James I E-Book

John Matusiak

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 723

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Few kings have been more savagely caricatured or grossly misunderstood than England's first Stuart. Yet, as this biography demonstrates, the modern tendency to downplay his defects and minimise the long-term consequences of his reign has gone too far. In spite of genuine idealism and flashes of considerable resourcefulness, James I remains a perplexing figure – a uniquely curious ruler, shot through with glaring inconsistencies. His vices and foibles not only undermined his high hopes for healing and renewal after Elizabeth I's troubled last years, but also entrenched political and religious tensions that eventually consumed his successor. A flawed, if well-meaning, foreigner in a rapidly changing and divided kingdom, his passionate commitment to time-honoured principles of government would, ironically, prove his undoing, as England edged unconsciously towards a crossroads and the shadow of the Thirty Years War descended upon Europe.

Leseprobe

For my father

Author’s Note

Biographers old and new, academic and otherwise, have been instrumental in shaping this book. Its earliest influences were David Harris Willson, George Philip Vernon Akrigg, William McElwee and Caroline Bingham. Later, as perspectives on its central character evolved, the book drew added inspiration from the work of a long list of others, but most notably Maurice Lee, Jr.

No writer is an island, and least of all this one. My thanks, therefore, are due to all those who have paved the way in their writings, as well as the smaller group of people who have supported me more personally in my efforts. In this latter respect, the help and encouragement of Mark Beynon, Juanita Hall and the team at The History Press has been unstinting, while Barbara, my wife, has continued throughout to hearten, uplift and cheer. To all concerned, I raise my glass.

Look not to find the softness of a down pillow in a crown, but remember that it is a thorny piece of stuff and full of continual cares.

James I, Meditations of Matthew 27

Contents

        Title

        Dedication

        Author’s Note

  1    Heir to Scotland’s Woe

  2    King and Pawn

  3    Love and Liberation

  4    Lessons in Life and Kingcraft

  5    The Headsman and the King of Spain

  6    ‘Cupide Blinde’ and Wyches’ Waies

  7    The Wrath of Earls and Kirk

  8    ‘King and Sovereign Lord’ of Scotland

  9    Towards the ‘Land of Promise’

10    Scotland’s King of England

11    The King, His Beagles, His Countrymen and His Court

12    Religion, Peace and Lucifer

13    Parliament, Union, Gunpowder

14    Finance, Favouritism and Foul Play

15    Favourite of Favourites

16    Faraway Realms

17    ‘Baby Charles’ and ‘Steenie’

18    Dotage, Docility and Demise

19    Ruler of Three Kingdoms

        Source Notes and Bibliographic Information

        Plates

        Copyright

1  Heir to Scotland’s Woe

No more tears now. I will think upon revenge.

Words attributed to Mary Queen of Scots by Claude Nau de la Boiselliere, her confidential secretary from 1575–86

In the mid-morning of 19 June 1566, Mary Queen of Scots was gratefully delivered of her first and only live-born child in a tiny closet tightly lodged in the south-east wing of Edinburgh’s ancient castle. Her labour had, it seems, been long and arduous, and ten days earlier, plainly fearing the worst, she had written her will. At that time, too, she had sent to Dunfermline Abbey for a sacred reliquary containing the skull of St Margaret, set in silver-gilt and ‘enriched with several pearls and precious stones’, which she intended to sustain her throughout the ordeal to come. Accordingly, as Mary endured the torment within her chamber’s sombre panelled walls, the remains of the saint – a Catholic queen of Scotland like herself – duly loomed above her, along with the arms of the House of Stuart and a series of embossed crowns and thistles adorning the ceiling overhead. Beside her all the while stood Margaret Asteane, her midwife, specially garbed for the occasion in a brand new gown of black velvet, not far from the royal cradle, which was likewise draped in finest fabric.

By 11 a.m., however, the midwife’s task was ended. For the queen was ‘lighter of a bonny son’ whom, she promptly predicted, ‘shall first unite the two kingdoms of Scotland and England’. The boy had entered the world, like Napoleon after him, with a fine ‘caul’, or birth membrane, covering his head – an augury, it was said, of future greatness – and his mother’s lofty hopes seemed far from fanciful, since her royal cousin across the Border was, of her own admission, ‘but a barren stock’. If, therefore, Elizabeth I should now die childless, or if any plot against her life were to run its fatal course, Scotland’s queen was not only the obvious female successor in her own right, but, much more importantly still, the bearer of a healthy male heir. And the blood of Mary’s son, directly drawn from Henry VII through both his parents, was of plainly purer stock than any other rival.

All, then, was swiftly set for outward rejoicing throughout the northern kingdom, though not before Mary’s secret messenger, Sir James Melville, was safely past the Border at Berwick on route hotfoot to London. Thereafter, nobles, officers of state and common folk alike gave solemn thanks in Edinburgh’s Great Kirk, as the castle’s mighty guns – long a stirring symbol of national pride – boomed their glad approval. Deputations and messages of goodwill arrived from far and wide, further couriers were dispatched to France and Savoy, and loyal toasts were heartily raised to Scotland’s fledgling ‘Solomon’. Later that night, 500 bonfires would blaze on Scottish hillsides, as all the due and proper customs associated with any royal birth were studiously observed.

But the mask and show of celebration was mainly sham, since Mary Queen of Scots was also Scotland’s woe. It was not for nothing that she had shunned the comfort of Holyroodhouse as her birthing place and made instead for Edinburgh and the security it afforded. Nor were all the salutations she now received by any means sincere. Indeed, for most of the vested interests in her restless kingdom, the newborn child represented little more than a fresh and unwelcome complication of a political and religious situation already critically dangerous. Powerful sections of the nobility had hoped, for their own self-interested motives, that he might never be born, and the stilted congratulations of John Spottiswoode, the Lothian superintendent of the Protestant Kirk of Scotland’s General Assembly, could not conceal his misgivings that the new heir would inevitably be baptised a Roman Catholic, with all that this entailed for the reformed religion that had made such rapid strides since its apparent triumph only six years earlier. Even the child’s father, Henry, Lord Darnley, had already done his feckless yet malignant best to prevent the birth of the son who shattered his best chance of seizing the throne for himself.

