behind him as he rowed Mary to the shore, where George Douglas and Lord Seton were awaiting her with fifty riders. Now the little force, with the liberated Queen in their midst, galloped off through the darkness to Lord Seton’s castle of West Niddry, where they halted for the night. With freedom, her courage returned.

Such is the balladesque story of the escape of Mary Stuart from Lochleven Castle, an escape in which she was aided by the devotion of two Douglases: George, who was in love with her, and little Willie, who was likewise devoted to her. The reader who wishes to study the details as seen by a romantic writer may turn to the pages of Sir Walter Scott’s
The Abbot
. Sober historians do not accept this legend at its face value. They incline to believe that the lady of Lochleven and her son Sir William, the castellan, may have been less innocent than they appeared, and that the pretty tale of the method of escape was merely devised to excuse Mary’s guardians for deliberate negligence. But why should we dispel this last romantic glow in the life of Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles? Already clouds were gathering on the horizon; her most adventurous days were over, and for the last time in her life did this young woman inspire and feel the emotion of genuine love.

Having been escorted by Lord Seton from West Niddry to Hamilton Castle, which was to be the headquarters of her faction, by the end of a week Mary Stuart found herself leader of an army of six thousand men. It seemed, for a time, as if all might go well with her, and as if the stars in their courses were fighting for her. Not merely had the Huntlys, the Setons and the Hamiltons rallied to her cause, but, in addition, large numbers of the Scottish nobility and gentry—eight earls, nine bishops and more than a hundred lairds. This was strange, and yet not so strange as it might seem at first sight, for in Scotland no one ever became an effective ruler without arousing rebellion against him among the nobility. The Lord Regent’s strictness had had the customary result. The blue blood of Scotland would rather serve under a tender queen, were she a hundred times a murderess, than under the severe and stubborn Moray. The foreign world was hastening to congratulate the liberated Queen on the re-establishment of her rights. Beaumont, the French ambassador, sought her out to pay his respects to her as lawful ruler of Scotland. Elizabeth sent a special messenger to congratulate her cousin upon the joyful news of the escape. During the year of imprisonment her position would seem to have been greatly strengthened.

But, as if under stress of a premonition, Mary, generally courageous and eager for the fray, now shunned having recourse to arms. She would prefer a reconciliation with her half-brother, would be content with a semblance of monarchical power. If he would vouchsafe her that much, she would confirm him in the regency. As events were soon to show, the strength with which she had been animated while subject to the iron will of Bothwell had been dissipated by her subsequent hardships. All that she now craved for was liberty, peace and rest—these things and the semblance of majesty. But Moray was not inclined to make terms with her, and to rule by his half-sister’s grace. His ambition and Mary’s were children of the same father, and there were not wanting those who would strengthen Moray in his determination to resist. At the very time when Elizabeth was sending congratulations to Mary, Cecil was vigorously urging the Lord Regent to make an end of Mary Stuart and of the Catholic party in Scotland once and for ever. Moray did not delay. He knew that, so long as his sister was at large, there could be no peace in the realm. He wanted to deal roundly with the rebel lords and to make an example of them. With his usual energy he hastily assembled an army, less numerous than Mary’s, but better led and better disciplined. Without waiting for reinforcements, he marched from Glasgow. At the village of Langside, now a suburb of that great city, the issue between Stuart and Stuart, between Queen and regent, between brother and sister, was fought out on 13th May 1568.

The battle of Langside was brief but decisive. There was not, as there had been at Carberry Hill, prolonged parleying, with hesitation on either side. Mary’s riders boldly attacked the enemy forthwith. Moray, however, had chosen his position with care; the hostile cavalry was mowed down by a fierce fire before it could storm the hill, and Mary’s lines were broken by a savage counter-thrust. In three-quarters of an hour all was over. The Queen’s last army fled precipitately, abandoning its artillery, and leaving three hundred dead on the field.

