University of Virginia Library

BOTHWELL.

The summer sun was pouring down a flood of lustre over
wood and moorland, tangled glen, and heathery fells, with the
broad and blue expanse of the German ocean sparkling in ten
thousand ripples far away in the distance. But the radiance
of high noon fell not upon the forest and the plain in their solitary
loveliness, but on the marshalled multitudes of two vast
hosts, arrayed in all the pomp and circumstance of antique warfare,
glittering with helms and actons, harquebuss and pike, and
waving with a thousand banners, of every brilliant hue and
proud device. On a gentle eminence, the very eminence on
which, a few short years before, the English Somerset had
posted his gallant forces, lay the army of the queen, its long
front bristling with rows of the formidable Scottish spear, its
wings protected by chosen corps of cavalry, the firm and true
adherents of the house of Stuart, or the daring, though licentious
vassals of the duke of Orkney, and the royal banner, with
its rich embroidery, floating in loud supremacy. Yet, gay and
glorious as it showed upon its ground of vantage, and gallantly
as it might have contested that field against even superior numbers,
that array was but in name an army. Thousands were
there who, though they had flocked with bow and arrow to the
call of their sovereign, felt not distaste alone, but actual disgust
to the services on which they were about to be employed; and
not a few were among them who knew too well how little was
the probability that they, a raw, tumultuary force, led on by

men of gallantry indeed, but not of that well proved experience
which, to a leader, is more than the truncheon of his command,
should come off with victory, or even without defeat, from an
encounter with veteran troops, retainers of the most warlike
lords in Scotland, marshalled by soldiers with whose fame the
air of every European kingdom was already rife — soldiers such
as Lyndesay of the Byres, Kirkaldy of the Grange, Murray
of Tullibardin, and a hundred others of reputation, if second,
second to none but these. Nor was this all; voices were not
wanting, even in the army of the queen, to exclaim, that if the
royal banner were displayed, its purity was sullied by the
presence of a murderer; and that success could never be hoped
for, so long as Bothwell rode by the right hand of Mary.
One exception there was, however, to this general feeling of
dissatisfaction, if not of despair. A band of determined men,
whose scar-seamed visages and stern demeanor, no less than
the splendid accuracy of their equipments, and the admirable
discipline with which they maintained their post, far in advance
of the main body, and exposed to inevitable destruction on the
advance of the confederated forces, should they be suffered, as
it appeared too probable that they would, to remain unsupported
against such desperate odds. But these were men to whom
the most deadly conflict was but a game of chance; inured from
their youth upward to deeds of blood and danger — lawless and
licentious in time of peace, even as they were cruel, brave,
and fearless in the fight — the picked retainers, the desperate,
of the duke of Orkney.

Dark glances of contempt, if not of hatred, were shot ever
and anon from beneath the scowling brows of these wild desperadoes
toward the wavering ranks of the main army, as, unrestrained
by the exhortations or menaces of their officers —
unmoved by the eloquent beauty of Mary herself, who rode
among the trembling ranks, praying them, as they loved their

country, as they valued honor, as they would not see their
wives, their mothers, and their daughters, delivered to the
malice of unrelenting foemen, to strike one blow for Scotland's
crown — to give once, once only, their voices to the exulting
clamor, “God and the queen” — troop after troop broke away
from the rear, and scattering themselves, singly, or in parties
of two or three, over the open country, sought for that safety in
mean and dastard flight, which they should have asked from
their own bold hearts and strong right hands.

It was at this moment that the heads of the confederated
columns were seen advancing, in dark and dense masses, at
three different points, against the front, which was still preserved
in Mary's army by the strenuous exertions of the leaders,
rather than by any soldierly feelings on the part of the
common herd. So nearly had they advanced to the royal lines
that the stern and solemn countenances of the leaders, as they
rode in complete steel, but with their vizors raised, each at the
head of his own leading, were visible, feature for feature. The
matches of the arquebusses might be clearly distinguished,
blown already into a bright flame, while the pieces themselves
were evidently grasped by ready and impatient hands, and the
long spears of the vanguard were already lowered; but not a
movement of eagerness, not a murmur, or a shout, was heard
throughout the thousands, whose approach was ushered to the
ears alone by the incessant trampling sound, borne steadily onward,
like the flow of some great river, occasionally broken by
the shrill neighing of a charger, or the jingling clash of arms.