It was Darnley, moreover, who had sedulously propagated the rumour that his wife’s new son was merely the bastard offspring of David Riccio, her Italian secretary and musician, whom he had helped to murder in her very presence just four months previous. Jaundiced, jealous, vain and volatile – resembling ‘more a woman than a man’ and stricken by inner demons of his own devising, which he could neither tame by infidelity nor dowse with drink – the queen’s husband was now a pox-ridden parody of the dashing blonde-haired lover who had first dazzled his bride only two years earlier ‘as the properest and best proportioned long man that she had ever seen’. Both Mary and Darnley knew, furthermore, that she too had been ‘struck with great dread’ and in ‘extreme fear’ for her life when Riccio met his end, even though, within hours of the new birth, the queen’s abject husband was once again reminding his wife of her subsequent promise to ‘forgive and forget all’.

But while the queen might dutifully forgive, forgetting was another matter. ‘What if Fawsdonsyd’s pistol had shot?’ she had asked her husband, recalling that fateful night when a gun, which had allegedly ‘refused to give fyr’, had been pressed to her own breast by one of Darnley’s accomplices. ‘What wold have become of him [the child] and me both?’ Nor could she ever entirely quash those spiteful rumours propagated by her husband that would continue to shadow her son’s legitimacy. It was vital to Mary, of course, that Darnley should swiftly undo as much of the harm he had already wrought with his loose and ill-intentioned tongue, and he was soon compelled to acknowledge the child in the presence of the queen’s half-brother, the Earl of Moray, as well as the earls of Mar, Atholl and Argyll, and her Privy Council. Yet the queen’s caustic quip to her husband that ‘he is so much your son that I fear for him hereafter’ would never entirely convince the world at large or spare her heir the barbs of ne’er-do-wells in years to come. As a child, indeed, the boy would weep in mortification at the slander, and the occasional taunts of the Scottish mob did nothing to ease his misery. ‘Come down, thou son of Seigneur Davy’, a baying Perth rabble would jeer in 1600 as he stood at the window of Ruthven House, and much later still, the King of France would chuckle at the boy who had by then become both James VI of Scotland and James I of England, dismissing his fellow ruler as ‘Solomon the son of David who played upon the harp’. There were even creeping whispers that Mary’s child had died at birth, to be replaced by a child of John Erskine, Earl of Mar – empty legends which were nonetheless given a further lease of life in the eighteenth century when the skeleton of a newborn child, ‘wrapped in a rich silken cloth … belonging to Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots’, was uncovered in a wall of Edinburgh Castle’s banqueting hall next to the castle courtyard.

Yet, aside from hurtful jibes and murky tales, there was never serious doubt about the legitimacy of the child who presently occupied the royal cradle. At the time of his conception, after all, the boy’s mother was still wildly infatuated with her lawful husband – so much so, indeed, that she appeared to have sacrificed all judgement on his behalf. ‘The queen,’ wrote the English diplomat Thomas Randolph, ‘is so altered with affection towards Lord Darnley that she has brought her honour in question, her estate in hazard, her country to be torn in pieces.’ And the child’s resemblance to his father in an early portrait depicting him with a sparrowhawk on his arm remains striking. His flaxen hair, finely contoured features and, above all, his distinctive widely spaced eyes left little doubt about his parentage. Nor, in any case, was Darnley, for all his twisted bitterness, the new heir’s greatest liability. Instead, it was the very mother who had borne him, for though she was bold, courageous and gracious, with a charm and allure that still captivates across the centuries, she was also headstrong, careless and ambitious – a passionate, high-spirited and ultimately self-centred creature who yearned for adulation but could neither bridle her emotions nor curb her whims. It was she, above all, who barred the way to long-term peace within her realm and she too, who, in spite of initial successes, menaced the fortunes and security of her longed-for son.

Sent away to France in 1548 at the age of 6, after a planned betrothal to young King Edward VI of England finally proved intolerable to her countrymen, Mary had spent nearly the whole of her life abroad. In her absence, English bullying would increase Scotland’s traditional reliance on the French Crown, as the Queen Mother, Mary of Guise, herself a Frenchwoman and staunch Catholic, served as regent, holding Scotland somewhat precariously to the old religion and alliance with her homeland until her death in 1560. As part of this alliance, the absent queen had been betrothed and finally married to the dauphin, and from 1559 to 1560, the absorption of the Scottish Crown, which had eluded the English, consequently became a reality for their enemies across the Channel. By 1560, moreover, Mary Queen of Scots was not only Queen Consort of France, but rightful Queen of England in the eyes of every loyal Catholic in Europe by virtue of her paternal grandmother, Margaret Tudor, elder sister of Henry VIII.

But the early death of her husband, Francis II, and the animosity of her mother-in-law, Catherine de Medici, confirmed the fickleness of Mary’s fortunes as a 19-year-old widow and drove her back to Scotland in 1561 after an absence of thirteen years, which had seen the overthrow of the Roman Catholic Church and growing division at the very heart of the Scottish political nation. For reasons of policy and for the sake of a more secure future she now moderated her direct claim to the English throne, in the hope that Elizabeth might recognise her as heiress without duress. And she remained uncommitted, likewise, to any specific party or policy in Scotland when she landed at Leith on 19 August 1561, to reclaim her realm. Indeed, Mary had announced in advance to the Scottish Parliament, the so-called ‘Estates’, that its members were free to establish whatever religious settlement they chose, though her own faith was to remain non-negotiable. She, personally, would adhere to the Church of Rome come what may – and hope, in doing so, to straddle the coming storm unruffled.

In this, however, Mary had not counted upon the influence and bitter hostility of John Knox, the most formidable of all the Calvinist missionaries from Geneva, whom Queen Elizabeth had just transferred from England under safe conduct with the deliberate intention of undermining the Catholic ‘party’ among the Scottish nobility. A thundering Scots Elijah, who had served as a French galley slave in payment for his Protestant faith, Knox now called upon his countrymen to forsake the false prophets of Baal and, in doing so, declared a single Catholic Mass more awful than the landing of 10,000 foes. Nor, above all, would he spare the sensibilities of Scotland’s newly arrived ruler. On the contrary, he would blast her as an idolatrous Jezebel and bewail her very coming. Upon her return, which was marked by a curiously ill-omened mist lasting some five days, ‘the very face of heaven’, wrote Knox, ‘… did manifestly speak what comfort was brought into this country with her: to wit, sorrow, dolour, darkness and all impiety.’ And sure enough, on the very first Sunday after Mary’s landing, a riotous demonstration broke out at Holyrood when Mass was said within the royal chapel for the queen and her predominantly French household.