Mary was watching the fight from a neighbouring eminence. As soon as she saw that the day was lost, she mounted and galloped away, attended by a few riders. Seized with panic, she had no thought of further resistance. She rode many, many miles without pause, as we learn from her letter to her uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine. “I have suffered injuries, calumnies, captivity, hunger, cold, heat, flying—without knowing whither—fourscore and twelve miles across the country, without once pausing to alight, and then lay on the hard ground, having only sour milk to drink and oatmeal to eat, without bread, passing three nights with the owls.” Today in Scotland Mary’s weaknesses and follies have in great measure been forgotten by her people; they find excuses for her mad passion, and they remember her chiefly by the sad story of these last days of freedom and flight. Either they think of her as the prisoner at Lochleven Castle, or else as a weary woman galloping on and on through the darkness, braving all hazards rather than that of surrender to her foes. Thrice before had she made night-rides after this fashion: the first time with Darnley when she escaped from Holyrood; the second time in male attire from Borthwick Castle, being joined by Bothwell soon after she left, for their escape to Dunbar; the third time with George Douglas, from Lochleven to West Niddry Castle. Thrice before in this manner had she saved her freedom and her crown. On the present occasion she saved only her life.

Three days after the rout at Langside, Mary reached Dundrennan Abbey, near the town of Kirkcudbright on the Solway Firth. Here was the limit of her realm; thus far she fled like a hunted beast. For her, who had yesterday been a queen, there was no safe spot left anywhere in Scotland, no stronghold there to which she could return. In Edinburgh was the pitiless John Knox; there she would have to face the scorn of the mob, the hatred of the clergy and maybe the pillory and the stake. Her last army had been defeated, her last hope had vanished. Now she must choose. Behind her lay the kingdom she had lost; in front of her, the sea, with its trackless roads leading in every direction. She might return to France; she might cross the firth to England; she might make her way to Spain. She had been educated in France, had friends and relatives there, many who were fond of her, poets who had sung her praises, noblemen who had been her companions; once before this land had received her hospitably, had given her a splendid coronation. But for the very reason that she had been queen there, decked out with the glories of this world, the greatest lady in the land, she was unwilling to return thither as a beggar, as a petitioner, with torn clothing and tarnished honour. She could not endure to think of the sneering countenance of Catherine de’ Medici, of seeking alms, or of taking refuge in a convent. Nor was there anything more agreeable in the idea of entrusting herself to the tender mercies of Philip of Spain. Never would that bigot forgive her for having married Bothwell in accordance with the rites of the Protestant Church, and with the blessing of a heretical priest. Thus only one possibility remained open to her, not a choice but a necessity. She must take refuge in England. During the most hopeless days of her imprisonment, had not Elizabeth written to her encouragingly: “You can at any time count on the Queen of England as a true friend”? Had not her cousin solemnly promised to have her reinstated as Queen? Had not Elizabeth sent her a ring as a token, which Mary need only produce to be sure of sisterly aid?

Too hastily, as always when she made important decisions, Mary now took one of the most momentous decisions of her life. Without any preliminary demand for safeguards, she wrote from Dundrennan Abbey to Elizabeth:

The die had been cast. On 16th May 1568, Mary embarked in a fishing smack, crossed the Solway Firth and landed at the little port of Workington in Cumberland. When Mary reached this turning point in her fate, she was not yet twenty-five years of age, and yet her life was finished. She had enjoyed all possible earthly splendours, climbed to all possible earthly altitudes, and plumbed life’s abysses. Within a brief space of time, amid fearful mental tension, she had experienced extraordinary contrasts, had buried two husbands, lost two kingdoms, undergone harsh imprisonment and, by the pathway of crime, had with renewed pride remounted the steps of the throne. These weeks, these years, had been weeks and years of flame, whose reflex shines down to us through the ages. Now the fires were burning low and the best of her had been consumed. What remained was but dross and ashes, poor vestiges of these magnificent ardours. As a mere shadow of her former self, Mary Stuart went forward into the twilight of her destiny.