The borderers of Bothwell, on the contrary, as they noted
the advance, raised, from time to time, the wild and fearful
yells with which it was their custom to engage, brandishing
their long lances, and giving the spur to their horses, till they
sprang and bolted like hunted deer; and it required all the influence
of hereditary chiefs to restrain these savage moss-troopers

from rushing headlong with their handful of men against
the unbroken line of the confederate pikes, which swept onward,
sullen and steady as the tide when it comes in six feet
abreast. The effect of such a movement would have been at
once fatal to their wretched mistress. It was too evident that,
for a wavering, coward multitude, like that arrayed beneath the
banner of the queen, there could be no hope to fight against men
such as those who were marching, in determined resolution, up
that gentle eminence; and all that now remained was an attempt
at negotiation.

It was at this moment, when the advanced guard of the two
armies were scarcely ten spear's-lengths asunder, when the determination
or wavering of every individual might be read by
the opposite party in his features as clearly as in the pages of
a book, that a single trumpet from the centre of the queen's
army broke the silence with a wild and prolonged flourish. It
was no point of war, however, that issued from its brazen
mouth, no martial appeal to the spirits and courage of either
host, but the prelude to a pacific parley — and straightway the
banners throughout the host were lowered, and a white flag
was waved aloft, in place of Scotland's blazonry. The ranks
were slowly opened, and from their centre, with trumpeter and
pursuivant, and king-at-arms, rode forth Le Croc, the French
embassador. This movement, as it seemed, was wholly unexpected
by the confederate lords; at least, the ranks continued
their deliberate advance unchecked by the symbols of peace
that glittered above the weapons of the rival host, till suddenly
a foaming horse and panting rider furiously galloped from the
rear. A single word was uttered, in a low, impressive whisper;
it passed from mouth to mouth like an electric spark; and,
as though it were but a single man, that mighty column halted
on the instant. There was no confusion in the manœuvre, no
hurry, nor apparent effort: the long lines of lances, so beautifully

regular in their advance, sank as regularly to their rest;
and, but for the fluttering of their plumage in the summer air,
those beings, strangely composed of every vehement and stirring
passion, might have have passed for images of molten
steel. But a few seconds had elapsed, and the flourish of the
peaceful trumpets was yet ringing in the ears of all, when a
dozen horsemen proceeded slowly forward, to meet the royal
cavalcade.

It was a singular and most impressive spectacle, that meeting.
It was, as it were, the fearful pause between life and
death — the moment of breathless silence that precedes the first
crash of the thunderstorm. Every eye was riveted in either
army on those two groups; every heart beat thick, and every
ear tingled with excitement. And, even independent of the
appalling interest of the crisis, there was much to mark, much
to admire, in the handful that had come together to speak the
doom of thousands; to decide whether hundreds and tens of
hundreds of those living creatures, who stood around them now,
so glorious in the pride, the beauty, and the strength of manhood,
should, ere the sun might sink, be as the clods of the
valley; to decree, with their ephemeral breath, whether the
soft west wind, that wafted now the perfumes of a thousand
hills to their invigorated senses, should, ere the morrow, be
tainted like the vapor from some foul charnel-house!

On the one side, on his light and graceful Arab, champing its
gilded bits and shaking its velvet housings, sat the gay and gallant
Frenchman — his long, dark locks uncovered, and his fair
proportions displayed to the best advantage in his rich garb of
peace. No weapon did he bear — not even the rapier, without
which no gentleman of that period ever went abroad — but
which, the more fully to manifest the candor and sincerity of
his instructions; a handsome page held by his master's stirrup.
Behind him, with pale visages and anxious mien, Marchmont,

and Bute, and Islay, and the lion King, awaited the result of
this their last resource.

On the other hand, distinguished from their followers only
by the beauty of their powerful chargers, and their own knightly
bearing, halted the rebel chiefs. Plain almost to meanness in
his attire, with his armor stained and rusty, and his embroidered
baldrick frayed and rent, Lord Lyndesay of the Byres was
foremost in the group. Morton was there, and Murray, all
steel from crest to spur; the best warrior, where all were good,
the noblest spirit, the most upright man, Kirkaldy of the Grange.