Yet, for the first four years of her reign, it seemed that Mary might prevail. Though she was no stateswoman and her intelligence was often at the mercy of her passions, she was nevertheless dogged and determined and could often more than hold her own in the tangled world of shifting alliances and affrays that were such a notable feature of Scottish politics. And though there were restive murmurings among ‘the godly’, her secretary, William Maitland of Lethington, himself a Protestant, was able to argue convincingly that she might well be brought round to ‘sweet reasonableness’. Not least of all, there were early signs of common sense and tolerance. Other members of her council, for instance, were also staunchly Protestant and she was prepared, to her credit, to countenance the funding of the reformed church. Moreover, on the occasion of her arrival in Edinburgh, she not only accepted the gift of a vernacular bible and prayer book, but witnessed the burning of a priestly effigy unmoved. Accordingly, a calmer atmosphere soon descended. As one ardent Protestant declared, ‘At first I heard men say, “Let us hang the priest”, but after that they had been twice or thrice in the Abbey [of Holyrood, at the Queen’s Court], all that fervency was past. I think there be some enchantment whereby men are bewitched.’ And that enchantment was undoubtedly the queen herself.

Nor was Mary’s early success confined to religious affairs, for, in spite of the undoubted glamour of her court, she avoided taxation and largely paid for the regular cost of her household from the income of her French lands. She was visible, too, covering a distance of some 1,200 miles in various progresses across her realm from August 1562 to September 1563: something which demonstrated not only her vitality but also her determination to unite the nobility, the mainstay of her government. Until the very end of her reign, indeed, the backbone of her noble support, for whom John Knox remained a largely marginal figure, would hold steady. And though she was a female, she gained considerable authority from her status as both dowager Queen of France and prospective heir to the throne of England. Almost as important, she was an adult after a prolonged and troubled period of Scottish history in which the throne had been bedevilled by minority government. If, therefore, she married prudently, gained loyal and competent counsel from the men on whom she now relied, and duly circumvented the intrigues of her wily royal cousin south of the Border, the prospects were far from bleak. But her head was proud, her spirit restless and ambition welled within her. The result was the crowning disaster of her marriage to her first cousin, Henry, Lord Darnley.

The son of Matthew Stewart, 4th Earl of Lennox, whose family was closely related to the Scottish royal line, and Margaret Douglas, daughter of Margaret Tudor by her second marriage, Darnley appeared an ideal candidate for Mary’s hand in terms of his lineage, boasting a direct claim to the throne of England in his own right. Furthermore, though a Catholic by upbringing, he had toyed with Protestantism and was not associated initially with any dangerous cause either at home or abroad. But, although he was ‘accomplished in all courtly exercises’ and a gifted lutenist who penned elegant Scottish verses, he was also stupid and treacherous – ‘a man of insolent temper’ who swiftly alienated most of his potential allies in Scotland, though not, it seems, the queen, who had soon fallen madly in love with the ‘fayre, yollye yonge man’ and married him on 24 July 1564. Accordingly, when Mary chose the day before the wedding to declare her husband ‘King of Scots’ – a title which she could not legitimately bestow without the consent of the Scottish Estates – her proclamation was received in stony silence at Mercat Cross by all save the bridegroom’s father who offered up a sturdy cry of ‘God save his Grace!’

Thereafter, the elements of the final tragedy, which created such an unfavourable start to the life of the future James I, unfolded with a remorseless momentum. Within three weeks of her marriage, Mary’s scheming half-brother, the bastard Earl of Moray, whose considerable influence had been threatened by the queen’s marriage, came out in open rebellion in the name of the Protestant Kirk, backed by £3,000 from England’s Queen Elizabeth. And though he was eventually defeated and driven into exile south of the Border after a chaotic engagement known as the ‘Chaseabout Raid’, in which a pistol-toting Mary rode in armour and plated cap, ‘ever with the foremost’ of her troops until ‘the most part waxed weary’, the price was heavy. For the Queen of Scotland was now placed in a position of open hostility to both Scottish Protestants and her English cousin. Edinburgh, it is true, had ignored Knox’s fervent appeals and remained loyal when Moray entered the city in August, but Mary had survived rather than solved her underlying problems, and both her husband’s and her own indiscretions would multiply uncontrollably with the mutual antipathy that now exploded between them.

‘No woman of spirit’, wrote Sir James Melville, ‘would make choice of such a man’, and whether it was she who first spurned Darnley or he who rejected her remains unknown. But what began as an overwhelming infatuation on Mary’s part degenerated within six months into outright and irremediable repulsion, as Darnley cavorted with loose women and, on occasion, behaved with great brutality towards his wife. Refusing absolutely to grant him the Crown Matrimonial, which would have allowed him to rule co-equally and keep the throne in the event of her death, Mary turned increasingly for counsel and consolation to her ‘evil-favoured’ Italian minion, ‘a man of no beauty or shape’, and the altogether more dangerous James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell. While Riccio – ‘that great abuser of the commonwealth, that poltroon and vile knave Davie’, as Knox graciously dubbed him – flaunted the queen’s good offices more and more injudiciously; he courted, of course, the kind of mortal disaster which duly befell him on the night of 9 March 1566. Dragged from the queen’s apartments while at supper with her at Holyroodhouse, the helpless secretary was stabbed some fifty-six times within earshot of his horrified mistress. The men responsible included Darnley himself and a motley crew of disgruntled Protestant lords, which numbered the Earl of Morton and his Douglas cronies, the old and dying Lord Ruthven and the exiled Moray, who had been loitering darkly in Newcastle with his fellow rebels awaiting the first available opportunity to conjure trouble.

Whether the intention was also to kill the queen herself or at least encourage her to miscarry from the trauma involved remains uncertain, though some accounts suggest as much. Certainly, Mary appeared to be in danger of miscarrying soon afterwards and the whole event may well have prompted what appears to have been her mental collapse the following year. But if her child was nearly lost and her judgement was to disintegrate catastrophically not long afterwards, for the time being she would show remarkable resources of inner strength and resourcefulness. With the power of Huntly in the Highlands and of Bothwell on the Borders still intact, she could, after all, fight back with every chance of victory and before the bloody night was done her cringing husband, whose very own blade had been left in Riccio’s shredded corpse, became so terrified by the possible consequences of his actions that he swiftly deserted his fellow assassins and agreed to take her the 25 miles to the safety of Bothwell’s castle at Dunbar. ‘Come on! In God’s name,’ Darnley urged along the way. ‘By God’s blood, they will murder both you and me if they can catch us … If this baby dies, we can have more.’ And when Mary’s double-dealing brother, Moray, rode in prudently late next morning, he too was graciously detached from an ill-conceived plot that had so clearly failed to achieve its purposes. A pardon and a cynical guarantee of reinstatement were all that was required.

