by Jean Plaidy
Margaret curtsied.
“Welcome to Lochleven, Your Majesty.”
Mary answered: “I am so tired. Take me to my bed.”
“Your Majesty would like to rest before taking a little food?”
“The thought of food sickens me. I want only to rest.”
“Then come this way.”
So Mary entered the castle of Lochleven, knowing that she entered a prison. But she was too weary to care. There was only one thing she craved now. Rest. Quiet, that she might shut out the memory of those cruel faces which had leered at her, that she could for a while forget the words which had been shouted at her. Oblivion. That was what at this moment she needed more than anything in the world. She was aware of faces as she passed on her way through the quadrangle to the southeast tower. They looked almost ghostly in the lights of the cressets on the castle walls.
There was one which held her attention for a few seconds; it was the face of a young man with a gentle mouth and eyes which betrayed his sympathy as he looked at her. Perhaps she half smiled at him; she was not sure. But the face did have the power—exhausted as she was—to hold her attention for that short moment.
There was one other, she noticed—a young boy with a mischievous expression; his alert eyes were fixed on her and she could not read what thoughts were going on behind them.
These faces became mingled with the hazy impressions of that grim and fearful night.
She had entered the room which had been made ready for her and, without waiting for her servants to prepare her, she threw herself upon the bed and in a few seconds had lost all consciousness of where she was.
The Queen was sleeping the sleep of complete exhaustion.
WHEN SHE awoke it was daylight and for some moments she could not remember where she was. As she looked at the lofty yet gloomy chamber, she was aware of a certain odor; it was not unpleasant and she wondered where she had smelled it before. It was faint yet haunting; and it was when she realized what it was, that memory came flooding back. It was the dank smell of lake water which could take her back in time to that period of her childhood which she had spent at Inchmahome. She remembered then that she was a prisoner in Lochleven.
She raised herself on her elbow and, looking about her, saw that the room was sparsely furnished in the Scottish manner. She would never grow accustomed to it. Yet in this castle, in this very tower were those rooms which she herself had furnished, for in the past she had lodged here when on hawking or hunting expeditions, and because her visits were so frequent she had hung her own tapestries on the walls and had her own bed installed. Why then was she brought to this dismal room? It must be to impress on her that she was no longer an honored Queen, but a prisoner.
The sound of tramping feet was audible, and glancing through the window she saw the sentinel pacing up and down. So they had determined to guard her well. She could trust Lindsay for that. At the thought of that dark bearded face her anger began to rise; and the hideous memories came back. If she did not restrain her thoughts she would be living it all again—the absolute hell of that night in the Provost’s House, that walk to Holyrood House and the ride through the darkness to Lochleven. Nothing could be worse, and she hoped never to be called upon to live through the like again.
She thought of Bothwell then and she was sick with longing for him. It was a wild sensual yearning, a mad desire for the man who had first awakened sexual knowledge in her and taught her that she was a voluptuous woman. He would come for her surely. But he must be reasonable. Bothwell had never loved her as she had loved him. It was her crown he had wanted; many of his mistresses had beautiful bodies to offer him; but she was the only one who had a crown. He had not denied this when she had taunted him with it; he was too sure of himself to lie. Yet at the end he had been tender.
He will come for me, she told herself. He must come. Then he will take that black Lindsay by the beard and throw him into the lake.
A woman rose from a chair not far from the bed. Mary had not noticed her until that moment.
This was Jane Kennedy, one of her maids of honor.
“So they have allowed you to remain with me,” she said.
“Yes, Your Majesty. And Marie Courcelles is with us. We shall do our best to serve you. Your French apothecary is here also. So if there is anything you need . . . ”
“There is only one thing I need, Jane: my freedom. And that is something they have determined to take from me.”
“It will not always be so. Shall I see about food for Your Majesty?”
“I am not hungry and the thought of food nauseates me. What hour is it?”
“It is well after noon.”
“Then I have slept long.”
“Your Majesty was quite exhausted. And still is, I’ll swear.”
Mary put her hands to her face. “Oh, Jane, how do I look? I am filthy. There is the grime of Carberry Hill on me . . . and the Provost’s house . . . .”
“I will fetch water.”
“Help me up first.”
Jane did so but when Mary stood she felt sick and dizzy.
“You should rest, Your Majesty. I pray you, lie still while I bring the water.”
Mary lay back obediently; but when Jane returned she found her mistress had become listless.
“Your Majesty, when you have washed and eaten you might be allowed to explore the castle. I do not see how they can prevent your doing that. This state of affairs will not last. Your faithful subjects will soon come to rescue you from your enemies.”
Mary said quietly: “My faithful subjects? Those who deserted from my army? Those who called out that I should be burned as a murderess . . . as an adulteress?”
“Come, allow me to wash your face. Then I will comb your hair and bring a mirror that you may see the result. It is all that is needed to make you the most beautiful woman in Scotland.”
But Mary could not rouse herself from her melancholy.
Marie Courcelles came in and when she saw that the Queen was awake she expressed her pleasure.
