* * *
She looked up to see Maitland standing at the foot of her bed. The soldiers were gone. So was the tray. She felt groggy. Somehow she must have slept. She struggled to sit up.
“Good Secretary,” she said, “I see that today you recognize me.”
He chose to ignore the gibe. “I am sorry to intrude on your sleep. But the Lords have required me to ask of you whether you will leave Bothwell. If you do, they are prepared to reinstate you to authority.”
“Reinstate me?” she asked. “Have I been deprived of it? Legally, I mean. But you can tell them no. I will never leave the Earl of Bothwell, my wedded husband.”
Maitland looked pained. “My dear Madam. I have known you so long, and through my wife, who has known you since childhood, I feel I have known you always. Please, I beg you, see him as he is. Since the divorce from his first wife was obtained under collusion, it is undoubtedly illegal—or could be proved to be so. You need not cling to him any longer. You can be delivered. You are safe now.”
Safe! With the howling mob outside, and in complete custody and subjugation to the predatory Lords? She could not help giving a gentle, despairing laugh.
“No,” she said. “He is my husband, and I will never leave him. I would gladly be set adrift in a boat with him, to go wherever the winds take us, to try our fortune.”
He looked pained. “It is as I feared, then. You must face the truth about him. I tell you, he wrote letters to his first wife, telling her he but regarded you as his concubine.” When she did not respond, he added, “He paid her visits at Crichton Castle and continued to visit her bed.”
She laughed outright. “That is a lie!”
“So you will not leave him?”
“Never. And should you wish a practical reason to take back to that council of jackals who call themselves the Lords, tell them I am with child and will never consent to allow that child to be labelled bastard—like the Lord James!”
The mob was still howling outside. Maitland looked at her sadly. “Then I fear, due to the anger of the people, we will have to protect you from their wrath. And should you fail to recover your wits and strength, it may prove necessary to alleviate the heavy burden you carry. I see the crown has proven too weighty for that slender neck.”
* * *
That evening they staged a ceremonial transfer to Holyrood for her. Morton and Atholl escorted her on either side, with a guard of three hundred footsoldiers. Behind them marched the Lords and another twelve hundred soldiers. All deference was shown to Her Majesty, and the crowds were satisfied. During the day they had gradually swung over to sympathy for her, and now they were clamouring for her release or rescue. Seeing her treated in a respectful manner, and walking in freedom to her own palace, they dispersed and went home to their own houses.
Once inside Holyrood, Mary was at last reunited with her women: Mary Seton, Mary Livingston Sempill, who had come to be with her, Madame Rallay, and two newer but no less faithful ladies who had replaced the departed Marys: Jane Kennedy and Marie Courcelles. They took her upstairs to her own room and helped her change clothes. Dinner was served, and at last Mary had an appetite and could eat among friends without fear.
* * *
In the middle of the night they roused her. “Get ready,” they said, and it was not the voices of her women, but the voices of Lord Lindsay and Lord Ruthven.
“Why, what is this?” She clutched the covers about herself.
“We have a journey to make. Get dressed.”
She looked round. The women were nowhere to be seen. “Where? Why?”
“We are not at liberty to divulge.”
“Very well.” She climbed out of bed. “Will you permit me the privacy to dress?”
They nodded and faded away, or so it seemed.
This seemed like a dream. Or something that had already happened once, long ago. She had been awakened and told to get ready, that she was being taken to a secret place.…
Quickly she put on her sturdiest clothes and selected her riding boots. There was a coarse riding cloak, rust-coloured, and that she would need. Yes, it all was like something that had already happened.… Her women … she must speak to them, must leave a message with them. She had a note ready to take to Bothwell, telling him briefly what had happened and assuring him of her loyalty.
“Let us go,” said Ruthven’s voice from the door.
“I come,” she said.
As she passed out through the outer chamber, she stopped. There were her women, having been ordered to wait there. She made her way to them, and Ruthven did not attempt to stop her.
“Take a message to Balfour at the castle,” she told Mary Seton. “Tell him no matter where I am taken, to keep faith with me, and not to surrender the castle into the hands of the Lords. I will get word to him later. And to Bothwell at Dunbar.” She thrust a paper into their hands. There was no envelope. She did not care if they read it. She loved Bothwell, and there was no shameful secret in that.
“Come.” Lindsay’s voice was impatient. Lindsay: the proud young lord who had dared even to think he could fight her husband in single combat.
Squeezing Madame Rallay’s hands in farewell, she turned and made her way to the door.
Once they had descended the steps and reached the courtyard, they nudged her to turn to the back of the palace. It was the same place where she had crouched and crawled to hide herself when she had escaped from these very men, or their fathers, when Riccio had been slain. Then Bothwell and Huntly had been waiting for her, but now there was no one.
“Mount up,” ordered Lindsay, the older and rougher of the two. He jerked the bridle of an unfamiliar horse and led him over to her, and forced her to climb into the saddle. Then he swung himself up onto his own mount, and motioned to the young Ruthven. A band of men-at-arms appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and then, at a signal, they all trotted off.