T
HERE CAN BE NO DOUBT
that Elizabeth Tudor was genuinely perturbed to learn of Mary Stuart’s arrival in England. This uninvited guest was extremely embarrassing. For the past year a sense of monarchical solidarity had led Elizabeth to support Mary as far as lay within her power against the rebellious Scottish lords. Polite diplomatic assurances were easy, so the Queen of England frequently declared herself to be full of sympathy and love for her Scottish “sister”. Such assurances were extravagantly worded. Not once, however, did Elizabeth invite Mary to come to England; on the contrary, she persisted in her long-standing policy of doing all in her power to avoid a personal encounter with her cousin. Now the tiresome woman had unexpectedly landed on English soil, was in the country over which she had recently and arrogantly proclaimed her right of sovereignty. She came uninvited, and her first words after her arrival were a reminder of pledges of friendship which Elizabeth had meant to be taken no more than metaphorically. In the letter dispatched from Workington on 17th May, to follow up the letter from Dundrennan, Mary did not trouble to enquire whether Elizabeth would receive her as a guest, but assumed that such a reception was her unquestioned right. “I entreat you to send for me as soon as possible, for I am in a pitiable condition, not only for a queen, but for a gentlewoman, having nothing in the world but the clothes in which I escaped, travelling across country the first day, and not having since ever ventured to proceed except in the night, as I hope to declare before you, if it pleases you to have pity, as I trust you will, upon my extreme misfortune.”

Pity was, indeed, Elizabeth’s first impulse. It must have been gratifying to her pride that Mary, whom she would gladly have dethroned, had lost the Scottish crown without Elizabeth herself having stirred a finger in the matter. What a spectacle for the world, could Elizabeth raise from her knees and clasp in a sisterly embrace the woman who had once been so proud a rival; if Elizabeth could pose as protectress and benefactor. She honestly desired, therefore, to invite the fugitive to stay with her. “I have learnt,” reported the French ambassador, “that in the Privy Council, the Queen ardently espoused the cause of the Queen of Scotland, giving everyone present to understand that it was her intention to receive Mary with the honour appropriate to the latter’s former dignity and greatness, and not to her present fallen fortunes.” Elizabeth was endowed with a strong sense of historical responsibility, and had she acted on her first impulse to abide by her written assurances, she would have saved Mary Stuart’s life and her own honour.

Elizabeth, however, did not stand alone. Her main prop was Cecil, the man with cold, steel-blue eyes, who dispassionately moved piece after piece upon the political chessboard. Knowing herself to be a creature of impulse, sensitive to every change in atmospheric pressure, the English Queen had been shrewd enough to select as chief adviser this sober-minded and prosaic calculator, whose puritanism made him detest the passionate, unbridled Mary, a man who, as a strict Protestant, hated her as Catholic, and who—as his private papers prove—was absolutely convinced of her complicity in the murder of Darnley. He hastened to check Elizabeth’s move to help her cousin. As a statesman, he was prompt to realise that any support given by the English government to the claims of the dethroned Queen of Scotland (“the daughter of debate, who discord fell doth sow”) would involve far-reaching complications. To receive Mary in London with royal honours would imply a recognition of her right to be restored to the Scottish throne, and would pledge England to support her with arms and money against Moray and the Scottish lords. Cecil, who favoured the rebellion in Scotland, was not in the least inclined for such a reversal of policy. He regarded Mary as the arch-enemy of Protestantism and as the most conspicuous peril to England. He found it possible to persuade Elizabeth how dangerous it would be to show friendliness to Mary. Elizabeth was all the more disposed to listen to Cecil’s counsel by the news that some of her own leading nobles had paid honour to the fugitive Mary. The mightiest of the Catholic peers, the Duke of Northumberland, invited her to his castle; the Duke of Norfolk, premier peer of England, though a Protestant, visited her. Everyone who came into contact with the fugitive seems to have been captivated. Elizabeth, suspicious by nature, and preposterously vain, soon abandoned any thought of inviting to her court a princess who might outshine her, and might become a rallying centre for the malcontents of her realm.

