Rizzio: A Novella

Darnley has convinced the conspirators that Mary, who has been miscarrying and dying inch by inch all day long, will sign their pardons. She will ratify Protestantism as the official religion of the country. She will grant him the Crown Matrimonial. She has been in convulsions again all day, racked with birthing pains, attended by stupid old Lady Huntly. The whole matter will soon be settled.

On Monday evening, a full delegation assemble in the audience chamber and kneel grudgingly before their wincing Queen. Darnley stands by her side, looking even more pleased with himself than usual.

Mary holds her side and looks terribly drawn. She can hardly look up at them, so cowed is she. She’s standing in front of the statue of the Holy Virgin and the proximity does her no favours.

In the brilliant candlelight Our Lady of the Graces is relaxed and pink of cheek. Mary is taut and pale, holding her belly with one hand, the other on her side as if she has a stitch, standing stiff as if she expects excruciating pain to hit her at any moment.

She starts to make an announcement but has to stop to catch her breath. She tries again.

‘We must find a way through the events of the past few days,’ she says weakly, ‘to put these things into oblivion. We must find a way to bring peace into the Commonwealth for all of us. These events, these doings, they speak of a heartsore people who need heard…’ She bends back very slightly and whispers something to Darnley.

Darnley addresses the delegation with a warm smile. ‘Gentlemen, you have won. My Queen is feeling unwell and must take to her chamber but she will meet your demands. Please have them transcribed, and when she is well enough, later this evening, she will sign a document to this effect. You have my word.’

At this the men in the room smile. They’re absolutely delighted. They’re relieved it’s all over.

‘You have my word’ means something at this time. It’s almost legally binding, but Darnley is lying to these men; he is oath breaking and acting in bad faith. Mary wouldn’t do this, but she is asking Darnley to do it. His reputation is already worthless.

Mary is feeling a lot of things this evening, in front of these men. She is puffing and holding herself but she’s not feeling anything in her belly. She is feeling disgusted by these men who killed sweet Davie, a man worth ten of any one of them. She is sorrowing for their souls: she knows they are going to Hell and that Calvinism is a passing fad that fools men into thinking they can pick and choose how to serve God. She is horrified that these men have no honour and don’t even feel the need to pretend they do.

But she doesn’t make any of these feelings known. She holds her belly and keens softly, as if she is trying not to make too loud a noise. She looks to the door, about to suggest they go, but she hears a cry from the back of the assembly. One man, Lord Moray, jumps to his feet and curses. He slaps at his knees and stamps and tells a servant to get him a cloth at once. Then he tuts and slaps his legs again.

The people near him are grinning.

‘What is it?’ whispers someone near the front.

‘Got David Rizzio’s blood all over his brand-new velvet hose.’

‘Oh shit.’ Fancy tights are very expensive.

‘Blood? That’s never coming out.’

From all the way across the room Mary can see the red splatters on the bright yellow fabric, and then she sees the deep pool of blood on the floor under the window.

She starts to cry. She can’t stop herself. She covers her face and moans very quietly, ‘He was my dear friend.’

This shames the men. They stop laughing and wish someone would get this girl out of here. They remember the night and the stabbing and they’re a little bit embarrassed now. They went a bit mad that night. They can’t stop thinking about it.

Suddenly Mary grips her side and cries out. Lady Huntly rushes out from the bed chamber and holds her up as her legs buckle.

Even this elicits no pity from the triumphant men.

Moray with the bloody leg stands tall and, down through the pages of history, he declares to the company: ‘The loss of one mean man is of less consequence than the ruin of many lords and gentlemen.’

Mary is helped from the room by Darnley and Lady Huntly. They don’t quite know what to do until Lord Darnley returns, reiterating that the Queen has decided to forgive them everything. She just wants this to be over. If they draw up the paperwork, she’ll sign it. They have his word.

The Queen is as good as dead. The baby is dead. Darnley has the crown but in name only. The Lords control everything. They are to have pardons signed by the Queen for what they did to David Rizzio and all their lands and goods will be given back to them.

They have turned the tide, these Great Men of History. The sow will sign. Now it’s just a matter of waiting. They draw up the statement, sign their own names and give it to Darnley to hand to the Queen in between her death pains.

And then they decide to go out for dinner to celebrate their great success.

Mary rides ahead of Darnley and the others through the empty city streets. She is cloaked and her horse’s hoofs are muffled with sack cloth. It has been raining, and the wettened buildings glower, darkened. The streets smell fresh and sour, the smoothed wet cobbles glint silver.

Lord Darnley can see her very clearly, and though her hood is up, he can tell from her straight back and high chin that she is exhilarated. He is wearing a cloak too, but he is horrified. He’s left his father back in the Palace.

‘I can’t leave him here,’ he whined to Mary as they slipped out through the wine cellar. ‘They’ll kill him.’

‘Then they’ll kill him,’ Mary had replied, tugging at his arm. ‘Stay and they’ll kill both of you.’

She needs him to admit paternity of the baby when it comes. He knows that. That’s why she’s taking him. Not because she loves him. She doesn’t love him at all.

Darnley knows his father would leave him if the roles were reversed – he knows that – but he always flattered himself into thinking he might not have done to his father what he now has. He’s no different, no better than the most malevolent person he knows.

He remembers Davie: shirtless, sleeping, eyelashes as thick and long as a cow’s, lush lips parted. Rizzio at tennis, watching as Darnley pretended to serve an invisible ball, his eyes smiling at Darnley’s stupid joke. He killed him for no benefit. He didn’t think he could do that to his father.

He looks up and realises that he has never seen the city so quiet, so pregnant, so hollow. They ride through rain-washed black streets until they reach open country and then they give the horses their heads, Mary galloping so fast she looks like a child overcome with the sheer joy of riding.

Ten miles away, George Huntly and James, Earl of Bothwell, are waiting in the dark, watching the road for their future.