They went down the road toward the water, and then, instead of going to Leith, turned left and descended to Queensferry. At the wharf a vessel was waiting for them; they and their horses were taken abroad quickly. The crossing was made with little difficulty, and when they alighted at the other side, Mary expected that they would take the road to Stirling. She had assumed that they would hustle her to Stirling, that great fortress which could also serve them as headquarters. So she was surprised when they rode straight for Dunfermline, and did not stop.
They clattered through the little town in the darkness, and emerged on the other side, then out into the open country. In the soft summer air—it was still warm, even now—she could hear the nightingales singing in the woods. They came to Blairadam Forest and Lindsay led the way through; he seemed to know it well. Here in the shrouded darkness there were other sounds: the sharp cries of the owls, the snarl of a polecat, the whining of a wild dog somewhere in the underbrush who resented being disturbed.
By the time they emerged on the other side of the forest, the east was growing light, with a pearly white glow. Mary saw, swimmingly outlined against the light, the shape of Benarty Hill and, to her left, the dark Lomond Hills. She heard the sound of geese honking, and suddenly she knew where she was and where she was going: to Lochleven Castle.
Of course! It was a strong castle on an island in the midst of a deep and often storm-tossed loch; but most important, it was held by the mother of Lord James and her considerable brood of nonroyal offspring. Lady Douglas had seven daughters and three sons besides her beloved Lord James. Lindsay was married to a Douglas daughter, and the elder Ruthven’s first wife had been a Douglas. Her imprisonment would be a family affair in a stout family prison, with all the gaolers loyal to each other.
She could see the broad flat surface of the loch now, bearded round its edges with reeds and cattails, and she could hear the geese who nested within them. She had come here on other occasions; she and Darnley had stayed here just after they were married, and had gone hunting in the surrounding countryside, returning at night by rowboat to their i
sland retreat. Then it had seemed dreamy, perfect, remote—a lover’s dream come true. She even furnished her own rooms here with her royal accoutrements.
A bitter laugh escaped her, and Ruthven jerked his head around to see what she found so amusing.
My suite is just waiting for me, she thought. The bride’s dream retreat has now turned into a gaoler’s dream.
They swung a lantern back and forth three times, and a light answered them from the island, about a mile away. They boarded the small rowboat and two of Lindsay’s retainers did the rowing, their thick-muscled arms making it look easy. It took them very little time to make the crossing, and Sir William, Lord James’s half brother and keeper of the castle, was waiting for them at the landing. As the prow of the little boat pushed through the weeds, startled birds flew up. The water lapped up almost to the foot of the thick, high walls surrounding the castle.
“Welcome,” the wheezing Sir William said, bowing. He was a sickly man, Mary remembered, always having to send for medicines for his chest and perpetual cough. Although he was very nearly the same age as Lord James, he had none of his stolid robustness. That was supplied by his redoubtable mother, the Lady Douglas, who was also standing there.
Mary had known her earlier, and although the lady had always been polite and had tried to make Mary’s stay at Lockleven comfortable, there had always been the jostling between them inherent in two women, both beautiful, one of whom was in her prime, and the other past it. Now the lady was smiling and welcoming Lindsay, her son-in-law.
“We have a warrant for her incarceration,” said Lindsay loudly. “Signed by Morton, who is acting as head of the Lords in the absence of Lord James.”
Sir William took the paper in a shaky hand and held it out to read it in the dim light. He then folded it and was about to put it away when Mary said, “May I have it read? I am entitled to know what it contains.”
“Oh … yes. It says, ‘The said Lord William Douglas is to reserve her within Lochleven and keep Her Majesty surely within. So shall she be detained and kept from harm until she agree to part herself from her pretended husband the Earl of Bothwell, the evil ravisher and cruel murderer who seeks to oppress and destroy that innocent infant the Prince as he had done his father, and so, by tyranny and cruel deeds, at last to usurp the royal crown and supreme government of this realm.’”
She laughed. “You yourselves have the Prince safe in Stirling Castle, and as for cruel murderers—why, my lords Lindsay and Ruthven, I saw the knives in your hands when Riccio was killed. I forgave you and Morton for that crime, as I recall, when you were at my mercy.”
Ruthven stepped forward and took her elbow. “Enough of this. That was before your wits were turned by the potions of the Earl of Bothwell.”
Again she laughed, but this time desperately.
“You see?” said Ruthven. “We must get her to a resting place.”
“Yes, yes,” said Sir William, leading the way.
As they entered through the fortified gate, Mary saw that she was not being taken to her customary quarters in the square tower, but was being paraded across the green inner courtyard to a circular tower diagonally across from it, which was built into the southeast corner. Lady Douglas unlocked the thick wooden door and gestured that they should enter.
It was dark and musty within. Only the plainest furniture was in the ground-floor room: a rough table, three stools, two old-fashioned candles in huge, wrought-iron holders.
“The bed is upstairs,” said Lady Douglas.
Mary pulled herself slowly up the spiral staircase by holding on to a rope. Sure enough, an ascetic single bed was shoved into one corner. The light was poor, and there were not even any rushes on the floor. Behind her, Lady Douglas held up a candle.
