Marie’s hands had gripped the ship’s rail tightly when she heard of Jamieson’s keenness to have them near him. She prayed for the fog to come down quickly and hide them.
Her prayer was soon answered. Bothwell’s ship veered away, while Jamieson’s came closer, so that they could even make out the figure of the Earl himself as he stood calmly watching them. Then it was as though a veil had been drawn between them, uneven at first, before becoming a heavy blanket that quickly blotted out the image of the Earl, after which his whole ship simply dissolved before their eyes.
Marie relaxed her grip and breathed a deep sigh of relief.
‘Curse this thrice-damned fog!’ snarled Jamieson, as he surveyed the grey pall which still hung over them on the afternoon of their third day at sea.
He had just consulted with Captain Lefevre, and had been told their approximate position. Of course, in the fog it was not possible to be sure, but they must be approaching the area where the English fleet would be lying in wait.
Since the previous morning, when Mary’s galley had faded from his view, he had frequently scanned the horizon. Lefevre had sent lookouts up the masts to keep a constant watch, for the Queen’s ship might well still be near, and in any case the Straits of Dover, which they had to pass through, would be littered with all manner of vessels. Their speed had slackened a little, but they knew that best use could be made of the fog by travelling as far towards safe waters as was possible before it lifted.
They had come through the Straits without incident, and were now on their way past the mouth of the Thames—the area fixed for the rendezvous. Lefevre had been a persistent visitor to Jamieson’s cabin, clearly torn between the lure of the wine and the charms of Lolita. The roguish captain had become quite talkative once the wine had loosened his tongue, and Jamieson had listened to numerous stories of desperate courage and adventure on the high seas. The Earl even found himself being drawn into the spirit of comradeship, and had recounted a couple of heart-stopping tales from his own past.
As Jamieson leaned against the ship’s rail, the sky suddenly lightened. He instantly looked up, and almost cried out as he caught sight of the sun, just discernible through the thinning fog.
In a moment the sea around them came into focus, and suddenly they were in clear water. Looking back, Jamieson saw the thick bank of fog from which they had emerged. Ahead were similar patches of grey mist, but for the moment they could see around them.
‘A sail! A sail to starboard!’ The shout came from one of the lookouts, perched high up in the rigging. All eyes turned to scan the sea on their right side.
Jamieson hurried to the poop, where the captain was standing. Lefevre had a powerful telescope, which he was looking through as Jamieson approached.
‘What ship is that?’ demanded the Earl.
‘It is far off, but it is the Queen’s ship, almost certainly,’ replied Lefevre.
‘Quick, man, steer towards her then!’
Lefevre regarded him closely. He could not understand why this Scottish nobleman should need to be so near to his Queen. Perhaps she was more to him than his Queen, perhaps they were … Lefevre grinned wickedly at the thought.
‘So, you wish to be able to wave to your Mary, hein?’
‘How dare—’ Jamieson stopped himself. It might serve his purpose better if Lefevre thought he was in love with the Queen. He laughed.
‘Take me close enough, captain, and I’ll show you.’
Lefevre gave the order, and they turned slightly, so as to intercept the distant galley. They increased speed, and could soon easily identify the flags of Mary’s galley.
‘A sail, a sail!’ came the cry again from one of the lookouts.
Jamieson looked up into the rigging and saw an outstretched arm. It was pointing a little to the left, the side away from Mary’s ship. He turned to the captain, who had swung his telescope into action again.
‘Mon Dieu! It is an English warship,’ said Lefevre with relish. ‘Now we shall have some sport, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Remember, captain, our first duty is to stay close to the Queen and protect her.’
‘Yes indeed, my Lord, and we shall protect her best by sinking these filthy English scum! Ramming speed, I think!’
