“While I took his place.”
“So you are the young philanthropist!” muttered Sir William. He opened the door of the Queen’s chamber and looking in saw the prisoner with her two women gazing through the barred window.
Mary said: “Good day to you, Sir William.”
Sir William returned her greeting and shut the door.
“Sentinels who desert their posts pay with their lives,” he warned the soldier. “It is well that I am in a lenient mood this night.”
The soldier did not speak but stood at attention.
“Come with me,” said William to his brother.
He took him up the stairs to a small room on the next floor. There he spoke to him very severely, reminding him of the importance of guarding the Queen, of the attempts which would very likely be made to help her escape. What George had done was folly. What did he think their half-brother Moray would do if they were so foolish as to let Mary escape? In such an event their lives might not be worth very much.
George was not really listening. He could think of nothing but the Queen as she had stood there smiling at him, her long chestnut hair rippling over her shoulders; her deep-set eyes, which were a little darker than her hair, so melancholy and sad when he had seen her talking to the soldier, and sparkling with something like pleasure when he had told her of his devotion. He thought of that exquisite face which was a perfect oval, that straight nose, the mobile mouth and the white teeth which showed when she laughed.
He was in love. A thought which made him shudder with delight. To be in love did not mean the same to him as it did to Ruthven. He longed to prove his chivalry; he wanted to lay down his life for her. She was his first love and he was certain that she would be his last.
“For the love of God do not act so foolishly again,” Sir William was saying.
“No, brother,” he answered, but he was not thinking of what he said—only of her.
“Then go away and remember it,” retorted Sir William.
George came from his brother’s room and went to his own. He threw himself down on his bed and began to go through everything that had happened. He remembered every word she had said.
For a while—a very short while—he would give himself up to this delightful reverie and then he would begin to work out a plan.
The door of his room opened very slightly; Willie came in and stood at the end of his bed.
“Your Majesty,” he mimicked, “I would willingly give my life to satisfy your desire.”
George started up to stare in dismay at the mischievous urchin. “Where were you?”
“That’s telling.” Willie made a deep bow. “Ever since they brought you to the castle I have longed to serve you.”
George was out of bed, but Willie was nimble. He was out of the room and George heard his mocking laughter floating back to him.
It was no use pursuing him. One could never be sure where Willie got to. But how much had he heard? And what would he do about it?
George went back to his bed and threw himself on it. He did not believe he had anything to fear from Willie. There had always been a bond between them. They were friends. Often he had helped Willie to escape a whipping. They never mentioned this bond—but it was there, and they both knew it.
Willie’s object was solely to tease. He would tell no one else of what he had seen and heard pass between George Douglas and the Queen.
The door opened again and Willie’s grinning face looked around it.
“Willie!” cried George without rising.
Willie was alert, ready to run. “Yes, Geordie Douglas?”
“You’ll not tell a soul what you heard?”
Willie put his finger to his lips and looked very profound.
“It’s important. I mean it.”
Willie gave one of his winks and drawled: “Ay, but she’s a bonny lass. Geordie Douglas, you’re not the only one who thinks so.”
Then he was off, whistling.
Willie was trustworthy. George went back to his dream of delight.
IT HAD BEEN one of the happiest days for Mary since her incarceration had begun. That morning a large box had arrived, which had been sent on the instructions of Sir Robert Melville.
Lady Douglas and Sir William came to her chamber to see it while it was unpacked, being suspicious as to what such a box might contain.
Mary’s spirits rose as she read the letter from Sir Robert Melville which accompanied the box, and which stated that, being sure she missed the comforts to which she was accustomed, he was therefore having a few things sent to her from Holyrood.
Smiling with pleasure, Mary called Jane Kennedy and Marie Courcelles.
“This can only mean that Melville regrets his treatment of me,” she explained. “He is anxious to let me know that he dissociates himself from that brute Lindsay. It’s a good sign.”
It was then that Lady Douglas entered; she was a bright-eyed woman in spite of her advancing years, and could not hide her curiosity as to the contents of the box. If it were not for the fact that she knew Mary’s incarceration to be of such importance to her beloved son Moray, she would have been entirely sympathetic toward the Queen.
“I pray you be seated, Lady Douglas,” said Mary. “I can see you are as curious as I am to know what the box contains.”
“I crave Your Majesty’s pardon for intruding,” whispered Lady Douglas. “But . . . ”
“I understand,” said Mary. “You, like everyone in the castle, must obey the orders of those who now govern us.”
Lady Douglas lifted her shoulders resignedly. She had enjoyed her life, and the most exciting period was when she had been mistress to Mary’s father. When after his death she had married Douglas of Lochleven, life had continued to be good. She had a large family on whom she doted; she would never be lonely and life would never lose its zest for her because there would always be some son or daughter on whom her affectionate hopes would be fixed. She had borne thirteen children—six to James V and seven to Douglas. Her favorite was James Stuart, Earl of Moray, the man of destiny; but the others, like her dear Geordie, were more comfortable to live with.