“Your Majesty will soon be well again. You will make a Little France in this dreary old Lochleven.”
But Mary turned her face away and began to weep silently.
“It will pass,” whispered Jane to Marie. “She has yet to recover from the shock.”
“If only my lord Bothwell were here all would be well. He would make her gay again.”
Mary turned and looked at them. Her voice seemed devoid of all hope as she said: “Bothwell has fled. I have a feeling that I shall never again see his face. And what is happening to my son? How will my little Jamie fare without me to care for him?”
“All will be well, Your Majesty. Do you think Lord Bothwell would leave you to your enemies! I have heard it said that he has gone North to take refuge with Huntley. They will come to release you.”
She shook her head. How she wished she could have believed that! And why could she not? Why was she so certain that she could never see Bothwell again?
And if I do not, she asked herself, what reason have I for living? He was my life. At times I hated him; he was harsh to me—always cruel, determined to dominate me, to go on as he had begun when in Buchanan’s House he stole in on me unawares and took his will of me. I tried to resist him then and yet I knew—as he did it—from that moment I was in his power.
It is not because I have lost Scotland that I mourn. It is because I have lost the two I love more than any in the world—my lover Bothwell, and James my baby son.
She lay down and listened to the sound of her women whispering anxiously together; she heard the tramp of the sentinel outside her window. That was like the tramp of doom. They were determined that she should never escape from Lochleven. And in that moment, so deep was her despair, she believed she never would.
She was sunk in melancholy and would do nothing to rouse herself.
Now the night and days began to merge one into another and she lost count of them. Her French apothecary came to her b
edside with potions for her to drink, but she would not touch them.
“Madame,” he declared, “you will die if you will not try to save yourself from death.”
“Let me die,” she answered. “I should be happier dead than a prisoner in Lochleven Castle.”
She lay in a haze of memories; she was happiest when she could not remember where she was, and that was often the case. She thought she was in France, the petted idol of the Court there, beloved of Henri Deux and his mistress the dazzling Diane de Poitiers; the adored wife of young François Deux; the hope of all her Guise relations. Through that dream the figure of Catherine de’ Medici moved like a menacing ghost, sending her back to Scotland when those who loved her were dead, sending her to unhappy marriage with Darnley, to the nightmare of his death—but to Bothwell. She must always remember that when she came back to Scotland she came to Bothwell. And then to Carberry Hill and Lochleven.
Lady Douglas came to her bed and tried to coax her to eat. But she had no desire to speak with Lady Douglas. Sir William came in the company of Lindsay and Ruthven; she turned her head away and would not even look at them.
Once a young man, whose looks proclaimed him to be a Douglas, came to her bedside and stood looking down at her.
He whispered: “Your Majesty, if there is some commission with which you would entrust me, gladly would I perform it.”
But she could not answer him because the expression on his face brought a lump to her throat; so she had closed her eyes, and when she opened them he had gone.
On another occasion a boy had stood at the end of her bed watching her . . . a strange boy, with a pert, freckled face. He had said with a broad accent: “Hello, Queen.” And she believed he must have been part of a dream, for suddenly he winked at her and was gone.
So the days passed in a melancholy haze.
Jane remonstrated with her. “Your Majesty, it is fourteen days since we came to Lochleven and you have scarcely eaten or drunk in all that time. You must rouse yourself. What if my lord Bothwell were to come for you? How could you escape with him, weak as you are?”
“I could not stand, could I, Jane,” she said. “There is no strength left in my limbs.”
“Your Majesty,” implored Jane, “before it is too late save yourself . . . for Scotland and your son who needs you.”
Those words kept repeating themselves in Mary’s mind. Save yourself . . . Save yourself for Scotland and your son who needs you.
The next day she ate a little; and the following day a little more.
Word went through the castle: “The Queen is beginning to take an interest in her surroundings. After all, she has decided to live.”
George Douglas lay on the grass, his eyes never straying long from those windows which were hers. He had thought of her continually ever since he had heard that they were bringing her to his home. He had pictured her as he had so often heard her described—beautiful beyond imagining; gowned in rich cloth of gold, velvet and silver, a crown on her head. He had remembered all he had heard about her romantic life; her early flight to France where she had become Queen; her three marriages, all ending in tragedy. He had heard the scandals which had been whispered about her when Darnley had been murdered. They called her adulteress, murderess, but he did not believe them. He had always believed her to be a deeply wronged woman, and since she was also beautiful she had become the center of his dreams of chivalry.
He was misunderstood in this rough country where men such as Bothwell were looked up to, where cold passionless men like his half-brother Moray were those whom others were ready to call their leaders.
When he had seen the Queen disheveled after her ordeal, almost demented, her gown tattered, her lovely features spattered with mud, his feeling had been more intense than he had imagined they ever could be. He loved the sick and lonely woman more than he ever could the Queen in her crown and royal robes. He was excited almost beyond endurance, because she was here in his brother’s castle, within his reach, and because she was a friendless prisoner and it might be in his power to help her.
