I give this heavy weight from off my head,
And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand;
With mine own tears I wash away my balm,
With mine own hand I give away my crown,
With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,
With mine own breath release all duteous oaths.
Richard II.
Lord Ruthven had the look and bearing which became a soldier and a statesman, and the martial cast of his form and features procured him the popular epithet of Greysteil, by which he was distinguished by his intimates, after the hero of a metrical romance then generally known. His dress, which was a buff-coat embroidered, had a half-military character, but exhibited nothing of the sordid negligence which distinguished that of Lindesay. But the son of an ill-fated sire, and the father of a yet more unfortunate family, bore in his look that cast of inauspicious melancholy, by which the physiognomists of that time pretended to distinguish those who were predestined to a violent and unhappy death.
The terror which the presence of this nobleman impressed on the Queen’s mind, arose from the active share he had borne in the slaughter of David Rizzio; his father having presided at the perpetration of that abominable crime, although so weak from long and wasting illness, that he could not endure the weight of his armour, having arisen from a sick-bed to commit a murder in the presence of his Sovereign. On that occasion his son also had attended and taken an active part. It was little to be wondered at, that the Queen, considering her condition when such a deed of horror was acted in her presence, should retain an instinctive terror for the principal actors in the murder. She returned, however, with grace the salutation of Lord Ruthven, and extended her hand to George Douglas, who kneeled, and kissed it with respect; the first mark of a subject’s homage which Roland Graeme had seen any of them render to the captive Sovereign. She returned his greeting in silence, and there was a brief pause, during which the steward of the castle, a man of a sad brow and a severe eye, placed, under George Douglas’s directions, a table and writing materials; and the page, obedient to his mistress’s dumb signal, advanced a large chair to the side on which the Queen stood, the table thus forming a sort of bar which divided the Queen and her personal followers from her unwelcome visitors. The steward then withdrew after a low reverence. When he had closed the door behind him, the Queen broke silence —“With your favour, my lords, I will sit — my walks are not indeed extensive enough at present to fatigue me greatly, yet I find repose something more necessary than usual.”
She sat down accordingly, and, shading her cheek with her beautiful hand, looked keenly and impressively at each of the nobles in turn. Mary Fleming applied her kerchief to her eyes, and Catherine Seyton and Roland Graeme exchanged a glance, which showed that both were too deeply engrossed with sentiments of interest and commiseration for their royal mistress, to think of any thing which regarded themselves.
“I wait the purpose of your mission, my lords,” said the Queen, after she had been seated for about a minute without a word-being spoken,—“I wait your message from those you call the Secret Council.-I trust it is a petition of pardon, and a desire that I will resume my rightful throne, without using with due severity my right of punishing those who have dispossessed me of it.”
“Madam,” replied Ruthven, “it is painful for us to speak harsh truths to a Princess who has long ruled us. But we come to offer, not to implore, pardon. In a word, madam, we have to propose to you on the part of the Secret Council, that you sign these deeds, which will contribute greatly to the pacification of the State, the advancement of God’s word, and the welfare of your own future life.”
“Am I expected to take these fair words on trust, my lord? or may I hear the contents of these reconciling papers, ere I am asked to sign them?”
“Unquestionably, madam; it is our purpose and wish, you should read what you are required to sign,” replied Ruthven.
“Required?” replied the Queen, with some emphasis; “but the phrase suits well the matter-read, my lord.”
The Lord Ruthven proceeded to read a formal instrument, running in the Queen’s name, and setting forth that she had been called, at an early age, to the administration of the crown and realm of Scotland, and had toiled diligently therein, until she was in body and spirit so wearied out and disgusted, that she was unable any longer to endure the travail and pain of State affairs; and that since God had blessed her with a fair and hopeful son, she was desirous to ensure to him, even while she yet lived, his succession to the crown, which was his by right of hereditary descent. “Wherefore,” the instrument proceeded, “we, of the motherly affection we bear to our said son, have renounced and demitted, and by these our letters of free good-will, renounce and demit, the Crown, government, and guiding of the realm of Scotland, in favour of our said son, that he may succeed to us as native Prince thereof, as much as if we had been removed by disease, and not by our own proper act. And that this demission of our royal authority may have the more full and solemn effect, and none pretend ignorance, we give, grant, and commit, fall and free and plain power to our trusty cousins, Lord Lindesay of the Byres, and William Lord Ruthven, to appear in our name before as many of the nobility, clergy, and burgesses, as may be assembled at Stirling, and there, in our name and behalf, publicly, and in their presence, to renounce the Crown, guidance, and government of this our kingdom of Scotland.”
The Queen here broke in with an air of extreme surprise. “How is this, my lords?” she said: “Are my ears turned rebels, that they deceive me with sounds so extraordinary?— And yet it is no wonder that, having conversed so long with rebellion, they should now force its language upon my understanding. Say I am mistaken, my lords — say, for the honour of yourselves and the Scottish nobility, that my right trusty cousins of Lindesay and Ruthven, two barons of warlike fame and ancient line, have not sought the prison-house of their kind mistress for such a purpose as these words seem to imply. Say, for the sake of honour and loyalty, that my ears have deceived me.”
