Sarcastically she replied to the angry Elizabeth, who had been caught in her own net: “I am truly amazed at my good sister’s dissatisfaction, for the choice which she now blames was made in accordance with her wishes. I have rejected all foreign suitors, and have chosen an Englishman who is of the royal blood of both kingdoms, and, as far as England is concerned is, on his mother’s side, the eldest male descendant from the royal House of Tudor.” Elizabeth could not say a word to the contrary, for it was literally true that Mary had fulfilled her wishes, although after Mary’s own fashion! Mary had wedded an English nobleman, and one sent to her by Elizabeth, although the latter had an ambiguous intent. Elizabeth Tudor, her nerves distraught, nevertheless continued to overwhelm Mary Stuart with offers and threats. Thereupon Mary grew blunt. She denied any right on Elizabeth’s part to exercise “overlordship”, any grounds for interference. She herself, said Mary, had so long been “trayned with fayre speeches and beguyled in her expectations”, that she had at length made her own choice, with the full consent of her estates. Regardless of missives from London, whether sweet or sour, in Edinburgh Mary made speedy arrangements for a public marriage. Darnley was knighted, made Earl of Ross and granted other honours. The English envoy, who galloped up at the last minute carrying a pack of protests from England, arrived just in time to hear the proclamation that Henry Darnley was henceforward to be “namit and stylit king”.
Being already Duke of Albany, Darnley was proclaimed King of Scotland by Mary’s authority. On 29th July 1565, the nuptials of the pair were publicly celebrated in the Catholic chapel at Holyrood. To the general surprise, Mary Stuart, who always had an inventive turn where ceremonial was concerned, appeared in mourning dress, the robe she had worn at the interment of her first husband the King of France. She designed to show that she had not frivolously forgotten her first spouse, and now appeared a second time before the altar as wife in order to fulfil the wishes of her country. Not until after she had heard Mass and had withdrawn to her room did she allow herself to be persuaded by Darnley (though really all had been prearranged, and the festal robes were laid out ready) to doff her mourning and put on gay attire suitable to a bride. The palace was surrounded by a jubilant crowd. Largesse was freely scattered and the populace gave itself up to rejoicing—greatly to the annoyance of John Knox, who had himself just married a girl of eighteen as his second wife, but wished no one except himself to find enjoyment. In Knox’s despite, the rejoicings went on for four days and four nights, as though gloom were for ever to be dispelled from Scotland, and that misty land were to become a happy realm of youth.
Measureless was Elizabeth’s despair when she, unmarried and never to marry, learnt that Mary had for the second time become a wife. Her most artful manoeuvres had brought her only slaps in the face. She had offered the Queen of Scotland her own favourite as husband, and Leicester had been publicly refused. She had vetoed the wedding with Darnley, and her veto had been openly disregarded. She had dispatched a special envoy with a last warning, and he had been kept waiting outside barred gates until the marriage ceremony was over. It was essential for her now to do something to regain prestige. She must either break off diplomatic relations or declare war. But what pretext could she find for either step? Obviously Mary Stuart had the right to choose a husband for herself; she had complied with Elizabeth’s wish, since Elizabeth had disapproved of her wedding a foreign prince. There was no flaw in the marriage. Henry Darnley, great-grandson of Henry VII and chief male descendant of the House of Tudor, was worthy husband to a queen. He was co-heir presumptive to the English crown, and Mary’s marriage to him greatly strengthened her claim to the English succession. Any further protest on Elizabeth’s part would only make her private spleen manifest to the world.
