“I could not answer for your safety if you went back to Edinburgh.”
“So I must remain here, a prisoner?”
“For your own safety.”
“But I have heard that there are some lords who would be ready to rally to my side. The Flemings and the Setons were always my loyal friends.”
“Who told you this?” he asked sharply.
“I do not remember. Perhaps no one told me. Perhaps I merely know it to be true.”
Moray’s mood was thoughtful. He was going to tell his brother William that they must be more vigilant; he was not pleased with the measures of security which were being taken. He fancied he had seen a change in Ruthven. There was a certain witchery about his half-sister which—and this was beyond his understanding—seemed to have a devastating effect on men, so that they were ready to jeopardize their careers.
Mary threw aside her napkin. “No,” she said, “I shall not eat alone. Let us go for a walk in the open air. I shall be considered safe if you are my companion.”
He took a velvet robe—which had come in Melville’s box—and put it about her shoulders.
“Come then,” he said, and they left the apartments and went into the grounds.
“They allow you to walk out here, I suppose.”
“They are most vigilant. I have taken a few little walks but always surrounded by guards.”
“I do not see why you should not walk when you wish and go where you wish in the castle.” He was looking at the boats moored at the lakeside. He pondered: I shall tell William to have her more closely watched. But at the same time he wanted her to go on believing that he was her friend and that he had come to assure himself of her comfort and to give her as much freedom as he could, at the same time ensuring her safety.
“Oh, Jamie,” she cried, “I knew you would help me.”
“My dear sister, ever since the murder of Rizzio there have been murmurs against you. Your marriage with Darnley was undesirable. You know how I warned you against that.”
“Because, dear brother, you are such a stern Protestant, and you would rather have seen me make a Protestant marriage.”
“And his mysterious death . . . .” Moray shook his head. “And then, before he was cold, the marriage with Bothwell. My dear sister, how could you have allowed yourself to be led into such folly?”
“Darnley’s death was none of my doing.”
Moray’s lips were hidden by his tawny mustache but they were tight and stern.
“Rizzio murdered; Darnley murdered . . . and then that hasty and unseemly marriage!”
“What news of Bothwell, James?”
“None that is good.”
“Good for me, James, or for those who wish to destroy him?”
James said: “He fled North. He is said to be there with Huntley.”
He will come for me, she thought triumphantly, and when he comes this nightmare will be over.
Moray was thinking: My first act will be to send a squadron North to capture that traitor. There is little the people of Edinburgh would rather see than his head on a pike.
“Mary,” said James, “you must be patient during the next months. You must resign yourself to your confinement here. Willingly would I free you, were it in my power to do so, but it would not be for your good.”
“How long will it last?”
“Who knows? Until the affairs of this country are in order.”
“They have made my little baby King of Scotland. Poor innocent child, he knows nothing of this. What will he think, I wonder, when he is old enough to know that they made a prisoner of his mother in order to rule through him?”
“It is a dangerous situation.”
“So many of them struggling for power,” she agreed.
“What Scotland needs—until the people are prepared to receive you back on the throne—is a strong man who can rule.”
“If Bothwell were here . . . ”
“Bothwell is far away in the North. The people would tear him to pieces if they could lay their hands on him. They want someone who is not afraid of them to restore order. Someone who will give his life if need be . . . for our troubled country.”
“Yourself, James?” she asked gently.
He frowned and pretended to be reluctant.
“I? Our father’s bastard!”
“The people do not hold that against you.”
“’Twas truly no fault of mine. Had I been consulted I should have asked to be born in wedlock!”
“You are the man, James. Our father’s son. Sober and religious in a manner acceptable to the people, strong, firm, destined to rule.”
“You are asking me to take over the Regency until that time when you are allowed to assume the crown?”
“Why yes, James, I suppose I am . . . if I have any say in the matter.”
“You ask a great deal,” he said, and there was no hint in his voice or manner of the exultation which was his. The purpose of his visit was achieved, and he saw no reason why he should dally longer with his sister. It was true she had no power to bestow the Regency, but being the man he was he preferred to have her approval.
They were silent for a while, looking over the lake. It would soon be dark and Mary gazed longingly at the mainland. The biggest of the boats, which brought household articles from the mainland, creaked on its chains. Suppose he were to take me away in that boat, she thought; who would be waiting on the mainland to help me? Some of my friends, surely.
Moray was thinking how gullible she was. How fortunate for him that she had committed folly after folly which had brought her to Lochleven. Here must she remain. There was so much he might have told her. Many of her cherished possessions had been given away as bribes by the Protestant lords; he had helped himself to horses from her stables. He might have told her a very interesting piece of news which could have caused her serious alarm. But not yet. He and Morton had not yet decided what use they would make of the silver casket which was in Morton’s possession. Morton declared that George Dalgleish, a servant of Bothwell’s, had discovered this after Bothwell had fled; and in this casket were letters and poems which left no doubt of Mary’s guilt as murderess and adulteress.