As for Mary there was a resemblance to her father in her face, which warmed Lady Douglas’s heart every time she looked at her, and brought back memories that made her feel young again.
Jane Kennedy was bending over the box, drawing out a pair of black velvet boots trimmed with marten.
Mary gave a cry of delight: “Oh, how glad I am to see them again.”
Marie Courcelles held up a cloak of red satin also trimmed with marten.
Mary snatched it and wrapped it around herself. “Now I am beginning to feel alive again!” she declared.
Sir William who had joined his mother looked on and his expression was sardonic. He would have liked to depart, but how could he know what might be hidden among all the fripperies!
Lady Douglas had gone over to the women. She looked into the box and cried: “Sir Robert Melville has made a goodly choice.”
Mary took up a gray velvet robe and held it against her. “It is long since I wore this!” she said laughing. “But I shall enjoy wearing it more than I ever did before. What else, Jane?”
Jane and Marie were plunging into the chest and there were cries of pleasure as they held up a pair of crimson sleeves edged with gold fringe.
Jane said excitedly: “They can be attached to this silk camlet . . . oh look! It is the one decorated with aglets. How grand we shall be!”
“Let me see, Marie.” Mary took the sleeves and put them on. She clapped her hands. “How can I thank Melville for his thoughtfulness?” she asked, and there were tears in her eyes.
Sir William looked on with exasperation. It was well, he believed, that a Queen who could be so moved by fripperies should be compelled to abdicate.
Lady Douglas had brought out a black velvet coat.
“Magnificent!” she cried, and slipped it around the Queen’s shoulders.
“And he does
not intend us to be idle,” said Jane, her head in the trunk. “Look what I have here.” She brought up a packet of colored silks.
“We shall be able to embroider,” cried Marie.
“And here are canvases to work on and some Spanish chenille,” exclaimed Jane. “Look at the colors!”
“Oh, good Master Melville!” murmured Mary gaily.
The chest was emptied and the clothes were strewn about the floor. Sir William shrugged his shoulders and signed to his mother to remain in the apartment to keep watch and examine the clothes more closely.
Lady Douglas nodded. Mary, of course, knew why she remained, but the woman was only obeying instructions so she did not hold that against her.
“I will help your maids put the garments away, Your Majesty,” said Lady Douglas, as her deft fingers were feeling in the black velvet boots to discover whether a note was concealed there.
Mary smiled at her. “Please do,” she said. “Ah, what a difference it makes to have one’s own things about one.”
“Your Majesty finds life restricting here?”
“Inevitably, I fear.”
“I wish we might make life easier for Your Majesty.”
“You do your best, Lady Douglas, but I am a prisoner and nothing can alter that.”
“I will ask that you be allowed the freedom of the castle and the island. Now that you are so much better you must find confinement to one set of apartments tiresome.”
“All captivity is tiresome to me, Lady Douglas, but I thank you for your kindness. It is pleasant, in such circumstances, to find some who try to make my stay here more comfortable. Your son is already my friend.”
“William regrets that he must be your custodian.”
“I was not thinking of William, but your younger son.”
“My son George, Your Majesty. So you have noticed him!”
“I did, for I liked well his manners.”
Lady Douglas smiled happily. It was pleasant to hear compliments about her children. George was a handsome boy. Who knew, the Queen might not always be a prisoner. If she were ever back in power she would remember those who had pleased her during her captivity, and George might profit from the fact that he had found favor with the Queen. That would be wonderful. But alas, if the Queen were returned to power that would mean a loss of power for her dear son Moray, and that was something which must never happen.
Lady Douglas sighed, and turned her attentions to the new clothes which Melville had kindly—perhaps cunningly—sent for the Queen’s pleasure.
THAT SAME EVENING at seven o’clock Mary was seated at supper in her apartments when a boat came to the island and a most illustrious person disembarked.
Mary did not see his arrival but Jane Kennedy came in to tell her.
“Your brother is at the castle.”
“Jamie!” cried the Queen and her face lit up with pleasure. No matter what hard things she heard about James, she had always found it difficult to believe that he was anything but her friend.
“He is coming to see you,” whispered Marie.
Mary laughed. “I’m glad some of my clothes have arrived. I should have hated to greet Jamie in my rags. How does this silk camlet look?”
“Very beautiful with the aglets sparkling.”
“So I look a little more like a Queen?”
“You would always look like a Queen, Your Majesty, no matter what you wore.”
“And I still have subjects to flatter me! I can scarcely wait to see Jamie. He will come straight to me. Jane, I have a feeling that he will not allow me to remain here.”
“He is coming. I can hear him now,” said Jane.
The door opened and James Stuart, Earl of Moray, bastard brother of the Queen, stood on the threshold.
“Jamie!” cried Mary; and was about to go forward to embrace him when she saw that he was not alone. With him were the Earls of Morton and Atholl, and by the demeanor of them all she understood that this was not merely a visit of brother to sister; it was the would-be Regent calling on the dethroned Queen.