“No, madam,” said Ruthven gravely, “your ears do not deceive you — they deceived you when they were closed against the preachers of the evangele, and the honest advice of your faithful subjects; and when they were ever open to flattery of pickthanks and traitors, foreign cubiculars and domestic minions. The land may no longer brook the rule of one who cannot rule herself; wherefore, I pray you to comply with the last remaining wish of your subjects and counsellors, and spare yourself and us the farther agitation of matter so painful.”
“And is this all my loving subjects require of me, my lord?” said Mary, in a tone of bitter irony. “Do they really stint themselves to the easy boon that I should yield up the crown, which is mine by birthright, to an infant which is scarcely more than a year old — fling down my sceptre, and take up a distaff — Oh no! it is too little for them to ask — That other roll of parchment contains something harder to be complied with, and which may more highly task my readiness to comply with the petitions of my lieges.”
“This parchment,” answered Ruthven, in the same tone of inflexible gravity, and unfolding the instrument as he spoke, “is one by which your grace constitutes your nearest in blood, and the most honourable and trustworthy of your subjects, James, Earl of Murray, Regent of the kingdom during the minority of the young King. He already holds the appointment from the Secret Council.”
The Queen gave a sort of shriek, and, clapping her hands together, exclaimed, “Comes the arrow out of his quiver?— out of my brother’s bow?— Alas! I looked for his return from France as my sole, at least my readiest, chance of deliverance.— And yet, when I heard he had assumed the government, I guessed he would shame to wield it in my name.”
“I must pray your answer, madam,” said Lord Ruthven, “to the demand of the Council.”
“The demand of the Council!” said the Queen; “say rather the demand of a set of robbers, impatient to divide the spoil they have seized. To such a demand, and sent by the mouth of a traitor, whose scalp, but for my womanish mercy, should long since have stood on the city gates, Mary of Scotland has no answer.”
“I trust, madam,” said Lord Ruthven, “my being unacceptable to your presence will not add to your obduracy of resolution. It may become you to remember that the death of the minion, Rizzio, cost the house of Ruthven its head and leader. My father, more worthy than a whole province of such vile sycophants, died in exile, and broken-hearted.”
The Queen clasped her hands on her face, and, resting her arms on the table, stooped down her head and wept so bitterly, that the tears were seen to find their way in streams between the white and slender fingers with which she endeavoured to conceal them.
“My lords,” said Sir Robert Melville, “this is too much rigour. Under your lordship’s favour, we came hither, not to revive old griefs, but to find the mode of avoiding new ones.”
“Sir Robert Melville,” said Ruthven, “we best know for what purpose we were delegated hither, and wherefore you were somewhat unnecessarily sent to attend us.”
“Nay, by my hand,” said Lord Lindesay, “I know not why we were cumbered with the good knight, unless he comes in place of the lump of sugar which pothicars put into their wholesome but bitter medicaments, to please a froward child — a needless labour, methinks, where men have the means to make them swallow the physic otherwise.”
“Nay, my lords,” said Melville, “ye best know your own secret instructions. I conceive I shall best obey mine in striving to mediate between her Grace and you.”
“Be silent, Sir Robert Melville,” said the Queen, arising, and her face still glowing with agitation as she spoke. “My kerchief, Fleming — I shame that traitors should have power to move me thus.— Tell me, proud lords,” she added, wiping away the tears as she spoke, “by what earthly warrant can liege subjects pretend to challenge the rights of an anointed Sovereign — to throw off the allegiance they have vowed, and to take away the crown from the head on which Divine warrant hath placed it?”
“Madam,” said Ruthven, “I will deal plainly with you. Your reign, from the dismal field of Pinkie-cleugh, when you were a babe in the cradle, till now that ye stand a grown dame before us, hath been such a tragedy of losses, disasters, civil dissensions, and foreign wars, that the like is not to be found in our chronicles. The French and English have, with one consent, made Scotland the battle-field on which to fight out their own ancient quarrel.— For ourselves every man’s hand hath been against his brother, nor hath a year passed over without rebellion and slaughter, exile of nobles, and oppressing of the commons. We may endure it no longer, and therefore, as a prince, to whom God hath refused the gift of hearkening to wise counsel, and on whose dealings and projects no blessing hath ever descended, we pray you to give way to other rule and governance of the land, that a remnant may yet be saved to this distracted realm.”
“My lord,” said Mary, “it seems to me that you fling on my unhappy and devoted head those evils, which, with far more justice, I may impute to your own turbulent, wild, and untameable dispositions — the frantic violence with which you, the Magnates of Scotland, enter into feuds against each other, sticking at no cruelty to gratify your wrath, taking deep revenge for the slightest offences, and setting at defiance those wise laws which your ancestors made for stanching of such cruelty, rebelling against the lawful authority, and bearing yourselves as if there were no king in the land; or rather as if each were king in his own premises. And now you throw the blame on me — on me, whose life has been embittered — whose sleep has been broken — whose happiness has been wrecked by your dissensions. Have I not myself been obliged to traverse wilds and mountains, at the head of a few faithful followers, to maintain peace and put down oppression? Have I not worn harness on my person, and carried pistols at my saddle; fain to lay aside the softness of a woman, and the dignity of a Queen, that I might show an example to my followers?”