“Is this the way you honour guests?” Mary asked, but her voice was soft. Where were her hangings, her ebony sofa? Stolen, most like. This little tower room was more roughly furnished than the one in Dunbar Castle where Bothwell had taken her. And then it had been different, altogether different, for he was there, and where he was, she was cared for.
Lady Douglas looked away, embarrassed. Another person suddenly joined them in the room, emerging from the stairwell. It was a young man of about Mary’s own age, with enormous blue eyes framed with spiky black lashes.
“They say you may send for two of your own lady attendants,” he said. “And a physician or secretary.”
“This is Geordie, my youngest son,” said Lady Douglas.
One of them. Another enemy. But he was handsome, with his wavy dark hair and ruddy complexion. How different all the members of this family looked.
Mary felt great relief. “Then tell them I would like Mary Seton and”—not Mary Livingston Sempill, she had family duties—“and Jane Kennedy, and Claud Nau, my secretary.”
“With gladness, Your Majesty,” he said in a lilting voice. Was he mocking her? She was too tired and heartsick to care.
She sank down on the little bed and put her feet up. Everything seemed to spin, with the centre beam of the ceiling the still point of a great turning wheel. Outside, the water was lapping against the stones of the tower and she could smell its dank odour. The ground-floor room would be mouldy and damp. A fit place for a prisoner. Like being at sea.
At sea … at sea with Bothwell … She fell into a deep sleep.
LVIII
Bothwell sat in his room at Dunbar, his head in his hands. It was the middle of the night. He should have been fast asleep on this, the night on which he was more tired than he had ever been in his life. But he was so tortured he could not allow himself to lie down.
He had failed. He had lost the battle without a blow ever having been struck. It was the one possibility he had never considered. He had been ready to die, but not to limp away like this. And Mary—what must she think? Oh, she was quick-witted and brave, and would not be intimidated. But now she was among enemies, with no one likely to be susceptible to her special pleading or even a bribe. Would they honour their word? He knew them well, and he knew the answer to that.
There would be no possibility of a bribe, because the Lords were now in control of everything. Mary would have to have their permission even to take possession of her own belongings. Only if the people rose up and demanded her release … But no, the people were dead against her, whipped up by Knox and his like. Knox was demanding her death, saying that even that was not severe enough, that she should be eaten by dogs, like Jezebel. The gentle, sweet Knox, showing everyone the deep love of God.
What had happened to Huntly and Hamilton? Why had they not arrived?
I can rally the forces if I move quickly, he thought. There are still many who are loyal to the Queen. Then we can storm Edinburgh and take her back.
Edinburgh. They are in possession of everything there, except the castle. Balfour still holds it for us.
I need my personal belongings from my apartments there; my titles and deeds and the patent creating me Duke of Orkney and Lord of Shetland; the marriage contract, all my plate and jewels.…
He poured himself out a goblet of wine, and bolted it. Instead of making him feel better, it muddied his thoughts. For an instant fear went through him, but then it disappeared. He sent for Geordie Dalgleish, and instructed him to go to Edinburgh Castle and retrieve the papers and personal effects from his old quarters.
* * *
Morton was allowing his beard to be trimmed. He had let it grow rather bushy, and his mistress was complaining about it. She liked to twine her fingers in it, but said it was like a thorny hedge now. Women! They were so opinionated about such things, so quick to criticize. But if it made her happy and more willing to indulge him in bed, it was a fair enough trade.
The barber, snipping away under his chin, was attempting to question him without being obvious. “’Tis a fair day, my lord, is it not? June so hot this year, and your having to fight under this sun. The battle—oh, I’m told it wasn’t a battle at all, just a staring-down. And the Queen—they we
re most unkind to her on the road back to Edinburgh. I am told she had to go past Kirk O’Field. Most distressing. She was distressed, I know.”
“Do you?” asked Morton. “Did you see her?”
“No. I was not there,” he admitted.
“Ah,” said Morton, pretending he did not recognize the man’s question.
The barber tilted up Morton’s chin and began to shave it delicately where the hairs always got caught in his collar. It would feel good to be rid of them. Morton relaxed.
“Is the Queen…?”
“Safe. And resting,” Morton assured him cryptically.
Little curls of red hair lay all around them on the floor. The man produced a broom and pan and swept it up. “Lest witches get hold of it!” he attempted to joke.
Morton did not smile. There were altogether too many witches about, and one could not be too careful. Why had the man said that? Was he working for one?
“The bottom of the Nor’Loch is lined with witches,” he said pointedly.
The man was whisking off the towel he had draped around Morton’s shoulders. “There,” he said, fluffing up the shortened, thinned beard. “How do you like it?”
Morton ran his fingers through it. “It feels light. Just right for summer.” He dug into his purse and gave the man his customary payment. He was eager for him to be gone along with his questions.
Best not to have too many questions just now. Not until things sorted themselves out. It had all happened so quickly that they needed time to think.
Morton returned to his room to select his clothes for this sunny, fine day. He usually wore black, but today he felt like something in a bright colour. But no—he had purged his wardrobe of all the yellows and reds and purples when he became a Lord of the Congregation. Today, though, he wished he had retained just one or two items, for the rare June day when the spirits were soaring and one wished to feel young and free.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 80