James’s face was expressionless. She had always teased him, told him that he was as cold as a fish. He took such a delight in never betraying his feelings. Now he stood, holding himself at his full height—which was not great—his tawny coloring the only real resemblance he bore to his royal father.
James Douglas, Earl of Morton, was yet another connection of the Douglas family and one of Moray’s closest friends and supporters. Mary did not like the man. She believed he had arranged the murder of Rizzio; it was between him and Atholl that she had entered Edinburgh after the debacle at Carberry Hill. It was thoughtless of James to come and see her in the company of two men who must bring with them such bitter memories.
“I heard you had come, James,” she said restrainedly. “It is a pleasure to see you.”
“I was near Lochleven and could not pass without a visit.”
“I am only a prisoner now, James.”
James looked uncomfortable. He was longing for this visit to be over but had felt it necessary to make it. He had determined not to see Mary alone, and it was for this reason that he had insisted that Morton and Atholl accompany him although they were as uneasy as he was. Neither of the three men would meet the Queen’s eye. She well understood their shame. She felt her anger rising against Morton and Atholl, but she remembered how James had played with her—in his solemn way it was true—when she was a child and had later told her that if she needed counsel she must come to him. He had often reminded her that he was her brother and that must mean that the ties between them were strong.
Others might warn her against him; she had never believed them; it had always been a fault of hers that she endowed others with the warm generosity which was her own.
“I trust you are comfortable here?” he murmured now.
“Comfortable! In prison? Do you think that possible, James?”
“You are safe here from your enemies . . . who are numerous.”
“I thought I was in the hands of my enemies,” she said a little sternly, and her eyes were scornful as she glanced from Morton to Atholl.
“William and my mother are treating you well, I trust?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “They do not starve me, nor ill-treat me physically. But, as I said, I am their prisoner. James, I wish to talk to you . . . alone.”
James hesitated. It was the very thing he was trying to avoid and yet he saw that he could not escape it without seeming churlish and he was anxious not to appear that.
“Oh . . . ” he said awkwardly, “very well.” He turned to his friends. “You hear my sister’s request. Perhaps you should leave us.”
Morton and Atholl bowed slightly and retired. When the door had shut on them Mary sighed with relief.
“I rejoice in their absence. They are no friends of mine.” She went to her brother and laid her hands on his shoulders giving him her most dazzling smile; but he was one of the few people who were not affected by it. When he looked at Mary, ambitious James did not see an attractive woman in distress; he saw the crown which had been taken from her and which—although he could not wear it—would be as good as his until her son reached his majority.
All the humiliation he had suffered could be appeased if he were ruler of Scotland. He could never be James VI, but he could be King in all but name . . . while his sister remained in captivity. He would exchange the term Bastard for Regent. It was the only balm for the wounded vanity of year. Mary was a fool to plead to him for help. She should have known that he was the last person to help her to freedom which must necessarily mean his own fall from power.
But Mary was a foolish woman—a beautiful and fascinating one, it was true, but a sentimental fool.
He had come here for one purpose—to make her implore him to take the Regency. He believed he could do this, for he had always thought him to be her friend.
He laid his hands almost gingerly on hers; his were cold, as she remembered they always had been
.
“Ah, Mary,” he said, “you are in a dire state . . . a dire state.”
“But I feel happier today for two reasons, Jamie. Today Melville had a box of my clothes sent to me . . . .”
Frivolous woman! thought James. Her crown lost, and she can take pleasure in clothes!
“And,” she went on, “as though that were not enough, my dear brother comes to see me.”
“Your food grows cold,” he said, because he found it embarrassing to look into her radiant face which betrayed her love for him. She made him feel mean and shifty, which he did not believe himself to be. He was a man with a stern sense of duty. He believed that there was one man who could make Scotland strong and deliver the country from the state into which Mary, with her two disastrous marriages, had plunged it; that man would be the Regent Moray. He had never betrayed his emotions, so she did not expect him to be demonstrative now, which was a mercy, for he would have found it difficult to feign love for her at this time, when he was planning to rob her of her kingdom.
He led her to the table and sat down with her.
“You must eat with me, Jamie.”
“I am not hungry. But you should continue with your supper.”
He sat down and stared broodingly before him.
“In the old days,” she said sadly, “you thought it an honor to give me my napkin.”
He did not offer to do this service and she went on: “It is difficult serving a Queen in the fortalice of Lochleven from doing so in the Castle of Edinburgh or Holyrood House.”
He was moodily silent and she cried: “Why, I embarrass you, Jamie. Never mind. It warms my heart to see you.”
“Pray finish your supper.”
“It seems inhospitable to eat alone. I do not think I am in the mood for food. Tell me, Jamie, what news do you bring me?”
“John Knox preaches against you in Edinburgh.”
“That does not surprise me. He was ever my enemy.”
“In the streets the fishwives speak against you.”
“I heard them shouting below my window. I saw their vacuous faces alive only with evil.”
The Captive Queen of Scots Page 5