During the last weeks he had sought excuses to go into her apartment. She had been unaware of him, lying listless in her bed, her eyes closed; and he had been afraid that, since she clearly no longer wished to live, she would die.
Once she had opened her eye and seen him and he had looked at her with such yearning that he believed he aroused some response in her. He had been begging her not to die, for if she died he wished to die also. He was young and of little account in the castle where his mother and brother ruled, and where Moray was considered to be the most important person in Scotland, but he was fierce in his desire to help her; he wanted to give his life for her. Willingly would he do so and count himself blessed. That was what he had tried to tell her.
Did she understand? Was it coincidence that a few days later he had heard that the Queen was taking a little nourishment?
“Hi, watchdog!”
George turned quickly and glared at young Willie, who had crept up silently and flung himself down on the grass beside him.
“Where did you come from?” demanded George, embarrassed to have been caught by this alert boy gazing at the Queen’s windows. “And your doublet is filthy.”
Willie grimaced, and wriggled his bare toes as though in ecstasy.
“She does not notice my filthy doublet, Geordie watchdog. Why should she look at me when handsome Geordie’s near?”
George leaped up to cuff the boy but Willie was even quicker on his feet. He stood some little distance away and, placing his hands as though he held a lute, rolled his eyes like a lovesick troubadour in the direction of the Queen’s windows.
“You go to the kitchens. There’ll be work for you there, Willie Douglas.”
“Doubtless, doubtless,” cried Willie. “But there’s other than scullion’s work for me in the castle when we’ve a Queen living with us.”
George did not answer; he lay down on the grass once more and leaning on his elbows propped his face in his hands, this time making sure that he was looking, not toward the castle, but over the lake.
Willie watched him for a while; then he said: “There’s always fishing boats on the lake, Geordie.”
“And what if there are?”
“Nobody takes much notice of ’em, Geordie. They come and go between the island and the mainland.”
“Be silent,” said George fearfully and he rose to his feet again.
Willie hopped back a few paces assuming the posture of a troubadour.
George went after him, and Willie sped away, laughing over his shoulder. Down the slope he went to the shores of the lake, George in pursuit; but before George could catch him Willie was running into the lake where George, for fear of spoiling his sturtop boots, could not follow.
Willie stood, the water about his knees, still playing the troubadour.
Watching him in exasperation George’s eye was caught by a boat which was setting out from the mainland. As his keen eyes picked out the figures in the boat, he saw that they were not fishermen nor ferrymen, but strangers—grand personages with a look of the Court about them.
“Visitors for the Queen,” he said; and Willie turned to look.
Willie came out of the water to stand beside George; and forgetful of all else they stood side by side watching the approaching boat.
SIR ROBERT Melville, Scottish ambassador to the Court of Elizabeth of England, stepped ashore and looked at the castle of Lochleven.
A strong fortress, he thought. As impregnable as could be found in Scotland. She would not find it easy to break out of this place.
Melville’s feeling were mixed. He would have been far more sorry for the Queen if she had not acted so foolishly over Bothwell. It was natural that a suave diplomatist should hate the fellow—rough, vulgar Borderer that he was; and the fact that Mary could have become so besotted about him lowered her in her ambassador’s estimation. From the moment he had heard of the marriage, Melville had been read
y to ally himself with her enemies.
She had been good to him, he was ready enough to admit. Because he had strongly opposed her marriage to Darnley it had been necessary at one time to take refuge in England; but Mary was not a woman to bear grudges; she had pardoned him and, because of his knowledge of the English had agreed that he should become her ambassador to Elizabeth.
He had been revolted by the murder of Darnley and had planned then to retire from politics, but Mary had insisted that he return to the English Court in the role of her ambassador; and as an escape from Scotland, Melville had done so.
Now he came to her with a mission—a most unpleasant one which he did not relish but which he was reluctantly obliged to admit was a just one.
Sir William Douglas was waiting to greet him as he alighted. With him were Lindsay and Ruthven; Lady Douglas came forward and her son George whom Melville had seen on the bank as the boat ran ashore, hovered in the background.
“Welcome to Lochleven,” said Lady Douglas. “I have had apartments made ready for you.”
“My lady is gracious,” murmured Melville.
As they walked toward the castle, Sir William said: “I believe you will agree that it would be well for us, with my lords Lindsay and Ruthven, to talk in private for a while before you visit the Queen’s apartments.”
Melville said he thought this would be desirable. So Sir William turned to his mother and asked that wine should be sent to his small private chamber, and there he would confer with the visitor.
While Lady Douglas summoned one of her daughters and bade her give orders in the kitchen, Sir William went into the castle with Lindsay, Ruthven and Melville.
Left there in the sunshine, George felt shut out. Something important was about to happen and he knew that it threatened the Queen.
He felt angry with his powerlessness, with his youth and lack of experience. Why could he not enter the castle in the company of those men? Why could he not know what was said between them?
Someone was tugging his coat, and he turned to find Willie beside him.
