What a vividly macabre scene that must have been. When it was related to me I shivered at the horror of it. In those few seconds the company must have thought they were looking at Ruthven's ghost. Then from behind him came others—men whose names had often passed between Cecil and myself when we discussed what our policy would be with the troublesome Scots— Morton, Kerr, Lindsay.
Ruthven, speaking in a deep voice, told David to come outside, for there were those who wished to speak to him.
The poor little Italian musician knew it was his blood they were after, and like a frightened child he turned shuddering to the Queen, who had grown pale and looked as though she would faint; he clung to her skirts crying: “No! No!”
What could that avail him? How had she felt, I wondered when she saw them drag him from her and plunge their daggers into that poor quivering body?
It would have seemed in that moment that they were not only going to kill Rizzio but herself also. Poor woman, heavily pregnant amongst those barbarous men!
They said she cried out: “Davie, Davie… They are killing you. They are killing us both. Is this the way to treat your Queen?”
But that crude man Kerr took her by the arms and forced her to be quiet or he would as he said inelegantly: “Cut her into collops.”
Apparently she fainted then which I should think was the best thing she could have done in the circumstances.
I loathed the Scots more than ever. Mary was foolish and I had no doubt they resented having a woman as their Queen—the crude ungallant loathsome creatures! How dared they behave so to royalty!
When she came to consciousness she was alone with Darnley and, realizing what had happened, upbraided him, calling him murderer…murderer of Rizzio and possibly of her unborn child. He accused her of familiarity with Rizzio and preferring the musician's company to his own. The last, I should have thought from what I knew, was to be expected.
They took her to her apartments where she was more or less a prisoner and sent for a midwife because it seemed she would give birth prematurely. Darnley was with her during the night and because of this her chamber was left unguarded. What fools they were! They trusted Darnley. He was a very weak man and Mary must have had some sway, for she persuaded him to creep out of the palace and fly with her, and together they rode through the night to Dunbar Castle where one of the nobles, Lord Bothwell, and some of his followers were waiting for her.
That terrible night was over and she was free from Rizzio's murderers. But in what an unhappy state she was! Poor Mary, much as I liked to see her discomfited after her arrogant claims to my throne, still I was sorry for her. And I was all eagerness to hear further news from Scotland.
WE WERE AT Greenwich that June. It was one of my favorite palaces—I suppose because I had been born in it. The fields always seemed greener there than anywhere else, the trees more luxuriant. The Romans had called it Grenovicum and the Saxons Grenawic—so it was the Green Town to them too. There had been a palace there in the reign of my ancestor Edward III but it was not until later in the reign of Henry VI that the castle was embellished and added to. Now it was a most delightful spot.
The Court was in a merry mood and festivities were planned for the evenings—often al fresco as it was June and the weather was fine.
The evening was wearing on. We had partaken of supper; the musicians were playing and the dancing had begun. Robert and I were dancing together when I perceived Sir James Melville making his way toward me.
I knew that he had news of Scotland and I immediately stopped dancing. He came to me and whispered in my ear: “The Queen of Scotland has given birth to a boy.”
My emotions were so strong that I could not restrain them. So … after all those fearful scenes, after witnessing the murder of her favorite, after riding through the night to Dunbar, she had successfully produced a son. I had been certain that she would fail in that.
All I could think of now was that she had succeeded and her success seemed an indication of my failure.
Two of my ladies, Magdalene Dacres and Jane Dormer, hastened to my side. Robert was looking at me in dismay.
“What ails Your Majesty?” asked Robert.
I said: “The Queen of Scots is lighter of a fair son and I am but a barren stock.”
Robert took my hand and pressed it firmly, warning me not to show my chagrin. And of course he was right.
I assumed an air of great pleasure and I declared to the company that we must rejoice in my sister of Scotland's wonderful recovery from the ills which had beset her.
And I was thinking: A son! It would strengthen her claim. That miserable matter of the succession would be raised again and I should be harried either to marry and get a child or name my successor.
Later I saw Cecil who advised me to assume an air of pleasure and to hide any disquiet I might be feeling at the birth of an heir to the Scottish throne which he understood and shared.
I received Melville formally and after expressing great pleasure at the news, I asked, with some concern, after the health of the Queen.
“I have been feeling unwell these last fifteen days,” I told him, “but this news has made me feel well again.”
Perhaps that was too fulsome, and Melville was too shrewd not to understand that my joy was feigned; but in these matters it is what one says which is repeated; one's thoughts remain one's own, and there can only be conjecture as to what they are.
He replied in the same vein of diplomatic falsehood: “My Queen knows that of all her friends you will be the most glad of her news. She told me to tell you that her son was dearly bought with peril of her life and that she has been so sorely handled in the meantime that she wished she had never married.”
I nodded solemnly. “The Queen has suffered cruelly and come through bravely, but so great must be her joy in this fair son that I am sure in her heart she can regret nothing that has brought him to her.”
“The Queen of Scots dearly wishes that she could see you at the christening of this boy.”
“What a joy that would be, and how I wish that my affairs might permit it! I shall send honorable ladies and gentlemen to represent me.”
It was a very amicable meeting and nothing I had said could possibly offend Mary.
Accordingly I sent the Earl of Bedford to represent me at the christening, taking with him a splendid gift from me. It was a font made all of gold and worth one thousand pounds.
“It may well be that by this time the young Prince has overgrown it,” I said jocularly. “If so, the Queen can keep it for the next.”
I appointed the Countess of Argyle, Mary's half-sister, to be my proxy, and ordered my Ambassador up there to make sure that it was known that I did not accept Lord Darnley as King of Scotland.
This so incensed Darnley that in a fit of petulance he declined to attend the baptism of his own son. I doubt anyone mourned that.
The little boy was christened Charles James but for some reason the Charles was dropped and he was always known as James—I suppose this must have been because there was a line of King Jameses in Scotland.
So Mary had her son and my Council was growing more and more restive because I had no child and it seemed likely that I never would have. The birth of little James had certainly stirred them to further action, for when next the Parliament met all parties counseled me either to marry immediately or name my successor.
These were the two subjects which I disliked most. I did not want to marry. I had made that clear enough; I would not be dominated—or put myself in a position to be—by any man. And to name one's successor was always a dangerous step to take, because in one's lifetime people started to look to that successor; there would be comparisons, and what is to come often seems more desirable than what is. Unless it is one's own child, there is certain to be trouble. So I stood out against the Parliament.