Throughout Elizabeth’s life, however, ambiguity remained one of her chief characteristics. Although in this instance its result had been so unfortunate, she could not desist from it. Naturally she did not declare war on Mary Stuart; she did not recall her ambassador but, by underground ways, she did everything she could to make things uncomfortable for those whom she did not wish to be a happy wedded pair. Too timid, too cautious, to come into the open against Darnley and Mary Stuart, she intrigued against them behind the scenes. Rebels and malcontents were never difficult to find in the Scotland of those days when it was a question of running counter to the established authorities, and on this occasion there was forthcoming a man who stood head and shoulders in energy and wrath above all the petty rabble of the disgruntled. Moray had been conspicuous by his absence from his sister’s wedding, and his non-attendance was regarded as an evil omen. For Moray (this is what makes his figure so mysteriously attractive) had an extraordinary instinct for detecting the onset of changes in the political weather and an incredibly keen capacity at forecasting; he always knew where the danger points were to be found, and on this occasion he did the cleverest thing a politician of his stamp can do—he vanished. Having dropped the helm of state, he became invisible and undiscoverable. Like the drying-up of springs, the failure of rivers to flow, great natural catastrophes, the disappearance of Moray—as we shall see again and again in the history of Mary Stuart—always foreboded political disaster. For the time, however, he remained passive. During the days when the wedding was being celebrated he stayed at his castle, having quietly withdrawn from the court, wishing to show in a loyal and yet unmistakable manner that, as first minister of state and protector of Protestantism, he disapproved of the choice of Henry Darnley as King of Scotland. Elizabeth, however, wanted something more than this passive protest against the new royal pair. She desired open rebellion, was eager that Mary Stuart should pay for her private happiness with political trouble and, keeping this end in view, the Queen of England sought the favour of Moray and of the no less discontented Hamiltons. She herself must, on no account, be compromised. “In the most secret way”, therefore, she commissioned Bedford, one of her agents, to support Moray and Hamilton with troops and money “as if from himself”, and with the implication that Elizabeth knew nothing of the matter. The money fell into the clutching hands of the Scottish lords like dew upon a parched meadow; they rallied their courage, and the pledges of military aid soon brought about the rebellion England desired.
It was, perhaps, the only mistake made by the shrewd and far-seeing Moray that he should rely upon the English Queen, who was so utterly unreliable, and should put himself at the head of this insurrection. Being cautious, indeed, he did not start proceedings at once, and was content for the time being to find secret confederates, for he really wanted to wait until Elizabeth would openly espouse the cause of the Protestant lords, so that he could take the field against his sister, not as an ordinary rebel, but as defender of the threatened Church. Mary, on the other hand, disquieted by her brother’s ambiguous conduct, and rightly unwilling to tolerate a holding aloof that was manifestly hostile, formally summoned him to appear before parliament and justify his conduct. Moray, however, as proud as his sister, would not present himself in the character of an accused person. He haughtily refused to comply, with the result that he and his adherents were “put to the horn” in Edinburgh marketplace, that is they were publicly declared outlaws. Once more, arms were to decide instead of reason.
On this occasion, however, the temperamental difference between Mary Stuart and Elizabeth Tudor was signally disclosed once more. Mary showed herself prompter to act and far more resolute, her courage being always impatient, swift and impetuous. Elizabeth, on the other hand, acting timidly as was her wont, hesitated too long. Before she had made up her mind to instruct her treasurer to equip an army and openly to support the insurgents, Mary had taken action. She issued a proclamation in which she dealt roundly with the rebels. “You are not satisfied to heap wealth upon wealth, honours upon honours, you want to have ourselves and our kingdom altogether in your hands that you may deal with them as you will, and compel them to act wholly in accordance with your desire—in a word, you want to be kings yourselves, and leave us nothing more than the nominal title of ruler of the kingdom.” Without losing an hour, the intrepid woman mounted her horse and, armed with pistols, her young husband wearing gilt armour riding by her side, surrounded by those of the nobles who had remained true to her, she set forth against the rebels at the head of a quickly assembled army. The wedding march had become a war march. This resoluteness was justified by the result. Most of the opposing barons were daunted by the display of royal energy—all the more seeing that the promised aid from England was not forthcoming, and Elizabeth continued to send dubious words instead of an army. One after another, with hanging heads, they returned to pay allegiance to their rightful ruler. Moray alone remained stout-hearted, but before he, forsaken by his allies, could gather a new army, he was a defeated man and had to flee. The victorious royal pair followed him hot-foot, so that it was only by the skin of his teeth that he saved himself on 14th October 1565, through crossing the border onto English soil.