So there had occurred, even before he was born, the first mortal threat to the future James I of England. Within a week, however, his mother was back in her capital and apparently secure. Already Riccio’s murderers were scattered in hiding or in exile and the queen’s outward reconciliation with both her husband and Moray was complete. Moreover, for the six months that elapsed from baby James’s birth to his christening at Stirling, the surface calm remained intact. Much, if not all, depended upon the child’s security, of course, for if he should fall into the hands of the queen’s enemies, the pretence of protecting the child would lend a sheen of respectability to any would-be rebel. With this in mind, therefore, James was duly whisked into the guardianship of the Earl of Mar at Stirling Castle when two months old and would remain there for the next twelve years. Mar’s family had, in fact, been frequently trusted with similar charges in the past and could claim with some justification to be the hereditary guardians of Scotland’s infant royalty, though in this case the boy was largely entrusted to the less than capable hands of a wet nurse named Helena Little. While his father detested him and his mother fought for her political life, Lady Mar, it is true, exercised a genuine, if superficial, tenderness for the child. But Little would remain both everyday overseer of his welfare and a drinker, too, it seems, who is sometimes alleged to have either dropped the prince or neglected an attack of rickets which left him with weakened legs – his right foot ‘permanently turned out’ – and a shambling, much-mocked walk for the rest of his life.

Yet, at the time of his birth, James’s health and appearance left nothing to be desired. Sir Henry Killigrew, the new English ambassador, saw the infant when he was only five days old, and described him as ‘a very goodly child’. First, he watched him ‘sucking of his nurse’ and afterwards saw him ‘as good as naked … his head, feet and hands, all to my judgement well proportioned and like to prove a goodly prince’. The new heir could, moreover, even charm his mother’s religious rivals, for on the day following his birth, John Spottiswoode was given the privilege by Mary of holding the child, whereupon he fell to his knees, utterly disarmed, and proceeded to play with him, attempting to teach the infant to utter the word ‘Amen’.

And while Spottiswoode’s request for a Protestant christening was met with resolute silence, there was nothing coy or even remotely restrained about the ceremony that did eventually follow. The child, after all, was of critical national importance and the lingering slur upon his legitimacy made it doubly necessary that his baptism at Stirling Castle, in December 1566, should be suitably splendid. For the few days involved, therefore, and in spite of the fearful strain upon the Crown’s meagre resources, the Scottish court would give free vent to its mistress’s extravagance and rival the standards of its French counterpart. Though the child’s godparents – the King of France, the Queen of England and the Duke of Savoy – were unable to appear in person, the embassies and gifts they sent with their proxies were nevertheless suitably impressive. The Comte de Brienne arrived with an entourage of thirty gentlemen and a necklace of pearls and rubies, the Earl of Bedford presented a golden font on Queen Elizabeth’s behalf, and the Duke of Savoy, represented by Philibert du Croc, the resident French ambassador, delivered a jewelled fan, trimmed with peacock feathers.

At the service itself, which was to prove the last great Catholic ceremony in sixteenth-century Scotland, the prince was borne from his chamber to the chapel by Brienne, who walked between two rows of barons and gentlemen and was followed by a number of Scottish nobles – all Catholics – proudly bearing the baptismal emblems of their religion: the great ‘cierge’, or ceremonial candle, the salt, the rood, the basin and the laver. Waiting at the font to officiate was another strident symbol of the old religion, Archbishop Hamilton of St Andrews, attended by the Bishops of Dunkeld, Dunblane and Ross in full episcopal regalia – ‘such as had not been seen in Scotland these seven years’ – and the entire college of the Chapel Royal. At the font, meanwhile, it was the Countess of Argyll, Elizabeth I’s representative as godmother, who held the baby while Hamilton christened him ‘Charles James’ – ‘Charles’ after Charles IX, the current King of France, and ‘James’ in recognition of his five Scottish predecessors of that name. In one respect only did the ceremony vary from ancient Catholic practice, since Hamilton was widely known to be stricken by venereal disease and the queen herself refused to have a ‘pocky priest’ smear his saliva on her son’s mouth, as time-honoured custom normally dictated.

Thereafter, the Lord Lyon King of Arms proclaimed the prince’s name and titles – Charles James, Prince and Steward of Scotland, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Lord of the Isles and Baron of Renfrew – and the celebrations ensued. There was triumphant music and dancing, a masque devised by the prince’s tutor-to-be, George Buchanan, Latin verses, a torchlight procession, two magnificent banquets and spectacular pyrotechnics of ‘fire balls, fire spears and all other things pleasant for the sight of man’. For three whole days, in fact, Mary Queen of Scots allowed herself the illusion that the gentility, carefree excitement – and security – of her Gallic past was still intact, as she danced and charmed with her old familiar energy and aplomb, speaking French at every opportunity, while studiously ignoring the rising tide against her.

And much, indeed, was far from well behind the scenes. The fact that the Earl of Bothwell – dressed in shoes of cloth and silver, and a new suit of ‘taffetie’ provided at the queen’s expense – would not venture beyond the door of the Chapel Royal was proof in its own right of Scotland’s religious divisions. But the fact that the Countess of Argyll was subsequently forced to do penance by the Protestant Kirk for her participation in the papist ritual spoke no less eloquently of the simmering discord. Even at the junketing which followed, there was ill feeling. According to Sir James Melville, his fellow ambassadors were affronted, because they believed that the English had been treated ‘more friendly and familiarly used than they’. But Melville would claim that the English, too, were no less offended when several men dressed as satyrs, ‘running before the meat’ at one of the banquets, had ‘put their hands behind them to their tails, which they wagged with their hands, in such sort as the Englishmen supposed it had been done and devised in derision of them’. Ultimately, it seems, only the Earl of Bedford’s timely intervention prevented an ugly incident.

