She went into the castle with him, and never had the place seemed so gloomy, never so much a prison as it did on that Sunday evening.
She went to her room and took her supper.
For a short while she was alone with her friends whom she could trust: Seton, Marie Courcelles and Jane Kennedy. Jane said suddenly: “If Willie can procure the keys, it is still possible.”
“How can Willie procure the keys?” Mary asked. “Yet we must be prepared. I will change clothes with you, Seton, for you are more my height than the others. And I will do it now, for if the moment should come, we must be ready.”
They changed clothes.
“I will keep my veil,” said Mary, “because I must wave this from the boat as a signal, so that my faithful defenders may know I am on the way.”
So in Seton’s gown and cloak, with her own white veil with its red and gold border and red tassels, Mary waited tensely for what would happen next.
* * *
SIR WILLIAM was feeling drowsy. The wine Willie had provided at his feast had been very potent. He could go to sleep there on the dais. All was well. The guards were at supper with him and the rest of the household; the castle gates had been carefully locked; and beside his plate lay the keys, without which no one could leave the castle.
Lady Douglas was talking indignantly of the Queen’s accusations against Moray, and defending him; but Sir William had heard his mother on the perfections of Moray before, and it added to the soporific effect of the wine.
Behind Sir William’s chair stood Willie, ready to fill his plate or his goblet. It was good to have Willie back in place of that clumsy oaf who had served him during the boy’s absence.
As for Willie, he could not take his eyes from that bunch of keys which were lying on the table. His fingers itched to seize them. He had to resist an impulse to snatch them and run—which would of course be the utmost folly.
Sir William was yawning and Willie poured more wine into his goblet. On and on went Lady Douglas. And Willie stood, only half hearing what was said, his impatient fingers pulling at the napkin in his hands.
The meal would soon be over and then it would be too late. Shortly Drysdale would be back; the boatman might be well enough to take over his duties; and there would never be an opportunity like this. Now the boat was ready, the oars in place, and how could that possibly have been prepared unless Willie had charge of the boats!
Yes, he must spirit those keys away five minutes before it was noticed that they were gone . . . enough time to go to the Queen’s apartment, to bring her out, to hurry down to the castle gates, unlock and lock them again; then down to the boats and away. But he must have the keys.
Willie leaned forward to remove Sir William’s plate and, as he did so, he let his napkin fall over the keys. When he picked up the napkin and Sir William’s plate, the keys were no longer on the table.
This was the most difficult part—to walk out of the hall holding the plate, the napkin and the keys, unhurried and without concern, knowing that at any moment the absence of the keys might be noticed. If so, he would be stopped, all would be discovered and that would be the end of Willie Douglas’s hopes of saving the Queen—and perhaps the end of Willie Douglas.
Past the long table, past the noisy soldiers and the servants . . . and out.
Willie was taking the stairs two at a time. He unlocked the room which led to the Queen’s apartment. He was standing before her. He did not speak but held up the keys.
Now Mary was following him down the stairs and out of the castle.
Jane Kennedy, who it had been arranged should go with her, had been putting on her cloak in the ante-chamber when Willie had arrived and, as there was no time to lose, Mary had started after Willie without Jane.
It was a glorious feeling to be in the fresh air and the short distance to the castle gates seemed one of the most exciting journeys Mary had ever made. Willie ran ahead. He was unlocking the gates, holding them for her to pass through; then he locked them again behind them.
At that moment Jane Kennedy emerged from the castle. Mary looked back, but Willie shook his head. They had overcome the biggest obstacle. They were outside the castle and everyone else was locked inside. He was not going to run any risks by unlocking the castle gates. At any moment the loss of the keys might be discovered and the hue and cry would start. Those soldiers would find some means of coming after them.
The plan had not yet succeeded.
Willie ran ahead to where the boat was ready and waiting. Mary stepped into it, Willie took the oars, and they were slipping away from Lochleven.
“We have succeeded!” cried the Queen.
“We have to reach the mainland yet,” Willie grimly reminded her.
“We will,” replied Mary, and she took an oar and began to row with him.
There was a sudden splash in the loch close by, and to her horror Mary saw a dark figure swimming toward them.
“Why,” she cried, “it’s Jane! Stop, Willie. It’s Jane Kennedy swimming after us.”
Jane had gone to one of the castle windows from which she had jumped into the loch and encumbered by her clothes was making slow progress toward the boat. But Willie would not stop even for her. Eventually however she reached them and Mary eagerly leaned over the side of the boat to help her scramble in.
“I could not let . . . Your Majesty . . . be without one of us to serve you,” she panted.
In a few seconds she had recovered her breath and ignoring her dripping garments, insisted on taking the oar from Mary, and she and Willie pulled with all their might for the shore.
Each stroke took them farther and farther from Lochleven and nearer to freedom. Mary took off her veil and waved it and when she heard a shout from the mainland and the clatter of horses’ hoofs she believed she had rarely been so happy.
The boat touched ground and someone had come forward to kneel at her feet.
“Why, George,” she said, “so you are the first to welcome me back to my kingdom.”