No, as yet that little matter was a secret to be brought to light when it could be most useful.
Mary had turned to him questioningly. In the dusk she seemed to see him more clearly than she ever had before.
James, who was never on the spot when there was trouble. Was it accident or design? What calculation went on behind those cold passionless eyes?
Standing there by the lakeside Mary was suddenly aware that Moray’s purpose in coming to Lochleven had not been to soothe her, not to assure himself of her comfort, but to persuade her to persuade him to accept the Regency.
The Regency! It was what he had always set his heart on.
She wanted to laugh loudly and bitterly. But James was saying: “The air grows chill. Let me conduct you to your chamber. Then I must say farewell.”
“Ah yes, James, there is no longer need for you to stay, is there?”
He appeared not to have heard as silently he conducted her into the castle which struck her as chill and forbidding; it seemed to her now as much a prison as it had in those first days.
He is no friend to me, she thought. Once I am free the Regency would pass from his hands.
How alone she felt! How deserted!
As she went toward her apartments escorted by James she saw George Douglas. His eyes went to her at once and became alight with the longing to serve her.
Not entirely alone! she thought as she went into her apartment. Not entirely deserted.
SIR WILLIAM VISITED Mary the next day and said: “My lord Moray is disturbed on your behalf, for he is eager that you should have as much freedom as is possible in the circumstances. He says your apartments are dark and possibly damp. He thinks that you should be given the apartment you occupied on previous visits to Lochleven.”
Mary was delighte
d for since she had furnished those apartments herself they were the most elegant in the castle.
“I shall be delighted to move into them immediately,” she told Sir William; and smiling he conducted her to them.
They were in a more modern part of the castle which was known as the New House, and situated in the southeastern tower. Mary gave a cry of pleasure as she saw the presence chamber which was a circular room with a low ceiling; and from the windows she had a magnificent view of the surrounding country. First she went to a window and looked out across the loch to the mountains.
From the presence room she went into the bedroom and it was comforting to notice that the beautiful pieces of tapestry with their hawking and hunting scenes were still hanging there. There was the bed which she had had brought here; it was shaped like a chapel and made of green velvet; the counterpane was of green taffety. There was the regal canopy and her sofa and chairs of crimson satin fringed with gold.
As she looked from her bedroom window, she could see the other three islets of the loch; and she could almost imagine that she was staying here after a hawking expedition, as she gazed at the ruins of the priory on that islet known as St. Serf’s Inch.
Then she saw the town of Kinross on the mainland and immediately began to wonder how many of her friends were nearby, in the hope that they might come to her aid.
Lady Douglas came into the apartments and Mary expressed to her the pleasure she felt.
“And,” went on Lady Douglas, “my lord Moray fancies you did not look as healthy as he would have wished you to look.”
“Was he surprised?” Mary asked with faint sarcasm.
“He was indeed,” replied Lady Douglas, “and he has said that you should take more exercise. He does not see why you should not ride about the island if you wish.”
“He is most thoughtful,” murmured Mary.
Lady Douglas bore the look of a proud mother; she knew that very shortly she would be hearing that her son was the ruler of Scotland. It was something to make a mother proud. Ruler he would remain for as long as this woman was in captivity. She would see that there were no means of escape.
Sir William was thinking of his half-brother’s words: “Give her more freedom within the limits of the island, but double the guard, particularly at night, and make sure that the boats are securely moored when not in use.”
So under the semblance of greater freedom Mary’s imprisonment was in fact to become more rigorous.
Moray had added: “Watch Ruthven. I fancied I saw a certain fondness in his eyes when they rested on my sister.”
Sir William was therefore far from easy in his mind.
IN HER NEW APARTMENTS, Mary set to work on her tapestry, using the canvases, wools and silks which Melville had provided. It was a great pleasure and relaxation to be doing such delicate work again, and both Jane and Marie Courcelles shared her enthusiasm. Mary could forget her irritation with her imprisonment as she planned the design, which was a series of pictures of ladies and gentlemen richly dressed in brightly colored costumes and jewels. With the glazed flax thread which Melville had had the foresight to send she worked the jewels in satin stitch using white dots for the pearls. So as she worked out her schemes with these elaborately dressed men and women in their backgrounds of castles, bowers, terraces and country scenes, she was able to imagine herself free of her prison.
Melville could not realize how he had served her; he had in fact, on receiving her thanks, sent her another box containing more of her clothes and her working materials.
There was yet another joy. Now that he had achieved his end Moray, anxious to appear her friend and to make her believe he had no wish that her term of confinement should be one of rigorous imprisonment, ordered that she should have more servants. She should have her own cook in her suite of rooms and two domestic servants whose duties should be to wait on her alone.
The greatest delight of all was when Jane arrived in Mary’s apartments, to tell her that a visitor had called at the castle to see her and was asking permission to present herself.
“Herself!” cried Mary. “Then it is a woman!”
“See for yourself, Your Majesty!” said Jane; and the newcomer was ushered into the apartment.