‘No!’ Sinking the English ship did not fit in with Jamieson’s plans at all. With fog patches all around, they might not chance upon another, and his plan to hand Mary over to his friends would fail. He had to act now. As calmly as he could, he continued,
‘We must place ourselves between them and the Queen, and then shield her galley as we go around them.’ Jamieson was aware that their galleys would be faster in a straight line than the English sailing ship, but were less manoeuvrable. Since the English ship was across their path, they would have to circle around it, and this would give the English time to attack them. With luck, both galleys would be forced to surrender. As long as Lefevre could be made to co-operate …
‘Diable! Are you insane? We must attack!’
‘You have your orders, captain. The Queen’s ship must be closely protected, at all costs.’ Jamieson turned away and stared across at Mary’s galley, not far off now to their right, as it carved its way through the water.
Both galleys began a slow turn to the right, so that the Earl of Edinburgh was, as he intended, placed between his Queen and her enemies.
A faint rumble came across the water to Jamieson’s ears, and then a sudden scream pierced the air overhead as a sailor fell from the rigging and crashed to the deck with a sickening thud. The English had opened fire, and great cannon balls began to tear through the sails of the galley, ripping canvas, snapping ropes, and smashing through flesh and bones as if through soft fruit. The Queen’s horses, sheltering as best they could in the hold in the fore-part of the ship, began neighing in terror as they sensed the approaching danger. They were tethered tightly, and had no way of escaping the brutal onslaught from the English cannon, which tore into the galley with increasing rapidity.
As the English ship closed in, its fire became more accurate. Jamieson watched as, all around him, the wood of the galley splintered and flew into the air, as though a giant hand were wielding an invisible hammer indiscriminately, and with great wrath, intent on turning the ship into matchwood.
A terrible rending of timber sounded behind Jamieson, and he turned just in time to see a heavy wooden beam swinging towards him. One of the ship’s officers was beside him, and was caught in the face, the force of the blow hurling him into Jamieson, who was thus spared the full force of the impact. Even so, the breath was knocked out of him and he was flung headlong onto the deck, his head thumping cruelly against the planks. As he picked himself up, he saw blood on his hands and chest. In his dazed state, he was not sure if it was his own or, more likely, that of the officer, who was now lying groaning at his feet, one side of his face literally torn off and nowhere to be seen. Jamieson turned away and was sick.
He picked the officer up, trying not to look at him, and struggled below to where the wounded were being laid out. The ship’s doctor, in fact more of a ship’s butcher, was there, but in many cases was unable to do anything other than chop off shattered limbs, and apply unclean rags to staunch the flow of blood from gaping wounds. Men were then left alone, in unimaginable pain, to live or die as they would. The stench of blood and death was more sickening than the chaos on deck, and Jamieson was almost relieved to return to the open air.
Lefevre had ordered their own guns to open fire, so that soon a cloud of smoke rose over the ships, and it became difficult to see what was happening. It was like a new kind of fog, a black, evil-smelling, clinging mist. Jamieson’s throat became choked with the acrid fumes of gunpowder, and his whole head throbbed with the noise of the guns. Everywhere men were running and shouting, some issuing orders, but many staggering blindly, with terrible wounds, screaming and writhing in agony, desperate to escape the slaughter that was sweeping over the deck and turning its shattered planking into a field of dea
th.
The captain, his forehead grazed by a splinter and oozing blood, emerged from the smoke, shouting new orders in a hoarse voice. Jamieson went to his side, and heard instructions being given to turn and ram the English ship. A moment later Jamieson felt the wind on his face as they changed course.
Lefevre turned to him.
‘We cannot go on like this! We are—how you say?—sitting ducks. Now we do it my way. Your sword-arm will be busy in a few moments, my Lord. Prepare for boarding!’
Lefevre, a demonic look in his eye, drew his wicked-looking cutlass and swung it above his head. A cheer rose from those near him, and a motley array of swords, pikes and boat-hooks rose and whirled in anticipation of imminent action.
‘Prepare for boarding! Prepare for boarding!’ the cry resounded around the ship as the contingent of French soldiers, who were stationed on board for just this purpose, prepared to earn their pay.