“Nobles and knights of Scotland,” said the proud envoy, in
a tone so calm and yet so clear that every accent could be
noted far and wide, “I come to ye — a gentleman of France —
the servant of a mighty monarch, unbought by friendship and
unprejudiced by favor. For myself, or for my royal master, it
recks us little whether or not ye choose to turn those swords,
which should be the bulwarks of your country, against her
vitals. Yet should it not be said that Scottishmen, like ill-trained
dogs of chase, prefer to turn their fangs against each
other, than to chase a nobler quarry. Ye are in arms against
your queen — nay, interrupt me not, my lords — against your
queen, I say! or, as perchance ye word it, against her counsellors.
That ye complain of grievances I know, and, for aught
I know, justly complain. Yet pause, brave gentlemen, pause
and reflect which is the greater grievance — a country torn with
civil factions, internal war with all its dread accompaniments
of massacre and conflagration, or those ills which now have
stung you to exchange your loyalty for rebel arms? Bethink
ye, that in such a cause as this it matters not who wins — to
vanquish countrymen and brothers is but a worse and deadlier
evil than defeat by foreign foemen. Think ye this fatal field
of Pinkie, whereon ye are arrayed, hath not already drunk
enough of Scottish blood, that ye we would deluge it again? —

or that its name is not yet terrible enough to Scottish ears, that
ye would now bestow a deeper blazonry of sin and shame?
Brave warriors, noble gentlemen, forbear! Let the sword of
civil discord, I beseech you, enter its scabbard for once bloodless;
let amicable parley gain the terms which bloodless news
purchased! Strive ye for your country's glory? — lo, it calls
on you to pause! For your own peculiar fame? — it bids ye
halt while there is yet the time, lest neither birth, nor rank, nor
valor, nor high deeds, nor haughty virtues, preserve ye from
the blot which lies even yet, though ages have passed, on those
who have warred against their country! Is it terms, fair terms,
for which ye crowd in arms around yon awful banner?” — pointing
to the colors of the rebel lords, emblazoned with the corpse
of the murdered Darnley, and his orphan infant praying for
judgment and revenge — “lo, terms are here! Peace, then,
my lords; give peace to Scotland, and eternal credit to yourselves.
Her majesty bears not the wonted temper, the stern
resentment of offended kings: even now she offers peace and
amity, pardon for all offences — ay, and the hand of friendship,
to all who will at once retire from this sacrilegious field. Subjects,
your queen commands you; nobles and knights, a lady,
the fairest lady of her sex, appeals to your chivalry and honor.
Hear, and be forgiven! —”

“Forgiven!” shouted Glencairn, in tones of deep feeling and
yet deeper scorn — “forgiven! we came not here to ask for
pardon, but for vengeance, and vengeance will we have! The
blood of Darnley craves for punishment upon his murderers!
We are come to punish; not to sue for pardon, not to return in
peace, until our end is gained, and Scotland's slaughtered king
avenged!”

“Fair sir,” cried Morton — calmer, and for that very reason
more to be dreaded, than his impetuous comrades — “fair sir,
we rear no banner and we lift no blade against her grace of

Scotland! Against her husband's murderer have we marched,
nor will we turn a face, or draw a bridle, till that murderer lies
in his blood, or flies for ever from the land he has polluted by
his unnatural homicide! Thou hast thine answer, sir. Yet
thus much for our ancient friendship, and to testify our high
esteem for the noble monarch whom thy services here represent:
here will we pause an hour. That passed, our word is,
`Forward! forward!' and may the God of battles judge between
us! Brothers in arms, and leaders of our host, say, have I
spoken fairly?”

“Fairly hast thou spoken, noble Morton; and as thou hast
spoken, we will it so to be. An hour we pause, and then forward!”
The voices of the barons, as they replied, gave no
signs of hesitation; there was no faltering in their tones, no
wavering in their fixed and steady glances. At once the gallant
mediator saw that he had failed in his appeal, and that all
further words were needless. Slowly and disconsolately he
bent his way back to the royal armament, where the miserable
Mary awaited, in an agony of shame and anguish, the doom, for
such in truth it was, of her rebellious subjects.

On the summit of a little knoll she sat, girt by the few undaunted
spirits who clung to the last to Mary's cause, and who
were ready at her least word to perish, if by perishing they
might preserve her. Lovely as she had seemed in the gay
halls of Holyrood, her brow beaming with rapture, innocence,
majesty, far lovelier was she now in pale and hopeless sorrow.
In the vain hope of inspiring ardor to her dispirited and coward
forces, she had girt her slender form in glittering steel. A
light, polished cavinet reflected the bright sunshine above her
auburn tresses, and a cuirass of inlaid and jewelled metal flashed
on her bosom. Not a warrior in either host sat firmer or more
gracefully upon his destrier than Mary upon Rosabelle. A
demipique of steel and loaded petronels, with the butt of which

her fingers played in thoughtless nervousness, had replaced the
rich housings of that favored jennet; but though arrayed in all
the pride and pomp of war, there was neither pride nor pomp
in the expression of that pallid cheek and quivering lip.

