“I have spoken nothing but according to the text, Madam,” answered Knox. “The King, to pleasure you, has gone to the Mass and dishonored the Lord God, so shall God, in His justice, make you an instrument of his ruin.”

“How dare you make such wicked prophecies!” cried Mary in panic.

“I but speak as God commands me, Madam.”

“You will abstrain from preaching whilst there are sovereigns in the capital or suffer the rewards of treason.”

She dismissed him.

Knox began to harangue the Lords of the Congregation more vehemently than ever, urging them to rise against the Queen. Still Mary did not despair. There seemed little need to, as she surveyed the Highlanders who had pitched their tents about the city. Marching through the streets could be seen the kilted warriors, accompanied by the skirling of the pipes—big men, broad and strong; fierce men who did not know the meaning of fear were rallying to the cause of the Queen.

Bothwell was back in Edinburgh, eager to put his services at the command of the Queen—and there was a saying on the Border that Bothwell was worth an army. Huntley’s Highlanders and Bothwell’s Borderers made a formidable assemblage; and the Queen’s eyes glistened as she watched them.

Knox quailed before the display of might. He had found an adversary, who he had not believed existed, in the Queen herself. When John Knox took a look at the steel bonnets of the North he heard the voice of God advising discretion.

So Mary was now ready to place herself at the head of an army which, it was agreed, could not have a better commander than the Earl of Bothwell.

There was only one who opposed that command, and this was the Queen’s husband.

He was peevish, for although he was called King of Scotland, the Crown Matrimonial had not been bestowed upon him. He was furious when he thought he detected a lack of respect in those about him. He resented the arrogant Borderer; he had quarreled with many of the lords and was fast becoming unpopular even among those who had decided to give Mary their support.

He sulked and, when Mary tenderly asked the reason, he flashed at her: “Madam, it is a sad thing when rogues and adventurers are preferred to honest men.”

“My dearest, what do you mean?” asked Mary.

“That villain Bothwell… to command your army! Are you mad? The mans a brigand.”

“He’s the best general in Scotland with the exception of Kirkcaldy—and he is with our enemies.”

“The best general! What of my father?”

“But your father cannot be called a great general.”

“You insult my family and consequently me. Mayhap I had better remove myself from your presence. Mayhap I had better find other friends… true friends who love me.”

Mary smiled at the spoiled boy in indulgent exasperation. He was so pretty—even when he sulked—that she could not help softening toward him.

“Henry, come and sit beside me.”

He did so sullenly.

She stroked his golden hair back from his face, but he rudely shook her off. “What is the use of pretending you care for me, when you insult my family by putting that crude oaf above them?”

“My crown is in danger, dearest.”

“Your crown! Yes, that is how it is. Your crown which you will not share with me. You promised me all I could wish for, and now that we are married it is a different story.”

Mary sighed. “It is a different story now that we are married. Henry, what has happened to you? You were so modest… so gentle… before we married. Was it because you were deceiving me, pretending to be the man you were not… until we were married?”

A cunning look flickered across his face. He threw his arms about her and kissed her, forcing her back into her chair.

“Mary,” he breathed. “You do not love me, Mary.” He was smiling secretly. He had power over her through her sensual need of him. He could get what he wanted from his Queen. “Mary, forgive me….”

“My darling!”

“It is… these people about you… they do not pay proper respect to me. Mary is the Queen, they seem to say, but who is Darnley? Only her consort … of no importance at all.”

“That is quite wrong, Henry.”

“Then show them it is wrong. Give the command to my father. Dearest Mary, please me in this thing… just to prove to me…”

She was weakening; she was sinking into that mood when her senses were in command, when nothing seemed too much to give in return for all the joy and pleasure he gave her.

THE TWO MEN faced each other—the adventurer from the Border and the Queens pretty husband. Darnley was examining the velvet-lined, perfumed gloves—a present from the Queen—which he was drawing on his hands.

“Her Majesty” said Darnley with a smirk which made Both well’s fingers itch to draw his sword, “has appointed my father commander of her armies.”

The colour deepened in Bothwell’s ruddy face. He had been certain of the command. He knew that the men would follow him to death if need be, because he had the qualities of leadership and men feared him while they admired him. To set weak Lennox at the head of the armies was folly. Moreover, Lennox was not even on the spot.

“I would wish to hear that from Her Majesty’s lips before I believed it,” muttered Bothwell.

“Would an order, signed by the Queen, suffice, my lord?”

Bothwell nodded, and Darnley unrolled the scroll he had carelessly carried under his arm. Bothwell studied it.

The foolish woman! he thought. The lives of loyal Scotsmen are at stake, and she can deny this popinjay nothing!

Yet he was too soon returned from exile to risk being sent back again. He bowed his head, but as his eyes met those of Darnley, there was murder in his heart. The strong fingers twitched. He was imagining them, pressing that scented throat until the silly boy had no breath left. He was certain in that moment that the best way any Scot could serve the Queen was by ridding her of the foolish boy she had married.

NEVER HAD the Queen lived through such triumphant days. She herself, wearing a light suit of armor under her scarlet, gold-embroidered riding dress and a steel casque under her hood, rode out with her army behind her. Beside her rode her husband, distinct from all others on account of the gilded armor he was wearing; he had not forgotten to put on his scented velvet-lined gloves.

As she rode south, Mary’s subjects rallied to her.

“God save the Queen!” they cried. They were enchanted by the youth and beauty of their King and Queen. Compared with them the stern-faced Puritan Moray seemed very colourless.

“Give the Queen a chance,” murmured the people. “Why should the bonny lass not choose her own husband if she wishes it! And who is behind this rising of Moray’s? Who but the Queen of England!”

There were many who thought often and bitterly of those raids on their homes, of the marauding hordes from beyond the Border. Those raiders were the friends of Moray. Let Moray keep his friends. Scotsmen were rallying in the cause of their Queen.

And so Moray found a lack of the response which had been expected. Few rallied to his standard, and the English, seeing how matters stood, became evasive. Elizabeth held up the aid she had promised, and Moray’s rebellion, which was to have brought him control of Scotland, was crushed without bloodshed. He was forced to flee across the Border, for he dared not remain in Scotland; and with him into exile went his powerful helpers—Châtelherault, Glencairn, Kirkcaldy and many others.

Knox, reproaching God, advised Him to do His duty by the exiles and bring them back to power in Scotland. He found some comfort in whispering evil gossip concerning the Queen and Rizzio. The latter, he declared, was a spy of the Pope’s; he was the slave of the Roman Harlot; he had corrupted the Queen’s mind while he corrupted her body.