Jamieson, smiling darkly at the captain, drew his sword.
The captain grinned at him. ‘It is good, my Lord, yes? We defend your beloved Queen now in the best way possible. Cold steel and hot blood, hein?’ He laughed devilishly.
‘Yes, captain, it is good,’ Jamieson, still smiling, agreed. The stress of impending combat had focused his mind, and he was ready now to do what had to be done. He had calmly resigned himself to the fact that his plan had failed. The Queen’s galley would not come to their assistance—it was unthinkable that Mary should be placed in such a dangerous position—but would make off towards Scotland and home as fast as possible. He, the Earl of Edinburgh, would be hailed as her saviour, nobly sacrificing himself for her. He could not help laughing at the irony of his position.
But, he calculated, all was not yet lost. This galley would make a valuable prize, and some of the Queen’s horses would surely have survived. If he could deliver the ship to the English, perhaps he could still emerge from this episode with his reputation, both with the Scots and the English, intact.
There was little time for further thought. The English were almost upon them. Jamieson decided that his best policy would be to keep close to the captain, and await his opportunity to betray the Frenchman and ensure the surrender of the ship.
Out of the smoke of battle, the English ship emerged alongside them. A loud shout went up all around him, and to his horror Jamieson found himself being crushed and propelled violently forward, near the head of a seething torrent of French soldiers, towards a solid wall of English swords and muskets. Desperately he tried to melt back into the crowd, but it was too dense. The hideous noise and the smell of sweat were overpowering, and he was unable to move his arms, so tightly packed was the mass of bodies.
Completely trapped, he looked ahead again, to where the English waited, and knew that his end had come.
A ghostly grey mist kept the Queen’s galley hidden as it neared Scotland. Then, on the morning of their arrival at Leith, yet another thick fog descended. Thick fogs were not unusual along the Scottish coast but, especially in view of the ill-fortune that had dogged them on their voyage, the royal party took this as another bad omen.
At long last, the galleys dropped anchor in the safety of Leith harbour, and Mary, Queen of Scots once more set foot on Scottish soil. Despite the loss of her magnificent horses, not to mention her friend the Earl of Edinburgh, she held her head high and Marie was filled with admiration at the sight of the Queen’s tall, commanding appearance. But for herself, Marie felt nothing but foreboding. For her, Scotland seemed an alien country full of danger. Yet she could not help feeling an overwhelming sense of relief that she was free at last from the threats and demands of Guthrie Jamieson.
PART III
SCOTLAND
1561
XXII
FAR out at sea, Jamieson shivered in his cabin, greedily quenching his thirst with a long draught of wine. His wounds still ached, but at least he was alive.
‘That was quite a close run thing, my Lord,’ laughed Randolph as he settled back in his chair and poured himself some wine.
‘Too close,’ agreed Jamieson. He took another drink. The heat of battle had left him, but the memory of his desperate fight for survival was as vivid in his mind as if he were still on the deck of the galley, with hatred and death still pressing tightly around him.
Never before had he stared death so clearly in the face as he had then, so near to his English allies and yet so far.
He could see, as in a dream, his advance towards the English line, could hear the crack of their muskets, could smell the stench of fear, sweat and gunpowder.
It was, incredibly, the musket fire that had saved his life—it caused the French ranks to break, as men threw themselves aside to avoid the leaden death it carried. Jamieson himself was pushed, still part of the charging horde of men, away to one side, from where he was finally able to break free of those near him.
Gasping for air, he had allowed the French advance to continue without him. He looked back to where Lefevre had been standing.
The captain had waded into the thick of the fighting, and his cutlass could clearly be seen whirling in the air and then plunging into the English ranks, to rise again dripping with fresh English blood.
All around the Earl similar battles were raging. The general impression was one of mad confusion, but there was to each individual conflict a demonic purpose, a primitive will to survive. Jamieson, keeping a careful watch all around him, made his way towards the captain.