Much more ominous, however, was Darnley’s conspicuous absence from all proceedings, for although he was present at Stirling, ‘neither was he required nor permitted to come openly’ – or so, at least, it seemed. In fact, he had been furnished by his wife with a splendid suit of cloth of gold and had made his own decision to boycott a ceremony at which none were prepared to accept him as king. Indeed, although his father, the Earl of Lennox, continued to scheme on his behalf for the Crown Matrimonial and a genuine share in government, the queen’s husband was now treated with open contempt. The Earl of Bedford, for example, was under strict orders to show Darnley ‘no more respect in any way than to the simplest gentlemen present’ and when one of the Englishman’s assistants happened to encounter Darnley by chance, he was severely reprimanded for referring to him as king. Brienne was under similar instructions and, after three attempts had been made to summon du Croc to Darnley’s chamber, the ambassador admitted that he had been told ‘to have no conference with him’, since he ‘was in no good correspondence with queen’.

Mary, moreover, did indeed remain at deepest odds with her husband. Soon after the prince’s birth, she had taken herself to the pleasant, airy retreat of Craigmillar Castle and lamented to Maitland, Moray, the Earl of Bothwell and others that she could see no ‘outgait’ from her marriage, since she dared not consider divorce for fear of affecting her son’s legitimacy. And now, perhaps, she was more vulnerable to her husband’s bitterness, not to mention the suspicions of her nobles and the venomous denunciations of the Kirk. When summoned to the queen’s presence on 22 December, for example, du Croc found her ‘laid on the bed weeping sore’, complaining of ‘a grievous pain in her side’ and the effects of a riding accident, in which she had ‘hurt one of her breasts’. She was, it is true, as resolved as ever to consolidate her power, particularly against her husband, and du Croc recognised as much. ‘The injury she received is exceeding great,’ he commented, ‘and her majesty will never forget it.’ But, as Sir James Melville, one of her few entirely faithful servants, observed, ‘there were overfew to comfort her’. And it was in these circumstances that Mary turned to the Earl of Bothwell – ‘a man’, according to Lord John Herries, ‘high in his own conceit, proud, vicious and vainglorious above measure, one who would attempt anything out of ambition’.

A reckless and acquisitive adventurer who was widely thought to be ‘of no religion’ and who attracted women as effortlessly as he discarded them, Bothwell had at first won Mary’s trust and swiftly ascended to become the controlling passion of her life, though he possessed none of the good looks or superficial graces which had first made Darnley so attractive to the queen. On the contrary, he was a short, broad man, whom George Buchanan saw fit to describe as a ‘purple ape’. He did, however, exhibit a rugged strength, which had burnished his reputation as a fighting Border magnate and which, to an embattled and infatuated female ruler, might well pass for reliability at a time of flux and crisis. Likewise, though he was no courtier or man of letters, he was nevertheless well educated. Indeed, he had acquired an impressive veneer of French culture during his time on the continent as commander of the King of France’s Scottish Guards and was known to be widely read. Had he not had these qualities, it is doubtful whether even the impulsive Queen of Scots might have become such a slave to her own passions and determined to ‘go with him to the end of the world in a white petticoat’.

Yet it was undoubtedly as a man of action – the bold, rock-like, canny and decisive manipulator of men and events – that Bothwell made his mark upon Mary. He was, it is true, without scruple, but he was also without fear – ‘a rash and hazardous young man’ in the words of Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, who scorned both the spiteful effeminacy of her husband and slippery double-dealing of a Maitland or a Moray. And he had proven his mettle already when his quick thinking and notorious private army had plucked the queen from disaster in the aftermath of Riccio’s assassination. That Bothwell, who was so dismissive of all convention, should have had so many enemies was something that Mary might certainly have considered before rashly throwing in her lot with him. But that such a character would manage to exercise so overpowering an influence over so vulnerable and notoriously impressionable a ruler is not nearly as surprising as is often assumed.

With or without Bothwell, however, the noose was tightening rapidly for Darnley. On 24 December, only a week after his son’s christening, Mary’s panic-stricken husband learned that his wife had pardoned the survivors of Riccio’s murderers, whom he had blatantly betrayed. At least half the nobility of Scotland were now slavering for his blood, and by this time, too, the queen had certainly been shown at least one of the ‘bands’ that Darnley had signed with the assassins. Knowing now that his feeble pretence of acting against his wife’s Italian favourite on a blind and passionate impulse could no longer be sustained, Darnley made at once for his father’s house in Glasgow, then a small village on the River Clyde, and the hoped-for safety of Lennox territory, while the atmosphere all around thickened with plots and ugly whispers.

Back at Craigmillar Castle before Christmas, Maitland of Lethington had already assured Mary that a ‘mean’, not involving divorce, might be devised to rid her of her husband both neatly and without prejudice to her son’s legitimacy and that Moray, who was a ‘little less scrupulous for a Protestant than your Grace is for ane Papist’, would ‘look through his fingers thereto’. No specific decision, it seems, was actually taken at that time, but in that same month Mary managed to restore Archbishop Hamilton’s authority to pronounce decrees of divorce by nullity, whether for her own marriage or perhaps Bothwell’s. At the same time, there were unsettling reports – originating with William Hiegait, town clerk of Glasgow – of a counterplot by Darnley and his father to kidnap the baby prince from Stirling.

By now, as matters reached a climax, Darnley was convalescing at Glasgow after an attack of either syphilis or smallpox, which had overtaken him during his flight. Blue blisters had broken out upon him and he was said to be ‘in very great pain and dolour in every part of his body’. Then, at his father’s home, Lord Herries tells us, ‘his hair fell off’. But this did not, it seems, impair either his gall or his libido. On 14 January, Mary’s request to visit him had been met by a rude verbal answer and when Mary arrived nonetheless a week later, her husband’s main concern appears to have been that she should restore his conjugal rights as soon as he was fit once more. Already, more than a year earlier, according to the records of Catherine Maxwell Stuart, 21st Lady of Traquair, Darnley had disgraced himself when Mary excused herself from accompanying him on a hunting expedition for fear that she might again be pregnant. ‘What,’ retorted Darnley, ‘ought we not to work a mare well when she is in foal?’ And now, with his disfigured face still covered by a taffeta mask, the husband’s prurience remained as undiminished as his bile.