“We grant, madam,” said Lindesay, “that the affrays occasioned by your misgovernment, may sometimes have startled you in the midst of a masque or galliard; or it may be that such may have interrupted the idolatry of the mass, or the jesuitical counsels of some French ambassador. But the longest and severest journey which your Grace has taken in my memory, was from Hawick to Hermitage Castle; and whether it was for the weal of the state, or for your own honour, rests with your Grace’s conscience.”
The Queen turned to him with inexpressible sweetness of tone and manner, and that engaging look which Heaven had assigned her, as if to show that the choicest arts to win men’s affections may be given in vain. “Lindesay,” she said, “you spoke not to me in this stern tone, and with such scurril taunt, yon fair summer evening, when you and I shot at the butts against the Earl of Mar and Mary Livingstone, and won of them the evening’s collation, in the privy garden of Saint Andrews. The Master of Lindesay was then my friend, and vowed to be my soldier. How I have offended the Lord of Lindesay I know not, unless honours have changed manners.”
Hardhearted as he was, Lindesay seemed struck with this unexpected appeal, but almost instantly replied, “Madam, it is well known that your Grace could in those days make fools of whomever approached you. I pretend not to have been wiser than others. But gayer men and better courtiers soon jostled aside my rude homage, and I think your Grace cannot but remember times, when my awkward attempts to take the manners that pleased you, were the sport of the court-popinjays, the Marys and the Frenchwomen.”
“My lord, I grieve if I have offended you through idle gaiety,” said the Queen; “and can but say it was most unwittingly done. You are fully revenged; for through gaiety,” she said with a sigh, “will I never offend any one more.”
“Our time is wasting, madam,” said Lord Ruthven; “I must pray your decision on this weighty matter which I have submitted to you.”
“What, my lord!” said the Queen, “upon the instant, and without a moment’s time to deliberate?— Can the Council, as they term themselves, expect this of me?”
“Madam,” replied Ruthven, “the Council hold the opinion, that since the fatal term which passed betwixt the night of King Henry’s murder and the day of Carberry-hill, your Grace should have held you prepared for the measure now proposed, as the easiest escape from your numerous dangers and difficulties.”
“Great God!” exclaimed the Queen; “and is it as a boon that you propose to me, what every Christian king ought to regard as a loss of honour equal to the loss of life!— You take from me my crown, my power, my subjects, my wealth, my state. What, in the name of every saint, can you offer, or do you offer, in requital of my compliance?”
“We give you pardon,” answered Ruthven, sternly —“we give you space and means to spend your remaining life in penitence and seclusion — we give you time to make your peace with Heaven, and to receive the pure Gospel, which you have ever rejected and persecuted.”
The Queen turned pale at the menace which this speech, as well as the rough and inflexible tones of the speaker, seemed distinctly to infer —“And if I do not comply with your request so fiercely urged, my lord, what then follows?”
She said this in a voice in which female and natural fear was contending with the feelings of insulted dignity.— There was a pause, as if no one cared to return to the question a distinct answer. At length Ruthven spoke: “There is little need to tell to your Grace, who are well read both in the laws and in the chronicles of the realm, that murder and adultery are crimes for which ere now queens themselves have suffered death.”
“And where, my lord, or how, found you an accusation so horrible, against her who stands before you?” said Queen Mary. “The foul and odious calumnies which have poisoned the general mind of Scotland, and have placed me a helpless prisoner in your hands, are surely no proof of guilt?”
“We need look for no farther proof,” replied the stern Lord Ruthven, “than the shameless marriage betwixt the widow of the murdered and the leader of the band of murderers!— They that joined hands in the fated month of May, had already united hearts and counsel in the deed which preceded that marriage but a few brief weeks.”
“My lord, my lord!” said the Queen, eagerly, “remember well there were more consents than mine to that fatal union, that most unhappy act of a most unhappy life. The evil steps adopted by sovereigns are often the suggestion of bad counsellors; but these counsellors are worse than fiends who tempt and betray, if they themselves are the first to call their unfortunate princes to answer for the consequences of their own advice.— Heard ye never of a bond by the nobles, my lords, recommending that ill-fated union to the ill-fated Mary? Methinks, were it carefully examined, we should see that the names of Morton and of Lindesay, and of Ruthven, may be found in that bond, which pressed me to marry that unhappy man.— Ah! stout and loyal Lord Herries, who never knew guile or dishonour, you bent your noble knee to me in vain, to warn me of my danger, and wert yet the first to draw thy good sword in my cause when I suffered for neglecting thy counsel! Faithful knight and true noble, what a difference betwixt thee and those counsellors of evil, who now threaten my life for having fallen into the snares they spread for me!”
“Madam,” said Ruthven, “we know that you are an orator; and perhaps for that reason the Council has sent hither men, whose converse h............