Within a few days, therefore, Elizabeth got the better of her humane inclinations and decided against soliciting Mary’s presence at the English court, while determined to keep the fugitive on English soil. Elizabeth, however, would not have been Elizabeth had she acted unequivocally. She showed her usual ambiguity—a quality which always confuses people’s minds and disturbs the world. Now began the period in which Elizabeth Tudor undeniably sinned against Mary Stuart. Fortune gave her the victory she had dreamt of for years. Her rival, regarded as the exemplar of chivalric virtues, had been publicly disgraced by her own misconduct; she who had wished to usurp the crown of England had forfeited that of Scotland; she who had arrogantly proclaimed her rights was now a petitioner for Elizabeth’s aid. Two possibilities were open to Elizabeth. She might heap coals of fire on Mary’s head by generously granting the right of asylum. On the other hand, she might, for political reasons, refuse Mary safe harbourage on English soil. Either course would have been justified. A plea for aid may be granted or denied. Both by divine law and by human, however, it must be accounted base to refuse the petitioned help and yet detain a hapless fugitive. No excuse can be found for Elizabeth’s rejection of Mary’s plea for aid, and for then, under false pledges and by the secret use of force, detaining Mary on English ground. It was this perfidious conduct on Elizabeth’s part, weaving a net round the abased and conquered Queen of Scotland, which drove Mary further and further along the road of despair and crime.

Elizabeth’s behaviour at this juncture was a more grievous offence, and blots the English Queen’s character more darkly than the subsequent sending of Mary to the scaffold. There was not a shadow of pretext for detention. When Napoleon, after taking refuge on the
Bellerophon
, claimed British hospitality, Britain was entitled to reject his demand as farcical. For, at that juncture, France and Britain were at war; Napoleon was commander of the enemy forces, and had for nigh upon two decades been hounding the war-dogs at Britain’s throat. But when Mary landed at Workington, England and Scotland were not at war. Elizabeth Tudor and Mary Stuart had for years been affectionately addressing one another as friends, cousins and sisters; and when, a day or two before, from Dundrennan, Mary dispatched the ring, the “token of promised friendship and assistance”, she bore in mind Elizabeth’s words that no other person on earth would give her so cordial a hearing. She could rely, moreover, on the knowledge that Elizabeth had granted the right of asylum to Moray and Morton, to the murderers of Rizzio and the murderers of Darnley, their crimes notwithstanding. Only, when Mary came to England, it was not now with a claim to England’s throne, but with the modest request to be allowed to live at peace in England; or, failing this, to be given free passage to France.

It need hardly be said that Elizabeth was well aware of a complete lack of excuse for taking Mary prisoner. So was Cecil, for there is a memorandum in his own handwriting,
Pro Regina Scotorum,
in which we read: “She must be helped, seeing that she came of her own free will into England, relying upon our Queen.” Thus both Elizabeth and her Lord High Treasurer knew perfectly well, at the bottom of their hearts, that in weaving a net round Mary they were acting unjustly. But what would a statesman be worth if he could not, in ticklish circumstances, fabricate pretexts and procedures, make something out of nothing or nothing out of something? If there was no solid ground for arresting the fugitive, one must be discovered; since Mary had done no wrong to Elizabeth, an offence must be faked up. Caution was needed, since the whole European world was on the watch. The net must be carefully and inconspicuously woven, and then drawn tighter and tighter round the defenceless victim, before she realised what was afoot. Matters must be so arranged that, if she thereupon endeavoured—too late—to escape, her ill-judged movements would only ensnare her more hopelessly.

The weaving of the net began with an exchange of civilities. Two of Elizabeth’s chief advisers, Lord Scrope, the warden of the Western Marshes, and Sir Francis Knollys, the vice-chamberlain, were sent post-haste to Carlisle, whither Mary had now removed. Their mission was manifold and obscure. They were to convey to Mary assurances of their Queen’s distinguished consideration, to deplore the fugitive’s misfortunes—and to allay the Scottish Queen’s fears, lest she should prematurely appeal to the foreign courts for help. The most important part of their mission was secret. They were to keep watch over the woman who was at this time already a prisoner, were to bar the doors against inadvisable visitors, and were to intercept letters. To sustain them in the use of force, should force be needed, fifty halberdiers were ordered to Carlisle. Scrope and Knollys were also commissioned to report whatever Mary Stuart said. For what Cecil and his royal mistress most eagerly awaited was some incautious utterance of Mary’s which might serve as an excuse for openly proclaiming the imprisonment which, in default of it, virtually existed.