Once more, however, Mary was quick to re-establish her ascendancy and Darnley – notwithstanding the sensible forebodings of his father – swiftly conceded to be brought to Edinburgh in a litter that his wife had brought with her, so that he should not be ‘far from her son’. Upon his arrival, he was eventually lodged outside the walls, not only ‘in a solitaire place at the outmost part of ye town’ but in a squalid, ruined neighbourhood approached by a street known as ‘Thieves’ Row’, where there lay a small and wholly unsuitable four-roomed house known as the Kirk o’ Field, in which the queen had nonetheless established a magnificent bedroom for herself on the ground floor. It was there on the night of Sunday, 9 February that Mary visited her husband, by torchlight, for what would prove to be the last time. Leaving shortly before midnight to attend a masque in honour of the wedding of her French servant, Bastien Pagès, she may well have done so in full knowledge of what would shortly ensue. For Bothwell and his most trusted retainers had secretly packed the basement of Kirk o’ Field with gunpowder, which was duly ignited two hours later. Though Darnley’s naked corpse showed no marks of the explosion when it was later discovered in the garden, along with that of one of his pages, there was no doubting that the ‘deid was foully done’, and there was no doubt either of the gravity of what followed. If, wrote one contemporary, Darnley ‘had not been cruelly vyrriet [strangled], after he fell out of the aire, with his own garters, he had leived’. And in subsequently flaunting all serious pretence at justice, Mary duly incurred outright moral disgrace, not only in Scotland but throughout Catholic and Protestant Europe alike.

Though Bothwell underwent a spurious form of trial before fifteen hand-picked peers and lairds, which conveniently foundered for lack of evidence, since Darnley’s father dare not enter Edinburgh while 6,000 of Bothwell’s armed Borderers remained in firm control, Mary herself made no effort to clear her name, and then, to crown all, carelessly embarked upon her ultimate folly. With the capital awash with denunciations of her lover and the abuse of Protestant preachers ringing in every kirk, the queen remained impervious. She remained equally unmoved, too, by Moray’s final warning in early April that she was courting disaster ‘because of the great trouble seeming to come to the realm’. Moray himself had already cannily distanced himself from Darnley’s murder by removing to Fife on the actual night of the deed and now he carefully avoided any involvement in what he clearly perceived to be his half-sister’s imminent ruin, leaving for England on ostensibly amicable terms with Bothwell, to wait as he had before for events to turn decisively in his favour.

Nor was Moray’s reasoning anything other than sound. On 17 April, as the ultimate insult to the whole of Scotland, Bothwell was selected to carry the crown and sceptre before the queen at the opening of Parliament. And upon the very evening that the Estates dissolved, he finally revealed the full scale of his ambitions for the first time. Appropriately, perhaps, it was at Ainslie’s Tavern, which had been thoroughly surrounded by his armed retainers, that Bothwell brazenly forced his noble guests to pledge their belief in his innocence and commit their support to a ‘marriage betwixt her Highness and the said noble lord’. The pledge, of course, was as empty as the dreams of the man who imposed it, but the die had now been irretrievably cast – both for him and for the queen who had given herself over to him so entirely.

Around this time, Mary would pen for Bothwell a series of sonnets and appallingly indiscreet love letters, but even now, it seems, her passion for the frenzied earl had not entirely blinded her to the interests of her infant son. Accordingly, on 21 April, she rode to Stirling to pay what was to prove her last visit to the prince. Such, however, was the general collapse of her credibility that not even that most loyal of servants, the Earl of Mar, would surrender the child to her. On the contrary, knowing full well that the whole future of the realm was inextricably tied to the boy’s well-being, Mar would only allow the queen to bring two of her ladies with her into the castle, and her two-day sojourn brought little consolation to all concerned. It was even rumoured, albeit wholly improbably, that, at one point during her stay, Mary had attempted to coax the child to stop screaming by the offer of an apple, which he brusquely rejected. Whereupon the apple was subsequently eaten by a greyhound bitch that promptly swelled and died.

Certainly, Mary left Stirling without the prince and swiftly succumbed to the final episode in her disgrace and downfall, for at Linlithgow – with almost farcically suspicious ease – she was duly ‘kidnapped’ by Bothwell and carried off to Dunbar. Deluded by the pledges delivered at Ainslie’s Tavern, the earl seems to have fondly imagined that the majority of Scots nobles would actually condone his action, while Mary, if her subsequent behaviour is any guide, was apparently too besotted to care. If, moreover, her claim that she had been raped carried no conviction, her decision to marry the perpetrator on the grounds that she had been irretrievably compromised by her violation, was the ultimate act of political madness. Nevertheless, during the three weeks that Mary remained at Dunbar, Archbishop Hamilton rushed through an annulment of Bothwell’s marriage to his current wife, Janet Gordon, and the new union of queen and earl was formally sanctioned. Though even Mary would not dare to grant her husband the title of king, he was nevertheless created Duke of Orkney and Shetland, which caused sufficient scandal it its own right. And as if to seal the scale of Mary’s current derangement, the wedding itself was duly performed according to Protestant rites.

Soon, moreover, it was patently clear that Mary had not only abandoned her son but placed his life in dire peril, since Bothwell determined at once to gain possession of the prince, and the mother was ready to comply. ‘She intends,’ wrote one Scots lord, ‘to take the prince out of Mar’s hands and put him in Bothwell’s keeping, who murdered his father.’ In the meantime, for the next three weeks the couple honeymooned unhappily at Borthwick Castle in a state of near siege, while the earl continued to ply Janet Gordon with letters and steadily honed his plans for ultimate mastery. If the prince should fall into his new stepfather’s hands, it was generally acknowledged that the earl would ‘make him away … as well to advance his own succession, as to cut off the innocent child, who in all probability would one day revenge his father’s death’ – all of which seems to have escaped Mary herself. Likewise, as the remnants of her supporters, including Lethington, deserted the rapidly sinking ship and the situation in the capital grew steadily more menacing, the queen continued to hope against hope that events might yet turn decisively in her favour. Accordingly, by the time that she and Bothwell slipped away once more to Dunbar, everything already depended upon a final trial of arms, which would not be long in coming.