Now others were crowding around her. Horses were waiting and it would be unwise to stay in Kinross.
Friends were with her now: Seton, Semphill, John Beaton, George Douglas and the humble people of Kinross who had sheltered the Queen’s loyal subjects secretly in their houses awaiting this great day.
The horses were ready. Mary was helped into the saddle. Willie watched her, grinning with delight as he turned and threw the keys of Lochleven into the middle of the lake.
Then he took the horse which was waiting for him; and so the Queen escaped from her prison of Lochleven.
III
Langside
THE QUEEN WAS GALLOPING through the night, George Douglas beside her, exultant with the knowledge that at last they had succeeded.
Not far behind them rode Willie, laughing to himself as he contemplated what was happening in the castle, where Sir William and the guards would now be endeavoring to break out and raise the alarm.
Mary was thinking that so many times she had undergone this urgent riding through the night, that it became almost like a pattern of her life; yet never on similar occasions had she felt this lifting of her spirits; she knew this was because she had come out of captivity and was riding to freedom.
Danger was still in the air. She was realist enough to know that she had taken but the first tottering steps toward victory; but at last she was no longer a prisoner; she was free to command, to plan, to wrest her kingdom from those who sought to keep it from her.
Now they were swerving from the route to the coast that they might avoid the territory of Kirkcaldy of Grange who it was well known was her enemy; she could smell the sea and she knew that they could not be far from the Firth of Forth.
Once they had crossed it they would be a little nearer to safety, but as they rode down to the sea and Mary saw the small open fishing-boat in which she must cross the Firth she felt a tremor of misgivings; yet she knew that this was no time to look for comfort. George was at her side, helping her into
the boat, and with her company of faithful friends in similar craft, the crossing took place.
It seemed as though the ill fortune which had been her lot for so long had changed, for the crossing was made in safety and as they came ashore a party of horsemen was waiting for them, led by Lord Claud Hamilton, all ready to fight for the Queen.
Lord Seton, who helped the Queen into her saddle, said as he did so: “Your Majesty, I think that you should take a few hours’ sleep before morning. And I suggest we ride on to my castle of West Niddry that you may rest in comfort there before pursuing the journey.”
Mary bowed her head.
“I doubt whether I shall sleep,” she answered; “but I should certainly welcome the chance to rest my weary limbs.”
So, on through the night to West Niddry.
IN THE CHAMBER which the Setons had prepared for her in West Niddry Castle, Mary found it impossible to sleep. Jane Kennedy, rid at last of her wet clothes, lay at the foot of her mistress’s bed and fell at once into deep slumber.
Mary was not eager to sleep, for that might mean to dream she was a prisoner in Lochleven; freedom was too precious, too recently come by to be lost, even in her dreams. So she lay trying to plan for the future, but finding the immediate past intruding into her thoughts, so that she was again waiting in her chamber for the coming of Willie, walking out of the castle, while Willie locked the gates behind her . . . riding through the night, tossing on the Firth of Forth.
But that is all past, she told herself. Now it remains for me to regain my throne.
Could it be done peacefully? Was that hoping for too much? She thought how strange was her life, when her little son, who should have been with her, was the symbol for which her enemies would tell the world they were fighting.
As she lay between waking and sleeping the first streaks of dawn showed in the sky; and with them came the distant sound of pipes and bugles.
Mary lay listening, as nearer and nearer came the sounds, and unable to remain on her bed, she leaped up and, her chestnut hair falling about her shoulders, snatched a robe and went to stand at the window.
She saw them then . . . marching toward the castle and she felt tears of joy sting her eyelids as she recognized Lord Livingstone at the head of his men.
Now they were filing into the courtyard; and they were almost below her window when Livingstone, seeing her there, called a halt to his men and shouted: “Long live the Queen!”
Over the sweet May air their voices rang out and it was some time before Mary could speak to them and tell them how she welcomed them and how it warmed her heart to see such loyal subjects.
Even as she spoke, the pipes of other companies could be heard, and she saw the Bruces advancing and it seemed to her that from all directions the clans were converging on West Niddry Castle to offer themselves in the Queen’s service.
THE CASTLE of West Niddry was intended to be only a resting place and Mary with her followers—now swollen to a considerable size—left for Hamilton Castle where she had heard that more clans were coming in from all parts of the country to welcome her.
Here she was received by Archbishop Hamilton, and when she had made her speech of welcome to all those who were rallying to her cause, she delighted to hear that Sir Robert Melville had arrived at the castle.
She sent for him and when he came to her she greeted him warmly.
He was a little shamefaced, in view of the fact that he had been present when she had been forced to sign her Abdication, and he apologized for this.
Mary immediately forgave him; if she wondered whether he had changed sides rather hastily she dismissed the thought because she was so happy to be free and to have friends. Moreover, Sir Robert had sound advice to give her.
“Your Majesty’s first task should be to repudiate the Abdication,” he told her. “And you have two witnesses with you here at Hamilton who can verify the fact that you were forced, on pain of death, to sign those documents.”
