SHE DETERMINED to ride with him at the head of the army.
She had come to Dunbar dressed as a boy and there was none of her own garments at Dunbar Castle. No women’s clothes could be found for her except that of a citizen’s wife. She put on a red petticoat; and the sleeves of her bodice were tied with points; a black velvet hat and a scarf were found for her. And so, dressed as a tradesman’s wife—she rode out to meet those who had rebelled against her. Her spirits were high, for beside her rode Bothwell.
The armies met at Musselburgh and the Queen’s encamped on Carberry Hill close to that spot where some twenty years before the famous battle of Pinkie Cleugh had been fought; but now that the two armies were face-to-face they both appeared reluctant to fight.
For a whole day inactivity reigned, each side anxious not to have the sun facing them during battle, and now that they had come to the point, the rebels had no wish to fight against the Queen nor had the Queen to fight against her own subjects.
So the long day passed—each side alert and waiting, watching each other from opposite hills across the little brook which flowed between them.
In the afternoon Du Croc, the French ambassador, rode to the rebels and declared his readiness to act as mediator between the two forces.
“We have not,” said Glencairn to the Frenchman, “come to ask pardon but to give it. If the Queen is willing to withdraw herself from the wretch who holds her captive, we will recognize her as our sovereign. If, on the other hand, Bothwell will come forth between the two armies and make good his boast that he will meet in single combat any who should declare he is the murderer of the King, we will produce a champion to meet him, and if he desires it another and another, ten or twelve.”
“You cannot seriously mean me to lay these proposals before the Queen,” protested du Croc.
“We will name no other,” said Glencairn, and Kirkcaldy and Morton joined with him in this. “We would rather be buried alive than not have the death of the King investigated.”
Du Croc then went to the Queen. Bothwell was with her.
He cried: “What is it that the lords are at?”
Du Croc answered: “They declare themselves to be willing servants of the Queen but that they are your mortal foes.”
“They are sick with envy,” said Bothwell. “They wish to stand in my place. Did they not all sign the bond promising to make good my cause and defend it with their lives and goods?”
Mary said quickly: “I would have all know that I espouse my husband’s quarrel and consider it my own.”
Du Croc then told her of the suggestion that Bothwell should engage a chosen champion in single combat. Mary looked fearful. She would not agree to that, she declared. There should be no single combat. What man was there on the other side who was of high enough rank to fight with her husband?
“Unless this is done,” said du Croc, “there will be bitter fighting.”
“Stay and see it,” said Bothwell. “I can promise you fine pastime, for there will be good fighting.”
“I should be sorry to see it come to that for the sake of the Queen and for both armies.”
“Why, man,” boasted Bothwell, “I shall win the day. I have four thousand men and three pieces of artillery. They have no artillery and only three thousand men.”
“You have but yourself as general,” said du Croc. “Do not forget that with them are the finest soldiers in Scotland. Moreover there is some discontent I believe among your people.”
When he had gone Bothwell and the Queen looked around them at their army and, to their dismay, they saw that du Croc had spoken the truth. Many of those who had marched behind her banner were now visibly deserting to the other side. They did not wish to serve under the banner of an adulteress and a woman who had, they all believed, had a hand in the murder of her husband.
Bothwell then rode forward shouting: “Come forth! Come forth! Which of you will engage in single combat?”
Kirkcaldy stepped forward.
Terrified for her lover, Mary galloped up to his side.
“I forbid it!” she cried. “There must be someone of rank equal to that of my husband. I will not have him demeaned by this combat.”
Bothwell cried: “Let Lord Morton step forth. I will do battle with him.”
But Morton had no wish for the fight. His friends rallied to his side and declared that such a man as himself must not face the danger of combat. He was worth a hundred such as Bothwell.
Bothwell had no desire to fight any but Morton, and when others were offered he declined to accept them as opponents. And while this farce was in progress Mary saw with dismay that her force was dwindling so fast that there were scarcely sixty men left to support her cause.
She asked that Kirkcaldy should come to her and, when he came, she asked him what terms he would give.
“That you leave your husband, Madam, and the lords will submit to you.”
“You mean that he will go free if I return to Edinburgh with you?”
“Yes, Madam. Those are our conditions.”
She looked about her in despair. Bothwell stood apart with a few—a very few—of his Borderers. She knew that there were two alternatives. She must part with her lover or see him slaughtered before her eyes. She asked that she might be allowed to speak to him.
Drawing him aside she said: “We must part. It is the only way. You will be allowed to ride off with your men unmolested.”
“And they will take you back to Edinburgh. For what, think you?”
“I am their Queen. They will remember that. I shall force them to remember it.”
“You place too much trust in them.”
“I can do nothing else.”
“Mount your horse. Pretend to bid me farewell… and then … we will gallop off to Dunbar. There we will fortify ourselves. We will defend the castle while we raise an army.”
“They would kill us. That is what they mean to do. They mean to part us. They will do it either by our willing separation or by death.”
“I demand that you do as I say.”
But she shook her head and gave him her tragic smile. She was the Queen and he could no longer force her to his will. She longed to ride with him, but greater than her desire for him was her fear for his safety.
“I shall go with them,” she said.
Kirkcaldy rode up to them. “The time is up, Madam,” he said. “Unless you make an immediate decision I shall be unable to hold my men.”
Bothwell held her in his arms. In those last moments she was aware of an exasperated tenderness. She had decided, and he was opposed to her decision. He believed that once more her emotions had played her false and that she was delivering herself defenseless into the hands of her enemies. His last kiss held a plea. Do not trust them. Leap onto your horse. We will snap our fingers at that mighty army. We will ride together to Dunbar.
But she, who had been so weak in love, could also be strong.
Let them do what they would with her, let them deceive her; he had an opportunity of riding away unmolested. He would find his way to safety.
One more kiss; one last embrace.
A terrible desolation came over her, for she had a sad premonition that she would never see his face again. She wavered and clung to him afresh. But Kirkcaldy was impatiently waiting.
He helped her into the saddle and she turned her horse.
Bothwell had shrugged his shoulders; his spurs pressed into his horses flanks and he was away.
She turned her head, straining for the last glimpse of him; but Kirkcaldy had laid his hand on her bridle and was leading her away.
HOW RIGHT he had been! How wrong she was to trust them!
She knew that if she lived twenty years she could never live through such horror, such shameful humiliation, as now awaited her.