I've tried as much as possible to follow history, although I've taken after the writers of Reign and used a fair amount of creative license as well. This first chapter may be a bit disorienting, but please bear with me as things get going.
REIGN FALL
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"In my end is my beginning."
Mary Stuart
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1. The Lord Darnley
Scotland, 1566
"Your Grace, if I may—"
"You may not, Rizzio." Mary Stuart crossed her arms. She did not know what advice he intended to give, but she wasn't eager to hear it. "Don't dare chastise me. You are my secretary, not my father."
David Rizzio lifted an eyebrow. "Well, I would not presume to be your father."
His words won Mary's gaze at last. "What would you presume to be, then?"
The man rose slowly from his chair. In doing so, he was backlit by the dwindling fire. For a moment, in the orangey haze, an odd sensation passed over Mary Queen of Scots. It was something she had not felt in a long, long while. The fine hairs on the back of her neck lifted.
In Mary's small supper room, nestled within Holyrood Palace, Rizzio struck an imposing figure – tall, grave-faced, dark. In moments like these, he seemed more soldier than courtier. Formidable though he was, Rizzio only knelt before Mary and took her hand.
"Mary—"
"Don't call me that. It's Your Gr—"
"Mary. Listen to me. You can't simply hide away up here, prisoner of others' whims. Elizabeth does not own you. Darnley does not—"
Mary pulled her hand away from his. "Do not speak of my husband."
"Very well." He spoke softly, almost too low to hear. "You mustn't forget hope, Mary. You must never forget that." He laid a hand on her pregnant belly then. He knew it was a boy, somehow. In her successor, she could reclaim lost power. She had only two months left before the child would be born.
Mary could look away no longer. Her eyes found his, and she felt tears rising. "Rizzio," she whispered.
"There was a time, Queen of Scots, when you would have called me by my given name."
"That time passed when my husband accused us of adultery." Her words were blunt enough to bring Rizzio back to his feet. A flash of anger crossed his face.
"If I had known I'd end up a slave to accusations, I would have gladly been your lover. I would have loved you, Mary. That child would have been mine."
"Stop. David, be silent, or we will both have blades at our necks."
"Just know that I am your friend. And I will remain so through any accusation, through England's threats, and Darnley's jealousy, until I meet my death."
Mary rose from her own chair, with great effort, and went to him. She wanted to cry. This man was all she had between herself and utter isolation. He was the last to stand by her, and without him, sentimental though he was, she thought she might perish.
She grasped his hand and prepared to tell him something. She wasn't sure what she intended to say— perhaps "Thank you," or maybe "Let's run away from here."
But before Mary could say anything at all, the door burst open.
There stood Lord Darnley, matchlock pistol aimed straight at David Rizzio. "Good evening, wife," he spat at Mary. "Would you kindly hand over your bedfellow?"
Without waiting for a response, Darnley fired a shot, but it narrowly missed Rizzio, who ducked madly behind the table.
Mary cried out at the roar of gunfire, stumbling fearfully backward.
"Rizzio!" bellowed Darnley, frantically jabbing a new round into his gun. "Give yourself up."
"On what charge?" cried Mary.
"On the charge of lying between your thighs, whore." He aimed the gun once again at Rizzio, but before he could pull the trigger, Mary dropped to the ground and covered Rizzio's body with her own.
"And so my wife incriminates herself," drawled Darnley. He gave a short laugh and lowered his gun.
"Have mercy, my lord," rasped Rizzio. "Your wife is faithful, I swear it."
There was no reply from Darnley.
Mary lifted her head cautiously from Rizzio's quivering back. Though he looked the part, Rizzio was no soldier. Perhaps Darnley would have mercy after all. Just as she looked up, though, a storm of men rushed through the doorway from behind her husband. Lord Ruthven—Darnley's favorite lackey—led the onslaught.
The fire was dying, but a gleam still caught the silver blade in Ruthven's hand. Mary screamed as hands, Darnley's hands, yanked her off Rizzio. She kicked and fought, shrieking desperately, but she could scarcely fend off her captor, so heavily was she with child.
"Darnley!" she cried. "No! No! You can't!"
"I can," he growled into her ear. "I can, and I will."
Ruthven descended upon Rizzio with the dagger. His men joined him. They stabbed Mary's last friend so many times that he left a river of blood behind as his corpse was dragged from the room.
Mary's tears blinded her. She fought fruitlessly against the grasp of her husband. Protests sobbed from her lips, but they were left incoherent by emotion. "I hate you," was all she managed to articulate. "I hate you."
Darnley's men were gone from the room. Besides Mary and her husband, all that remained was the smear of Rizzio's corpse and the extinguished coals of the fire. Darkness fell upon the room in Holyrood.
"Why?" rasped Mary, when the last of her tears had bled away.
"You ask me why?" spat Darnley. "I might ask you the same question, Your Grace. I agreed to marry you, because I was to be made King. You promised me that. And now look at me. You and that filth Rizzio conspire to keep the crown from my grasp. You keep me as I am! As nothing!"
Mary reached out for the wall and dragged herself from the floor. Blood stained her dress, her hair fell loose from its pins, tears underscored her eyes. But she stood before Lord Darnley with all the regality she possessed. "I keep the crown from you because you are not a king. You will never be a king. I am the Queen of Scotland, and you… you are just my husband."
"Enough!" he roared. He took a fistful of her hair and yanked her down to the tabletop beside them. "I am your husband. I own you. I own your lovers…" His hand slid down her cheek, smearing it with Rizzio's blood. "I own your life, and in time I will own Scotland."
Mary could do little but whimper. He pulled the crown from her head and threw it at the opposite wall. The delicate metal broke, and a jewel skittered across the floor.
Darnley's hand trailed over her round belly. She flinched, afraid for the child, but he did not strike her. "This is all that lies between you and I, Queen," he whispered. "Soon, I will have you remember what you owe me."
Like this, the Lord Darnley left his wife in her chamber.
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