The Protestant ‘Lords of the Congregation’, who had all been implicated more or less in Bothwell’s assassination of Darnley, had already committed themselves by bond to protect Prince James. And now these ‘True Lords’ had the brazen effrontery to march against the mastermind of the murder under a banner depicting the victim’s naked body. Yet Mary remained undaunted and on 15 June, both she and Bothwell moved out to confront their enemies at Carberry Hill. For most of the day, in fact, the two armies faced each other, very reluctant to fight, and while the uneasy posturing continued, there were last minute attempts at mediation by the French ambassador, du Croc. Mary, however, refused to accept the condition that she leave Bothwell and refused, too, to concede to her husband’s outlandish request that matters be resolved by single combat with any one of the opposition lords. In the event, as Bothwell frothed and she in her turn clutched at any straw to hand, the royal army slowly disintegrated.

Surrendering herself, therefore, in return for an agreement that her hated spouse be permitted to escape with his life, Mary now encountered at first hand the full wrath and resentment that her actions had stirred. Kirkaldy of Grange, a brave and chivalrous soldier who negotiated the queen’s final surrender, had guaranteed her respectful treatment, but he had not counted upon the venom and violence of the Edinburgh mob. Indeed, such was Mary’s reception that Kirkaldy did well to keep her alive and eventually joined her cause in disgust at her enemies’ hysteria. Surrounded by the victorious Protestant lords, whom she continually cursed and threatened, she rode into the capital for the last time to cries that she be lynched or drowned as an ‘adulteress’ and ‘murderess’, and further howls that ‘the whore’ be burnt. Utterly distraught at the full, brutal shock of her new condition, she was ultimately detained at the provost’s lodging in the High Street, where she made a fleeting appearance at a window to issue a final appeal for aid. With her hair loosened and her clothes indecently torn and disordered, she appeared for the moment to have lost her reason.

Even at this critical pitch of despair, however, Mary nevertheless represented an ongoing threat to her captors. With Huntly in arms in the north and the Hamiltons secure in the west, the future was still uncertain, and the queen, for all her faults and wretchedness, was queen nonetheless. At 26, moreover, she was likely to be a danger for many years to come. Nor was this all, for open rebellion by the Protestant lords against the anointed queen could still be guaranteed to raise a majority of Scots against them. Elizabeth, too – though she wrote privately to her cousin sharply condemning both the murder of Darnley and subsequent marriage to Bothwell – left no doubt that she would declare war, if there was any attempt to stage a deposition. The lords’ ostensible target had therefore always been Bothwell, and when Mary was now closely confined among the Fifeshire bogs surrounding the island castle of Loch Leven, it was firmly emphasised that she was undergoing ‘seclusion’ rather than imprisonment.

Yet her treatment, predictably, left much to be desired. A month or so after her arrival, she capped her misfortunes by miscarrying Bothwell’s twins, though this, it must be said, did nothing to soften her captors. Her gaoler, for instance, was Sir William Douglas – a ‘depender’ of the Earl of Morton, one of Riccio’s assassins, and her disaffected half-brother, Moray – who did little to protect her from the insults and ill-treatment, which were blatantly intended to break her spirit. Lord Ruthven, on the other hand, the son of the corpse-like old murderer whose appearance had so alarmed the queen on the night of Riccio’s murder, oppressed her with his lust, while Moray’s mother, Lady Margaret Erskine, also took every opportunity to insult her. Worse still, perhaps, Lord Lindsay, a brutal and unscrupulous bully, subjected her to outright threats of physical force. Sick, imperilled and wholly beyond the reach of any ‘friends’, Mary was therefore hardly equipped to withstand these ultimate assaults upon her fast-waning reserves of resilience and utterly shredded integrity.

Ironically, however, the Queen of Scots was once more undone by her own indiscretions. Only one week after her capture, in fact, the silver casket in which Bothwell had kept her secret sonnets and letters to him, as well as her pledge to marry him, was duly discovered. The earl, it seems, had left them behind for safekeeping in Edinburgh, only to furnish his enemies with the most explosive of weapons. Indeed, irrespective of any tampering that may have occurred, the ‘Casket Letters’ not only stirred John Knox and his fellow pulpiteers to new heights of invective by their ‘coarseness’ but also placed Mary in alarmingly real danger for her life, for according to an ancient Scottish statute, which had been recently revived, adultery was not only a capital offence but punishable in the case of females by burning.

All sober, moderate opinion now accepted, in any case, that ‘a Queen hath no more liberty or privilege to commit adultery or murder than any other private person, either by God’s laws, or the laws of the realm’, and even Elizabeth’s heartfelt appeals on Mary’s behalf had already lost much of their force. In these circumstances, therefore, the only remaining option, as the queen grudgingly accepted, was abdication and a subsequent minority government on behalf of her son. Finally broken by her captors’ naked intimidation and threats that she would be brought to trial and execution, Mary duly provided the lords and, above all, her half-brother with the documents they required. Though Moray was not present at the final disgraceful scene, where threats of throat-cutting, drowning in the loch and even marooning on a desert island were aimed at his half-sister, he was duly authorised to assume the regency, with the assistance of a commission of seven noblemen, ‘in caisse’, it was almost laughably claimed, ‘he should refuse to exercise ye same alone’. No such refusal was, of course, forthcoming and on 24 July, Mary duly acquiesced. ‘When God shall set me at liberty again,’ she declared through bitter damned-up tears, ‘I shall not abide these, for it is done against my will.’ But her reign as Queen of Scots was over forever.

2  King and Pawn

‘I was alone, without father or mother, brother or sister, King of this realm, and heir apparent of England.’

James VI, 1589

On 29 July 1567, in the church of the Holy Rude at Stirling, on a craggy hillside rising to the castle, Prince James was crowned King of Scots, the sixth ruler of his kingdom to have governed with that name. With its commanding view over the River Forth and the Ochils, no fortress in Scotland boasted a more dramatic setting. A few miles to the north, rising sharply from the plain, lay the ‘Highland Line’, one of the great geological faults to which Scotland owed not only its shape but its history, while to the north-west spread the expanse of bog land, across which meagre, sluggish streams ambled off to supply the river Forth. To the south, on the other hand, spread the humbler ridge of the Campsies, though these, too, reflected the wall of the Highlands and the more imposing peaks of Ben Ledi, Ben Vorlich and Ben Lomond. All in all, no spot resonated more with Scottish prowess, Scottish pride and Scottish royalty. Bannockburn, the most decisive battle in Scottish history had been fought for the castle and the vital bridge below it, and both James IV and James V had left their indelible mark upon the place, improving its buildings and rendering the six main apartments of its royal palace comparable to any in Northern Europe. Plainly, then, Stirling was the benchmark for high Scottish culture and the clearest possible statement of Stuart legitimacy and permanence – the traditional home of the current dynasty, and the right and natural starting-point, by any standards, for the reign of the 13-month-old James VI.

