A Queen Abandoned

Chapter Four: Aftershock

1566 - 1567

It took me more than a week to get back on my feet after Rizzio's murder. By then, Ruthven's traitorous rabble had seized control of the palace. I was locked inside my chambers with guards posted outside my door. The two rooms that had once been my retreat now felt as suffocating as a furnace. I knew that it would only be a matter of time before they would turn on me for good.

Darnley was my sole visitor. It didn't take him long to realise his mistake. He came to me in a flood of tears after it occurred to him that he could not rule the General's men as well as I had. But what concerned me most was the wellbeing of my future child. I worried constantly that the stress might cause a miscarriage or bring on early labour. After the coup, any shred of trust that had once lingered between Darnley and myself vanished. Our marriage had gifted me the two deepest desires of my heart: an heir that I would hopefully deliver safely and a strengthened claim to the English throne. But my child was not yet born and the life I'd built for myself in Scotland was now in tatters.

When I finally did emerge from my confinement, I felt the true shame of my reduced position. The lords and ladies of the court no longer acknowledged me as I passed by in the hallway. The men were wracked with guilt after the murder and their wives were ashamed at their inability to prevent it. In time, a sense of normality returned to court life. I sat upon the throne. I managed my duties. From the outside, everything appeared as it always had. But I was Queen in name only. My status eroded by the hour.

I passed the evenings quietly in my bedchamber, keeping the party of attendants to a minimum. My ladies tried their best to improve my spirits. Seton brushed my hair while Bea and Livi tried to distract me with stories of the bourgeois wives. Livi sang for me, even though she was not fond of the amusement. Despite this, each night I woke in a cold sweat after reliving the events of Rizzio's death.

During this time I took great solace in my faith. I took mass twice a week and prayed every night for support. Eventually, I realised that God wasn't listening to me anymore. After weeks of nagging, Seton and Bea managed to lure me outside. We sought respite in the fresh air of the walled garden and admired the progress on the Holyrood Abbey.

In March I went into confinement again, this time to prepare for the birth of my son. With Darnley still a political liability, I summoned my brother, who returned to help with governmental affairs. My son, James, was delivered safely in April in the Year of Our Lord 1566. He came out crying, a sure sign of his tenacity.

When I emerged from my confinement, I found the mood at court much altered. Courtiers now smiled at me as they passed me in the palace hallways. The servants bustled about preparing for this or that. It almost felt as if the murder had never occurred.

I soon found a new routine. In the mornings, I met with advisors or dealt with business of state. The evenings were often busy, entertaining a visiting delegation or hosting events. I made time to visit the nursery each afternoon, eager for reports on James' progress. The nurse always made a point of telling me how much more handsome he was compared to the other babies. Each time I held him, pure love beamed from my heart, replenishing my tired body. I would kiss the crown of his head, drinking in his milky scent. James was beautiful. His peachy skin felt soft against my chest. I couldn't help but abandon my thoughts in his warm embrace and peaceful coos.

Now that I had delivered a son, my position was stronger than ever before. I had provided an heir, fulfilling an important duty. The next generation of Scots could rely on stability in our realm. The birth of my son meant that England would be more stable too. You see, James would be named as a successor to the English throne as long as my cousin Elizabeth remained barren. His arrival made my own claim to England stronger too. In the eyes of Catholics across Europe, I was the rightful ruler of England. I still am, although I would never dare acknowledge this truth aloud. Protestants in my country outnumber Catholics by far, so religious peace is crucial. I decided a long time ago that I wouldn't undermine my cousin unless circumstance deemed it necessary.

Soon after our son's birth, Darnley and I came to an arrangement of sorts. He agreed to support me in state affairs when needed, but otherwise he spent his time at his leisure. He often travelled away; to wallow or to whore, I did not care. With him increasingly absent, I felt freer than I had before. I rebuilt crucial relationships, gathered my allies, reconvened the Privy Council and began to enjoy my position as I fell into a natural rhythm governing and serving my country.

It all came undone one night in a glorious blaze. I was hosting a wedding at Holyrood: the union of two servants. I was in good spirits and enjoying the general splendour. A fire crackled away in the Great Hall under a canopy of silk which hung from the ceiling. Cut flowers adorned each of the tables. A spirit of cheer warmed the castle as the gentry gathered. That night we danced until the last wax from the candles had dripped to the floor. The court musicians made a merry atmosphere. With Darnley tucked away out of sight at Kirk O'Field for the evening, I was free to enjoy the festivities.

***

We felt the explosion from miles away. The shock caused hot wax from the candles to fall from the ceiling onto the guests. After an hour of nails bitten and faces turned pale, a messenger arrived. He stumbled into the hall, dishevelled after his desperate ride. The man's mouth moved but I didn't hear him speak. Eventually, the message sunk in. Kirk O'Field house had gone up in flames. A man's body had been found outside, in the garden, strangled to death. Parts of the house had already collapsed. At this very moment, the villagers battled with pails of water to extinguish the flames.

I did not realise – as perhaps I should – that Darnley was the man he was talking about. My husband was dead. Foully murdered. My reaction was not as poised as it should have been. I felt relief wash over me. I would no longer have to endure the dull aching of my heart. I'd never have to cover for him after a violent outburst or political folly. A small smile must have betrayed me because all of a sudden I found a room full of aghast eyes gazing at me.

In the days that followed, a strangeness hovered over Holyrood. It seems that nobody knew quite what to do. We were all in shock. Who had murdered the King? How would we apprehend such a criminal? That a King – who should be untouchable – had been vanquished so easily was not good news for the rest of us.

Then something happened that I had not accounted for. The people began to blame me. Rumours soon spread: from Inverness in the highlands to the lowlands at the English border people believed that I had been the one to orchestrate the explosion. They passed around placards in the streets naming me a whore, a seductress, and an evil witch. I was stunned. I hadn't known until then that words could hold so much power, or that a lie construed in just the right way could be so debilitating.

How could anyone – knowing my character, knowing how tolerant and patient I strive to be – think that I could orchestrate the murder of my own husband? It seemed to be a hopeless situation: the people had already made up their minds. Many believed that my reaction at the wedding was proof enough of my guilt. One thing I knew for certain: if I was to have any chance of surviving this, then I would need to act swiftly.