Mary’s victory was complete. All the peers of the Scottish realm now formed a solid front round Mary Stuart; once more Scotland was in the hands of a king and a queen. For a moment Mary’s confidence was so overwhelming that she was minded to take the offensive and cross the border into England, where she knew that the Catholic minority would welcome her as a deliverer. The more prudent among her advisers were able, with some difficulty, to hold this impulse in check. In any case, now that Elizabeth had put her cards on the table, the days of an exchange of courtesies between the cousins were over. The independent choice of a husband had been Mary’s first triumph over Elizabeth; the crushing of the rebellion was the second; henceforward she could look freely and proudly across the border and stare her “good sister” out of countenance.
Before these troubles had arisen, Elizabeth’s position had been far from enviable. Now, after the defeat of the Scottish rebels whose movement she had fomented, that position became alarming. Doubtless it has at all times been an international custom for rulers who have secretly instigated revolts in neighbouring lands to disavow the rebels when these are conquered. But since misfortunes never come singly, one of Elizabeth’s consignments of money to the Scottish lords had chanced to fall into the hands of Bothwell, Moray’s deadly enemy, when making a raid, so that plain proofs of the complicity of the Queen of England had been secured. A second grave inconvenience was caused by the fact that Moray, almost as a matter of course, had taken refuge in England, the country which had given him both open and tacit support. Nay, more, the defeated man actually put in an appearance in London. This was most embarrassing for the English ruler, accustomed though she was to play a double game! If she received Moray, the rebel, at court, this would imply that she approved or at least condoned his rebellion against Mary. If, on the other hand, she were to shame her secret ally by refusing him an audience, the affront might lead him to let the cat out of the bag, to explain to foreign courts that he had been Elizabeth’s pensioner. Scarcely on any other occasion did Elizabeth’s habit of playing double put her in a tighter place than this.
Fortunately, however, the sixteenth century was one when many notable comedies were composed. Elizabeth had the advantage of breathing the same vital atmosphere that Shakespeare and Ben Jonson were to breathe. A born actress, she could play her part as well as any queen of the stage; so that high comedy was already as much in vogue at Hampton Court and Westminster as later in the Globe or the Fortune Theatre. Hardly had she been informed of the arrival of her inconvenient ally, when she arranged for Cecil, the same evening, to put Moray through a sort of dress rehearsal of the part it would be incumbent upon him to play in order to save Queen Elizabeth’s honour.
It would be hard for a dramatist to imagine anything more impudent than the comedy that was staged next morning. The French ambassador came to pay his respects, talking of this, that and the other, for how could he dream that he had been summoned to look on at an impudent farce? While he was discussing the political situation, a lackey entered and announced the Earl of Moray. The Queen knitted her brows. Who? Had she not misheard the name? Really, the Earl of Moray? How could this base rebel against her “good sister” have made his way to London? What unheard-of insolence for him to demand audience of her, whom all the world knew to be devoted to her Scottish cousin! Poor Elizabeth! At first, she could hardly contain her astonishment and indignation. Still, after brief and gloomy reflection, she made up her mind to receive the “scoundrel” but, God be praised, she need not see him alone! She begged the French ambassador to be good enough to remain as witness of her “honest” indignation.
Now it was Moray’s turn to play up. He did so with all due seriousness. His aspect as he entered was designed to show contrition and a sense of guilt. Humbly and timidly, with a mien altogether different from his customary stride, did he enter the room. He was clad in black, kneeled before Elizabeth, and began to address her in his native Doric. The Queen promptly interrupted him, commanding him to speak French, so that the ambassador could follow their conversation and no one would be able to say she had talked secrets with so opprobrious a rebel. Moray stammered a little, in assumed embarrassment, but Elizabeth went on, taking a high tone. She could not understand how he, a refugee who had been rebelling against her cousin and friend, dared to enter her court uninvited. There had, no doubt, been various misunderstandings between herself and Mary Stuart, but none of them had been serious. She, Elizabeth, had always regarded the Queen of Scotland as her good sister, and hoped that the pair of them would ever remain upon such excellent terms. Unless Moray satisfactorily proved that only in a moment of folly or in self-defence had he taken up arms against his lawful sovereign, Elizabeth would have him arrested, and would call him to account for his rebellious behaviour. Moray would do well to excuse himself as best he could.