“Noble Le Croc,” she cried, breathless with eagerness as
he approached her presence, “what tidings from our misguided
subjects? will they depart in peace? Speak out, speak fully:
this is no time for well-turned sentences or courteous etiquette.
Say, is it peace or war?”

With deep feeling painted on his dark lineaments, the Frenchman
answered: “War, your grace, war to the knife; or peace
on terms such as I dare not name to you.”

“Then be it war!” cried she, the eloquent blood mantling to
her cheeks in glorious indignation, her eyes flashing, and her
bosom heaving with emotion; “then be it war! We have
stooped low enough in suing thus for peace from those whom
we are born to govern, and we will stoop no longer. Better to
die, to fall as our gallant father fell, leading his faithful countrymen,
devoted subjects, against enemies not half so fierce as
these, who should be brothers. Sound trumpets, advance our
guards! Seyton, Fleming, Huntley, to your leadings, and advance!
ourselves will see the tourney.”

“Your grace forgets,” replied the experienced leader to whom
she first addressed herself, “your grace forgets that not one
dastard of this fair army, as it shows upon this ground of vantage,
will advance one lance's length against the foe. Some
scores there are, in truth, followers oft tried and ever-faithful
of mine own, and some if I mistake not of the earl of Orkney,
who will fight well when shaft and steel-point hold together;
but 't were but butchery to lead the rugged vassals upon certain
death! for what are scores to thousands such as stand thirsting
for the battle yonder — thousands led on, too, by the first martialists
of Europe? Nevertheless, say but the word, and it is

done. Seyton hath ever lived for Stuart — it rests but now
to die!” He paused — but in an instant, taking his cue from
Mary's extended nostril and still-flashing eye, he shouted, in a
voice of thunder: “Mount, mount, and make ready! A Seyton,
a Seyton for the Stuart!” Already had he dashed the
rowels into his steed, and another instant would have precipitated
his little band upon the inevitable destruction that awaited
them in the crowded ranks which, at the well-known sound of
that wild slogan, had brought their lances to the charge, and
waited but a word to bear down all opposition.

Happily, so miserable a consummation was warded off. The
earl of Orkney, who had stood silent and thunder-stricken by
the side of his lovely bride, sprang forward, and grasping with
impetuous vehemence the bridle-rein of Seyton —

“Not so!” he hissed through his set teeth, “not so, brave
baron; this is my quarrel now, mine only; and dost think that
I will veil my crest to mortal man? Lo! in yonder lines the
haughty rebels have drawn their weapons, and against me only
shall they wield them! What, ho there, heralds! take pursuivant
and trumpet, and bear my gauntlet, the carl of Orkney's
gauntlet, to yonder misproud caitiffs: say that Bothwell defies
them — defies them to the mortal combat, here before this company,
here in the presence of men and angels, to prove his innocence,
their bold and overweening treason!” — and he hurled
his ponderous glove to earth.

“Well said and nobly, gallant earl!” cried Seyton; “so shall
this foul calumny be stayed, and floods of Scottish blood be
spared. On to thy devoir, and God will shield the right.”

And at the word the heralds rode forth again, the foremost
bearing the glove of the challenger high on a lance's point.
Again the trumpets flourished, but not now as before, in peaceful
strains. At the loud clangor of defiance, the confederate
chiefs again strode to the front, their horses led behind them by

page or squire; and as the menace of the challenger was proclaimed
loudly and clearly by the king-at-arms, a smile of fierce
delight flashed over every brow.

“I claim the privilege of battle!” shouted the impetuous Glencairn.

“And I!” — “And I!” — “And I!” rose hoarsely into air the
mingled tones of Morton, Lyndesay, and Kirkaldy, as each
sprang forth to seize the proffered gauntlet. “I am the senior
baron!” shouted one. “And I the leader of the van!” cried
another; and for a minute's space all was confusion, verging
fast toward strife, among those chiefs of late so closely linked
together — till the deep, sonorous voice of Murray, in after-days
the regent of the realm, was heard above the tumult.

“For shame, my lords, for shame! Seems it so much of
honor to do the hangman's office on a murderer, that ye would
mar our fair array with this disgraceful bruit for the base privilege?
By Heaven, should the duty fall on me, I should perform
it, doubtless, even as I would prefer the meanest work
that came before me under the name of duty; but, trust me, I
should hold the deed a blot upon mine ancient escutcheon,
rather than honor! But to the deed, my lords; the herald
awaits our answer. Lord Lyndesay, thine is the strongest
claim: if thou wilt undertake the deed, thou hast my voice.”

