Seeing her thus, mounted on her jennet, stripped of her royalty, a conquered queen in a red petticoat, the rebel soldiers, remembering and repeating the rumors they had heard of her, inflamed by the vilification of years which had been hurled against her by John Knox, jeered as they gloated on her humiliation.
The whispering first started among the low soldiery. “Who murdered the King?”
The rest took up the cry. “Burn the adulteress. Burn the murderess.”
The soldiers crowded about her and Kirkcaldy had to hold some back with his sword.
“Bring her to the city—the scene of her shame!” they cried. “Let her see what the citizens of Edinburgh have to say to her.”
So she was led toward her capital, and two soldiers, bearing a banner extending between two pikes, marched before her; the banner was turned toward her that she might read the crude inscription thereon. On this banner had been painted a figure of Darnley lying murdered, and beside him was a smaller figure which was meant to represent Prince James, Darnley’s son and hers. The little Prince was on his knees praying: “Judge and revenge my cause, O Lord.”
“Make way! Make way!” cried the soldiers. “Good people of Scotland, we bring you the murderess. We bring the woman who, with her lover, slew her husband. We bring you the whore of Scotland. Make way for the adulteress.”
She was alone; she had lost her strong man and had given herself over to traitors, but as always in terrible adversity she found great courage.
She took the hand of Lord Lindsay of the Byres who was beside her and cried: “By this hand which is now in yours I swear I’ll have your head for this outrage.”
“Madam,” said Lindsay, “look to it that you do not lose your own.”
For hours it lasted, that terrible ride. She was exhausted and only pride kept back the tears of heartbreak. Never had a queen been treated so. If her lover had been with her now, how different it would have been. Then they would not have dared to treat her so. She should have obeyed him. Then he and she would now be riding to Dunbar… together.
She kept her eyes fixed on the hideous banner. She had lost everything—her lover, her child, her throne.
It was twilight when they came to Edinburgh. Crowds thronged the Canongate to watch her pass; and there was not one friend in the city to give her a word of comfort.
“Here comes the murderess,” they cried. “Let us burn the whore.”
Morton had arranged that the procession should take an indirect route through the city. Mary did not at first understand why. Then suddenly she realized what they were doing; they were taking her along the road which led to Kirk-o’-Field. They halted for a moment before the ruins of that house in which Darnley had been murdered. There the banner was brought close before her eyes, and the people crowded in on her.
“Burn her! Burn her! Now… now! Why do we wait? She betrays her guilt.”
“Good people,” cried Mary, “I beg of you let me speak.”
But her words were lost in howls of derision. And as the people closed in on her, Kirkcaldy once more drove them off with his sword. Lindsay, Morton and Atholl were forced to join him.
Almost unconscious with strain and exhaustion she was taken to the provost’s house and there put into the strong room, the window of which looked straight onto the street. About the window the rabble clustered and the banner was set up outside so that every time she lifted her eyes she could see it.
But for Kirkcaldy she could not have lived through that night. Kirkcaldy had not foreseen what would happen; he was a general who had promised safe conduct to the Queen, and since he had given that promise he meant it to be kept. Morton had no such scruples and had it rested with him he would have let the people have their way. He knew that Moray was on the way back from France. It was true that Huntley, with some of his Catholics, was half-heartedly preparing to rally to the Queen, but the people were all against her. They believed her to be guilty of adultery and murder, and they cried: “Take her to the stake. That is the place for sinners such as she is, be they queens or commoners.”
There was no food for her in the provost’s house; there was no bed; she had no means of bathing her face or changing her clothes.
She paced the room, moaning softly to herself, worn out with fatigue, distressed and hysterical. All through the night people thronged the streets and the fiery light of torches filled the room.
Again and again she tried to speak to them; she tried to win their sympathy. She stood at the window, her hair loose about her shoulders; in her great agitation she plucked at her bodice until it was in shreds and her breasts bared. She beat against the walls; she wept; and at last she sank to the floor, moaning and whimpering.
Outside the cry of “Burn the adulteress! Burn the murderess!” was chanted through the streets.
ANOTHER day came. She went to the window, her long hair covering her bare shoulders.
“Good people …” she cried. “Good people …”
But their only answer was: “Burn her. Burn the murderess of her husband!”
The dreadful banner was before her eyes. She wept and stormed. Then she saw Lord Maitland passing along the street. She called to him. He would have looked away but the sight she presented was so terrible that out of pity he was forced to turn back.
“Come here, Maitland,” she cried. “Come here.”
He knew that if he followed his inclination to hurry away he would be haunted by the memory of her eyes forever.
She looked at him—the husband of her dear Flem—and one of those who had betrayed her. How wicked was the world, how cruel!
“So you are with them now?” she called. “So you are with my enemies, Maitland?”
“Madam,” he answered, “I served you well until you chose others who you thought would serve you better.”
He had never forgiven her for supplanting him with David. He would never forgive her for her marriage with Bothwell.
She cried: “Did you not know then of the plot to murder Darnley! Were you not in the plot, my lord?”
His answer was: “Madam, you destroyed yourself when you took Bothwell for husband. Had you not become his slave and the slave of your own passion, you would not now stand guilty of murder.”
The crowd roared: “Burn the murderess!”
Maitland averted his eyes and passed on.
In that moment she knew that all who had planned to murder Darnley were against her. They would—as Maitland would—revile her, doing their utmost to put all the guilt on her shoulders and those of her lover, that investigations should not be made concerning themselves. The murder of Darnley—like the murder of Rizzio—would be shown to the Scots and the world not as a political murder, but as a crime passionel.
She was lost. She knew it. Maitland had had some honor in the old days. He had been one of those whom she could trust; but Maitland was ready to save his own life and his political rewards at the cost of the reputation, and perhaps the life, of the Queen.
SHE LIVED through another day of torment, and that evening, because they feared for her reason, they took her from the provost’s house to Holy-rood. She was forced to walk as a captive with Morton on one side of her, Atholl on the other, while the soldiers marched with them to protect her from the murderous rabble. As she walked the odious banner was held before her eyes and she prayed for death.
But in Holyrood some comfort awaited her, for there she found some of her women, and among them those two loved ones, Mary Seton and Mary Livingstone.
She wept in their arms and they swore that they would not leave her; they would die with her and for her if need be.
But her captors did not intend her to stay at Holyroodhouse. Late that night she was hurried out of the palace and, hysterical and exhausted with misery and fatigue, she was taken through the darkness to Lochleven where her jailors would be the Douglases—Sir William and his wife who was Moray’s mother.