Mary recognized the wisdom of this and summoned George Douglas, and when he came to her she held out both hands to him in her impulsive way. George took them and kissed the delicate fingers.
“George,” she cried, “you are so self-effacing that I feel I have to tell you every time I see you that I shall never forget what you have done for me.”
“It is enough reward for me to see Your Majesty free,” murmured George.
She told him that she was going to repudiate the Abdication and that he, with Melville, was to be a witness to the fact that she had signed under pressure.
George’s face brightened at the prospect of being of further assistance to her; she immediately called a council and made her formal declaration that the Abdication was null and void.
Immediately afterward, for all were aware of a great urgency knowing that Moray would act swiftly, there was a meeting at which the next step was discussed.
Seated around the council table with such tried friends as Lords Seton and Livingstone, were Lord Claud Hamilton and Lord Herries with Sir Robert Melville; and Mary had insisted that George Douglas should be present.
“We seem strong,” said Mary, “but we must remember that Moray is strong also, and that in his hands are the royal arsenals of Edinburgh and Stirling Castles, also Dunbar. He has the revenues at his disposal and all my most precious jewels are in his possession. I have little with which to pay those who fight for me, although in good time I hope to regain all that I have lost and so pay my debts. The first step I propose is to write to France and ask for help. I believe that the King of France would be eager to help me, although I am not sure of his mother. I suggest therefore that we send, without delay, a trusty messenger to France who will lay this matter before King Charles and ask his help in my name.”
This was agreed to be wise and John Beaton was chosen for the mission. He agreed to make his preparations and set out immediately.
“Your Majesty,” said Lord Seton, “we must prepare for battle without delay.”
A slight frown touched Mary’s brows. “I had hoped that we could settle our differences without resort to violence,” she said. “I propose to send a letter to the Regent Moray with a copy of my revocation of the Abdication, which was forced upon me during my imprisonment, and to assure him that if he will restore my rights to me peacefully, I will forgive him all that he has done against me; and because I have respect for his powers I shall wish him to work with me in the government of this realm.”
Melville shook his head; Seton was disturbed.
“Your Majesty,” said the latter, “we must remember that the Regent has shown himself to be your enemy. It was on his instructions that you were kept in rigorous confinement.”
“I know,” replied Mary; and she looked around the company with a smile that held some exasperation. How could she explain to them: I understand Jamie. He even has my sympathy. There is not a more ambitious man in Scotland—and we must remember how frustrating it must be to have been born a bastard when you long to wear the crown. Oh poor frustrated Jamie! He made me a prisoner; he wished to rule Scotland. He shall no longer do so, but I could make him happy with some post worthy of his exceptional abilities.
No, they would never understand her.
He is my brother! she wanted to cry. The Stuart blood runs through our veins. He was unjust to me, but I could never be so to him. The matter would lie on my conscience. I should remember it all my life.
Therefore she would not listen to their advice. At least she would give James a chance to confer peaceably. The idea of a civil war in Scotland was abhorrent; but that it should be war between brother and sister was doubly so.
No. She must give Jamie a chance to be her friend. She must forgive and try to forget.
So she wrote to Moray.
WHEN MORAY heard the news of the Queen’s escape he was dumbfounded. He let out an exclamation of rage—something he had rarely done in his life; but in that moment of dismay he was beyond self-control.
Escaped from
Lochleven, and now at Hamilton Castle where supporters were rallying to her banner!
He sought out Morton at once.
“This is disastrous!” cried Morton.
“Nay,” answered James, almost his calm self again. “It is bad, but we must not be over-disconsolate. Deeply as I regret what has happened, there may still be a chance to settle this matter once and for all.”
“They say supporters are rallying to her side.”
“She will not have the money to pay them.”
“Doubtless she will receive help from France.”
“I am afraid of that. But it will take a little time before aid can reach her. In the meantime we have the arms. We also have her jewels. I shall immediately offer her pearls to Elizabeth of England.”
“You think she will buy them?”
“I know she will. She has wanted them ever since she heard that Mary was a prisoner in Lochleven.”
Morton looked at Moray. A sly one, thought Morton; so he had already been in negotiation with Elizabeth over the pearls! You could trust Moray to be one step ahead of his enemies—and his friends. Morton believed—in spite of rumors that were in the air—that he was on the right side.
“She will offer twelve thousand crowns for them,” went on Moray.
“I had heard they are worth sixteen thousand.”
“It is so. But the Queen of England dearly loves a bargain and it is to our advantage to please her. Moreover she has an obsession about her cousin of Scotland and constantly longs to outshine her in all things. She is the vainest woman in the world, and there have been too many reports of my sister’s beauty and charm which have reached her. She hates her rival. In truth she was delighted to hear she was a prisoner in Lochleven, robbed of her comfort and luxury. She constantly inquires about the health of her dear cousin, and professes concern that imprisonment may have impaired her beauty, fervently hoping all the time that it has. She wants the pearls so that Mary cannot have them and she will pay for them without delay. We shall need the money.”
The Captive Queen of Scots Page 12