The two emissaries discharged their mission to the best of their ability, and it is to their report that we owe some of the most vivid of the extant characterisations of Mary. Again and again we find that she inspired respect and admiration in the most unlikely quarter. Sir Francis Knollys wrote to Cecil: “Surely she is a rare woman, for as no flattery can abuse her, so no plain speech seems to offend her, if she think the speaker an honest man.” Reporting to Queen Elizabeth, Lord Scrope and Sir Francis wrote: “We found her in her answers to have an eloquent tongue and a discreet head, and it seemeth by her doings she hath stout courage and a liberal heart adjoined thereunto.” But, they went on to say, she was extremely proud, that victory was what she had most at heart, and that, in comparison with this, wealth and everything else in the world were of little importance to her. Such a description was hardly calculated to placate the jealous and suspicious Elizabeth, whose heart could only thereby be hardened against her rival.

Mary Stuart, likewise, had quick apprehensions. She speedily realised that the condolences and courtesies of these envoys were empty words, and that their friendly conversation was intended to mask some hidden purpose. Only by degrees, and sugared with compliments, did they administer the bitter medicine they had brought—the news that Elizabeth would not receive the fugitive until she had purged herself of the murder charge. This formula had been excogitated in London to mask the blunt determination that Mary should be kept prisoner, and to provide a moral justification for her imprisonment. It may be that Mary took these perfidious assurances at their face value, and failed to see the net that was closing round her; or it may be that she thought it expedient to assume ignorance. Anyhow she declared that she would have no difficulty in exculpating herself, but that of course she would only do so before someone of equal rank with herself, namely before the Queen of England. The sooner the better. She would like to go to Elizabeth at once and confidently fling herself into her sister’s arms. She urgently desired to make her way to London forthwith, in order to refute the calumnies that were levelled against her honour. She gladly offered to accept Elizabeth as arbiter—no one else in the world.

The implications were sufficient for Elizabeth. By admitting that her guilt was open to discussion, Mary provided Elizabeth with a pretext for involving the refugee in a tedious trial. Of course the proceedings must not be begun hastily, in such a way as to induce Mary to alarm the world prematurely. Her senses must be lulled by honeyed assurances, so that she might unresistingly uncover her throat to the knife. Elizabeth wrote in moving terms, concealing the fact that the Privy Council had already decided upon Mary’s imprisonment, and wrapping up in honeyed phrases the refusal to receive the Scottish Queen at the English court. “Madam,” wrote Elizabeth, “I learn by your letter and by my Lord Herries your desire to justify yourself in my presence of the things charged against you. Oh, madam, there is no creature living more desirous to hear it than I, or who will more readily lend her ears to such answer as shall acquit your honour. But, whatever my regard for you, I can never be careless of my own reputation. I am held suspect for rather wishing to defend you herein, than opening my eyes to see the things these people condemn you in.” After this skilfully phrased repudiation, there comes a yet more refined allurement. Elizabeth went on (the wording should be carefully noted): “And I promise on the word of a prince, that no persuasion of your subjects or advice of others shall ever induce me to move you to anything dangerous to you or your honour.” The letter grows more eloquent and more urgent: “If you find it strange not to see me, you must put yourself in my place, and then you will understand it would be difficult for me to receive you before your justification. But once honourably acquitted of this crime, I swear to you before God, that among all worldly pleasures that will hold the first rank.”

These are gentle, consolatory, cordial words. But they are the wrappings of a hard kernel. Henry Middlemore, the envoy who brought the epistle, was further commissioned to make it clear to Mary that what was in prospect for her was not an opportunity for a personal justification to Elizabeth, but a judicial or quasi-judicial investigation into what had happened in Scotland, although the true nature of the proceedings was, for the time being, to be decorously veiled by styling them a “conference”.