“As joyfully,” muttered Lyndesay beneath his grizzly mustache,
“as joyfully as to the banquet do I go forth against the
craven traitor! Morton, lend me thy falchion for the trial —
the two-handed espaldron which slew Spens of Kilspindie, at
the brook of Fala, in the hands of Archibald of Douglas, thy
renowned forefather. God give me grace to wield it, and it
shall do as trusty service on the carcass of yon miscreant!”

“It is decided, then,” cried Murray; and not a voice replied,
for none had the presumption to dispute the fitness of the choice
which thus had fallen on a leader so renowned for strength and

valor. “Herald,” he continued, “go bear our greeting to her
majesty of Scotland, and say to her, we do accept the challenge.
An hour's truce we grant — an equal field here, on this hill of
Carbury. The noble earl of Lyndesay will here prove, upon
the crest and limbs of that false recreant, James, some time the
earl of Bothwell, the justice of our cause: and so may God
defend the right!”

The shout which rang from earth to heaven, at the noble
confidence of Murray, bore to the ears of Mary and her trembling
followers the assurance that the challenge was accepted;
an assurance that sounded joyfully in every ear but that of his
who uttered the bravado. Many a time and oft had Bothwell's
crest shone foremost in the tide of battle; many a time had he
confronted deadliest odds with an undaunted visage and a victorious
blade. Yet now he faltered; his bold brow blanched
with sudden apprehension; his frame, muscular and lofty as a
giant's, actually shook with terror; and his quivering lip paled,
ere he heard the name of his antagonist. Whether it was that
guilt sat heavy on his heart, and weighed his strong arm down,
or that his soul was cowed by the consciousness that he was
unsupported and forsaken by all his friends, he turned upon his
heel, and, muttering some inarticulate sounds, half lost within
the hollows of his beaver, he strode to his pavilion, and thence
sent his squire forth, to say that he was ill at ease, and could
not fight until the morrow! Mary herself — the fond, confiding,
deceived Mary — burst on the instant into loud contempt at this
hardly-credible baseness.

“What! James of Bothwell false!” she cried; “then perish
hope! I yield me to the malice of my foes; I will resist no
longer. O man, man — base, coward, miserable man! — is it
for this we give our hearts, our lives, ourselves, to your vile
guidance? is it for this that I have given thee mine all — mine
honor, and, perchance, my soul? that thou shouldst cowardly

desert me at mine utmost need! Little, oh how little, doth the
cold world know of woman's heart and woman's courage! For
thee would I have perished, oh, how joyfully! — and thou, O
God! O God! it is a bitter, bitter punishment for my credulity
and love: but if I have deserved to suffer, I deserved it not at
thy hands, James of Bothwell! Seyton, true friend, to thee I
trust mine all. Go summon Kirkaldy to a parley: say Mary,
queen of Scotland, rather than look upon the blood of Scottishmen,
will grant to her rebellious lords those terms which they
desire! Nay, interrupt us not, Lord Seyton. We care not
what befall that frozen viper whom we warmed within our
bosom till he stung us! Away! — let Orkney quit our camp; for,
by the glorious light of heaven, we never will behold him more!”

She spoke with an elevated voice, and features glowing with
contending passions, till the faithful baron had departed on his
mission; but then, then the false strength yielded to despair,
and in an agony of unfettered grief she sank into the arms of
her attendants, murmuring amid her tears, “O God, how I did
adore that man!” and was borne, almost a corpse, into her tent.

An hour passed heavily away, and at its close Mary came
forth, with a brow from which, though pale as the first dawning,
every trace of grief had vanished. The terms had been
accepted. Without a tear she saw the man for whom she had
sacrificed all — all, to her very reputation — mount and depart
for ever! Without a tear she backed her own brave palfrey,
and rode, attended by a dozen servitors, faithful amid her sorrows
as they had been in brighter days, into the rebel host.
Little was there of courtesy, of that demeanor which becomes
a subject in presence of his queen, a true knight before a lady.
Amid the taunts and jeers of the vile soldiery, covered with
dust and humiliation, she entered upon that fatal progress which,
commencing in a conditional surrender, ended only when she
was immured, beyond a hope of rescue or redemption, within
the dungeon-towers of Loch Leven!