Mary gave a cry of great joy when she recognized her dearest friend, Mary Seton, the only unmarried one of the four Marys who had shared their childhood with her, and the one who had been most dear to her.
For some moments they could do nothing but cling to each other. Mary was laughing and crying at the same time and Mary Seton, who had always been the most restrained of the four Marys, was near to tears.
“Oh how happy I am to see you, dear Seton!” cried Mary, using the name by which she had called this friend of her childhood, for as there had been four Marys as well as herself it had been impracticable to call them all by their common Christian name. “I can bear my trials so much more easily with you as my companion.”
“I have been imploring the Confederate Lords to let me come, ever since they brought you here.”
“My dear, dear Seton!”
“They were very suspicious of my intentions. I had to assure them that I was quite incapable of arranging your escape. They would not believe that I only wished to share your imprisonment.”
“They would never understand friendship such as ours,” murmured Mary.
So there was the joy of showing Seton the castle, of hearing news of the other Marys, of Seton’s family’s devotion to their Queen, of recalling other days when they had been together.
The happiest thing which had happened to the Queen since she had come to Lochleven was reunion with Mary Seton.
THERE WERE TIMES when Mary longed to escape from watching eyes; she knew she never did. Although she was allowed to wander at her will about the island, she was aware that, from the windows and turrets of the castle, vigilant eyes were fixed upon her. There was no escape.
One day as she sat alone by the lake she saw a boat being rowed across from the mainland, and as it came nearer she realized that its occupant was George Douglas.
He saw her and to her astonishment gave no sign of recognition and as he brought the boat near to that spot where she was he shipped his oars and said in a voice which was scarcely audible: “Your Majesty, please forgive my remaining seated. It is the best way. If I come ashore it will be seen that we are speaking together. I shall pretend to be occupied with the boat while I talk to you.”
“Yes, George,” she answered.
“I have sought an opportunity to speak to Your Majesty for some days. It has not been possible. I have met Lord Seton who is not far away from Lochleven. He is trying to find a means of releasing you. He is enlisting the help of the Hamiltons. John Beaton is with him. They hope to bring in Huntley and Argyle.”
“Your words fill me with hope.”
“Your Majesty, you may entrust me with any message you wish to be sent to them. It will give me the utmost pleasure if you will look upon me as your messenger to take your orders to your subjects and to bring their plans to your notice.”
“This is the best news I have heard for a long time,” she told him.
“I must pass on now. It must not be noticed that we converse together.”
“Thank you. Thank you, George.”
She sat watching the boat skim lightly over the water. She felt elated by the adoration of this earnest young man. Ruthven’s burning gaze met hers from time to time. He was contrite, and was trying to convey that he was deeply ashamed of his outburst and was now ready to serve her . . . and hope.
She began to feel that her situation was not without advantages.
THE SUMMER was passing and the damp of autumn was in the air. Each day the memories of that terrible June seemed a little fainter. Mary was glad of the passing time but she was saddened by the arrival of autumn; summer was the time for escape. Mist rose from the lake and penetrated the castle; the cry of wild fowl sounded melancholy during the dull days, which all seemed so mu
ch alike. The Queen walked a little, dined, supped, prayed for her deliverance, sat at her tapestry, gazed longingly across to the mainland and wondered when her friends would come to deliver her.
She invited members of the Douglas family to her apartment, sometimes to supper, sometimes after the meal. Lindsay was not staying on the island although he paid periodical visits to the castle; Ruthven was often present at the gatherings, when his smoldering gaze would fix itself upon her and he would seek to converse with her. She avoided him; he might appear more docile but she was aware of the burning passion behind his eyes. He would be ready to help her but he would expect to be paid for his services. He might be curbing his tongue, but his motives were the same as they had been on that night when he had come unbidden to her apartment.
What a pleasure it was to turn to George Douglas. Dear George, being so young and earnest, was quite unable to hide his devotion, which was a pity; and yet she was moved by it, knowing that there was no motive behind George’s actions but to serve her.
So she would single George out for her attention, and he often sat beside her while his mother watched them, as did others present.
Ought she to warn George? wondered Lady Douglas. Ought she to tell Moray that George was so much in love with the Queen that he was clearly prepared to do something foolish for her?
Lady Douglas studied her young son. He was such a charming boy. Not like his half-brother Moray of course—not even like William. George was gentle; he would need someone to help him if he were to make his way in the world.
She would ask Moray to take him into his service . . . not yet . . . later. Lady Douglas liked to keep the members of her family about her as long as possible. But suppose the crown was restored to the Queen; dear Moray would perhaps not be so influential then. And the Queen would not forget George, her devoted admirer in adversity.
How an ambitious mother’s thoughts would run on! Mary was an impetuous woman. She had married Bothwell, who was no royal Prince. As she had married Bothwell, why should she not marry a Douglas?
So dreams ran on, sweeping aside all obstacles. Bothwell could either be killed or divorced from the Queen to make way for Lady Douglas’s handsome son.
The Captive Queen of Scots Page 6
