not see? Did I not know? The magic of royalty is an illusion that can be shattered by a man without a conscience. He shouted at me: did I think he was the only rapist in Scotland? Would I leave his protection now?
I lost my own temper in return. I swore he was wrong, that even the wickedest Scots lords know their king. I said they would never harm one of royal blood; they might be angry but they were not outright mad—they could not lay a hand on me.
And then he told me. He told me to my face the truth that I had sworn to discover but feared to hear. He told me that he and the rebel lords had made an alliance and sworn a covenant to kill Darnley, who had royal blood just as I do. They had joined together and signed a bond to kill Darnley, who was consort to a queen, father of the prince, and of blood royal himself. Bothwell put his heavy hands on my shoulders and said, “Marie, listen, your body is not sacred. If it ever was, it is not sacred anymore. I have had it. They all know that I had you, and without your consent. They all know you are a mortal woman. You can be raped, you can be seduced. You can be killed. You can be pushed into prison, you can be marched to the scaffold, and your head can be laid on the block. I have taught them that. God forgive me, I did not realize that was the lesson they would learn. I thought I would make you safe by making you mine, but all I have done is break your spell. I have shown them what can be done. I have shown them a man can do what he wants with you, with or without your consent.”
I did not even hear him. In that moment he told me the truth as he had never spoken before, and I was not listening. I just said, “Who? Tell me the names. Tell me the regicides that killed Darnley. They are dead men.”
In answer he reached into his doublet and brought out the very bond that they had sworn, folded carefully and kept for this moment. He said, “This is for you. It may be the last thing I can do for you. This is for you. It proves your absolute innocence in his murder and our guilt. This is my parting gift to you.”
And then he rode away from me without saying goodbye. Not another word.
The paper was the bond, and on it was the name of almost every great lord at my court, the treacherous, rebellious murderers: including my half brother James. They had sworn to join together to kill my husband, Darnley.
And—voilà—Bothwell’s name was at the top. He was as guilty as any of them. That was what he was trying to tell me, on that day when he left me. That they could all bring themselves to kill a sacred royal person, just like me, one of sacred royal blood, like me. Any man without a conscience could do it. Bothwell too.
1569, DECEMBER, COVENTRY: GEORGE
I cannot sleep in this dirty town. The noise of our soldiers goes on all night like a rumble of discontent, and the raucous squeals of the girls of the town pierce the night air like vixen calling.
I get dressed by candlelight, leaving Bess asleep. As I go quietly from the bedroom I see her stir and her hand goes across the bed to where I usually lie. I pretend not to see that she is stirring. I don’t want to talk to Bess. I don’t want to talk to anybody.
I am not myself. The thought checks me as I go down the creaking stairs and let myself out the front door. A sentry in the doorway gives an awkward salute as he sees me and lets me go by. I am not myself. I am not the husband that I was, nor the servant of the queen. I am no longer a Talbot, famed for loyalty and steadiness of purpose. I no longer sit well in my clothes, in my place, in my dignity. I feel blown all about, I feel tumbled over by these great gales of history. I feel like a powerless boy.
If the Queen of Scots triumphs, as she is likely to do today, or tomorrow, I will have to negotiate a peace with