Yet the new king’s inauguration was a mean and meagre affair, tainted by circumstance and shrouded in fears for the future. Staged only five days after the deposition of the former queen, it was the worst-attended coronation in Scottish history. In the opinion of one of her spokesmen, indeed, only seven lords, no more than a tenth of the Scots nobility, were present, and even the English ambassador – a fervent Protestant – was obliged to boycott the ceremony, since it was the act of an illegal regime that had challenged the sovereignty of the Crown and threatened the established order of things. As such, the Elizabethan government, which was still engaged in establishing its own respectability, could not afford to become entangled with it. This was not the only oddity, since the ceremony also involved a change of name for the monarch – something that had occurred only once before in the whole of Scotland’s past. For, as a result of its association with the French king, the king’s baptismal name of ‘Charles James’ was suitably clipped and the new monarch would henceforth be known only as James VI.

Crowned, then, not in the castle’s Chapel Royal, where his mother had been enthroned in 1542, but in the altogether humbler setting of the burgh’s parish church, the infant king found himself at the centre of a ritual which fully reflected the tensions existing in his realm. Though anointed in the style of previous Scottish monarchs, there were neither candles nor copes nor incense on hand. Nor were there fanfares or heralds to proclaim the new king in what was consciously presented as an aggressively Protestant reaction against the former regime. Latin, too, was carefully avoided; instead, all prayers were ‘in the English tongue’. It was not without irony either, of course, that the infant ruler’s crown was placed upon his head by Robert Stewart, the former Catholic Bishop of Orkney, who had last appeared in public to marry the child’s mother to Bothwell. And it was an equally curious footnote to Queen Mary’s reign that the subsequent sermon should have been preached by none other than John Knox. Taking his text from 2 Chronicles 23: 20–21, he declaimed with characteristic candour and at typical length upon the coronation of the child king Joash, whose mother, Queen Athaliah, had rent her clothes and cried ‘treason, treason’, before being taken out and slain by the sword.

To seal the transformation at the heart of government, however, it was none other than James Douglas, 4th Earl of Morton, who read aloud the new king’s coronation oath. Arguably the most crooked and treacherous of the whole shifty crew that had brought Mary Stuart to her ruin, it was red-headed Douglas who had held Holyrood for Riccio’s murderers and signed Bothwell’s bond against Darnley. And now it was he who pledged the king not only to maintain the ‘lovable laws and constitutions received in this realm’ and ‘to rule in the faith, fear and love of God’, but also to ‘root out all heretics and enemies to the true worship of God that shall be convicted by the true Kirk of God of the aforesaid crimes’. For his efforts on the new government’s behalf, Morton was duly nominated as chancellor in the Regency Council that now assumed power.

It was composed, said George Buchanan, the king’s future tutor, ‘of nourishers of theft and raisers of rebellion’, who were characterised by ‘insatiable greediness’ and ‘intolerable arrogance’. ‘For the most part’, it seems, its members were men ‘without faith in promises, pity to the inferior, or obedience to the superior’. ‘In peace’, moreover, they were ‘desirous of trouble, in war thirsty of blood’. But the power of Buchanan’s beloved Kirk depended on these men. Like him, his fellow preachers desired that the whole government of Scotland, civil and ecclesiastical, be subordinated to their charge, while the nobles were determined merely to maintain power and wealth for themselves. To say, therefore, that both parties were uneasy allies is an understatement of some magnitude, though their mutual dependence was unavoidable, and both were also driven to an equally distasteful dependence upon England, which most thinking Scotsmen had long been struggling to avoid. It was English intrigues and often English subsidies, after all, which had assisted the present clique of Protestant lords into power and now, as conservative and moderate opinion alike recoiled from the implications of this dependence, it was English influence that would hold their opponents at bay.

In the meantime, the infant boy who might one day serve to guarantee good order and government was entrusted once more, at Regent Moray’s behest, to the Earl and Countess of Mar. Formally appointed on 22 August, Moray had chosen the obvious candidates, since the earl in particular was a nobleman of the highest order, respected by both his own party and its opponents. And until his death in 1572, when his role was assumed by his brother, Sir Alexander Erskine, his conduct was exemplary. Like the earl himself, moreover, Erskine was another genuinely benign influence – ‘a nobleman’, observed Sir James Melville, ‘of a true, gentle nature, well-loved and liked of every man for his good qualities and great discretion, in no wise factious or envious’ – though in the countess, King James was not perhaps so fortunate. For while, as we have seen, she played his foster-mother with due conviction initially, referring to him always as ‘the Lord’s Annointed’ and occasionally objecting when he was beaten, she was nevertheless a stern enough governess in her own right – especially after her husband’s death when she continued in her post and held the king in ‘great awe’ of her. Rather more worryingly, she also continued to delegate too much of the child’s everyday care to Little, his tippling wet nurse. Though hardly the fount of all objectivity, Knox described Lady Mar as ‘a very Jesabell’ and a ‘sweet titbit for the Devil’s mouth’, and if his intention on this occasion was to highlight her connection to the former queen, it was true, nevertheless, that the king’s own feelings about the countess were always likely to have been mixed.

Certainly, the provision of the royal household, though less than extravagant, was adequate to its purposes. Four young women, for example, were employed to rock the king in his cradle – perhaps the wooden cradle of Traquair which is traditionally supposed to have been his – and there were also three gentlemen of the bedchamber, two women to tend the king’s clothes and two musicians, Thomas and Robert Hudson, though James himself exhibited no ear for music in later life. And while the Master of the Household, Cunningham of Drumwhassel, was not only Moray’s cousin but in Melville’s view an ambitious and greedy man, even he appears to have devoted himself effectively enough to the day-to-day management of the king’s domestic arrangements, which changed little throughout his early childhood. Food and drink were ample, with an allowance for the ‘King’s own mouth daily’ of two and a half loaves of bread, three pints of ale and two capons. And though most of the former queen’s furniture lay idle at Holyrood, three fine tapestries were nevertheless brought to Stirling for her son’s comfort, notwithstanding the fact that his bed in the Prince’s Tower was a gloomy contrivance of black damask, with ruff, head-piece and pillows also fringed in the same colour.