His way was blocked by a giant of a man, English undoubtedly, who without hesitation lunged at him with a mighty sword already stained bright red. Of course the English soldiers knew nothing of Jamieson’s identity or his treacherous purpose. He therefore had no option but to fight.
He darted to the right, the great sword grazing his left arm slightly, and then he advanced swiftly with his own weapon aimed at the giant’s throat. For a man of such weight, the Englishman was surprisingly agile. He stepped back and brought his sword to bear again, swiping powerfully at Jamieson, who almost tripped as he retreated hastily.
The Englishman lunged again, and caught Jamieson’s sword near the hilt, wrenching it from the Earl’s grasp. The giant grinned hungrily as he stepped in for the kill. Jamieson took one pace back and felt solid timbers behind him. He looked about wildly for a weapon.
The Englishman stood motionless for a second, his expression changing from one of triumph to one of shock. Then his eyes closed, and he pitched forward onto his face, landing right at Jamieson’s feet. The Earl looked up in surprise, and met the gaze of Lefevre, who with a lascivious grin was withdrawing the cutlass which he had plunged deep into the Englishman’s back.
‘I see you were having a small difficulty, my Lord. There is no difficulty now, yes? Come, this way.’
He led Jamieson to the stern-castle of the galley, where his men were grouping. The fight was going badly for them, as the English had come aboard in great numbers. If the French were not to be slaughtered en masse, thought Jamieson, they must surrender now. But Lefevre was again slashing madly at the English with his cutlass, determined, it seemed, to fight to the death.
So be it, thought Jamieson. If the captain wished to die, then he, the Earl of Edinburgh, would see to it that he did. The fact that Lefevre had saved his life a few moments before did not cross his mind. He moved towards the Frenchman, unsheathing his dagger as he went.
The English were advancing steadily now, and most of the French were lying dead or dying on the deck. Jamieson had to pick his way carefully to avoid tripping. He reached the captain’s side, and shouted,
‘Captain, this is futile, we must surrender at once!’
‘Pah! I shall die before I lose my ship to these pigs!’
‘As you wish, captain.’ Without hesitation, Jamieson plunged his dagger into the Frenchman’s back.
Lefevre spun round, staring at him in wide-eyed astonishment. As blood began to trickle from his open mouth, a single word escaped from his lips—‘Merde!’ The cutlass dro
pped from his hand, and he clutched desperately at Jamieson, before his legs gave way beneath him and he slithered down on to the deck, to join the other corpses, French and English, who had given their lives as part of the treacherous plan masterminded by the Earl of Edinburgh.
Lefevre’s death marked the end of the battle. As if a signal had been given, men drew apart. After the noise of battle the silence was intense, eerie, broken only by the scraping of timber as the two ships moved against one another.
The English commander marched up to Jamieson.
‘Good day, my Lord. You are unhurt?’ He surveyed the carnage around them. ‘Most regrettable. We had hoped to avoid all this… And the Queen?’
Jamieson shook his head. He suddenly felt dreadfully tired. It was all he could manage to remain standing.
The commander grunted. Then he turned and issued orders for the rounding up of prisoners.
A piercing scream rent the air.
‘You dog! You have killed him, you have killed him!’ Lolita appeared and ran to where Lefevre had fallen, dropping at his side and taking his head despairingly in her arms. She stroked her lover’s hair, sobbing uncontrollably.
After a moment she fell silent, and looked up at Jamieson.
‘You did this! You …’ She rose and stalked towards him, like a lion about to leap on its prey. Her eyes burned with a terrible hatred. Jamieson saw a flash of metal, then suddenly felt a searing pain in his shoulder. He staggered back, clutching his arm, as English soldiers took hold of Lolita and dragged her away, her screams and oaths echoing in Jamieson’s head.
The Earl looked at the small jewelled dagger which she had planted in his shoulder. He found he was having difficulty focusing on it. He looked up. As if in a dream, the deck began to swim before his eyes, and his legs felt as though they were disappearing from under him.
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