“He should die for it,” I say fiercely. “Men are hanged for rape in England.”
“Only if the woman dares to name her rapist,” she says drily. “Only if she can prove that she did not consent. Only if a jury believes the word of a silly woman against a strongminded man. Only if the jury does not believe in their hearts that all women are easily seduced and they say no but mean yes. Even in England the word of a man takes precedence. Who cares what a woman says?”
I put out my hand to her. I cannot help myself. I was born a poor girl; I know how dangerous the world can be for an unprotected woman. “Are you sure you can save your reputation and reclaim your throne? Can you go back to Scotland and be safe this time? Will they not hold this shame against you?”
“I am queen,” she says with determination. “I shall annul the marriage to Bothwell and put it aside. I shall never mention it again and nor shall anyone else. It shall be as if it never happened. I shall return to Scotland as an anointed queen married to a great nobleman. That will be my safety and the rest of the scandals will be forgotten.”
“Can you decide what people say of you?”
“I am queen,” she says. “One of the talents of a queen is to make the people think well of you. If I am really gifted and lucky, I will make the histories think well of me too.”
1569, AUGUST, WINGFIELD MANOR: MARY
I love this summer. It is my first in England, my last too, for next summer I will be in Scotland again; my escort will come for me any day now. I laugh at the thought that then I shall be longing for this heat, and looking back on this as a golden season of leisure. It reminds me of my childhood in France, when I was a French princess and heir to the three thrones of France, England, and Scotland, and in no doubt that I would inherit all three. We, the royal children of the privileged French court, used to spend the summer in the country and I was allowed to ride, and picnic, swim in the river, dance in the fields, and hunt under the big yellow summertime moon. We used to row out on the river and fish from the boats. We used to have archery competitions in the cool of the morning and then celebrate with a winners’ breakfast. My husbandtobe little Prince Francis was my playmate, my friend, and his father, the handsome King Henri II of France, was the hero of our days, the most handsome man, the most glamorous king, a charmer beyond all others. And I was his favorite. They called me “mignonette.” The beautiful princess, the most beautiful girl in France.
We were all indulged, we were all allowed anything that we wanted, but even among that richness and freedom the king singled me out as special. He taught me to amuse him, he taught me to delight him, he taught me—perhaps without knowing—that the most important skill a woman can learn is how to enchant a man, how to turn his head, how to swear him to her service, without his ever knowing he has fallen under her spell. He believed in the power of the women of the troubadours, and despite my tutors, and certainly despite his irritable wife, Catherine de Medici, he taught me that a woman can become the very pinnacle of a man’s desire. A woman can command an army if she is their figurehead, their dream: always desirable, never attainable.
When he was dead, and his son was dead, and my mother was dead and I came to Scotland, quite alone and quite desperate for advice as to how I would manage in this strange and savage country, it was his teaching that guided me. I thought I should be a queen that men could adore. I thought if I could be a queen that they could look up to, then we would find a way that I could rule them, and they could gladly submit.
This time at Wingfield, knowing that my future is unfolding before me, knowing that I shall return to Scotland as acknowledged queen, is like being a girl again, with no equal for charm or beauty or wit, confident that my kingdom will be my own, that