by Jean Plaidy
12 In cases of torture or harsh punishments—such as when traitors are hanged in France or slaves on her ship are whipped—Mary sometimes strongly objects and makes a bold stand to stop it. But when traitors are drawn and quartered in Scotland, Plaidy writes that Mary “could not prevent it.” Why could she not prevent it? Is this a sign of her growing ineffectuality as she falls deeper in love with Bothwell, or is she beginning to see the truth of Catherine’s warning: “Your Majesty will never know how to reign if you do not learn how to administer justice”?
13 Mary finds herself feeling and behaving most like a queen when faced with conflict and danger. Does she encourage such moments or avoid them? What does it mean to her to be regal?
14 How do the differences between her French upbringing and her Scottish homeland contribute to Mary’s downfall? Does she act the way she does because she believes her behavior would be accepted in the French court, or has she determined to set her own rules in Scotland? How much is her imprisonment and death a result of her own actions, and how much is she a victim of her situation?
I
THE PRELUDE
BURN THE MURDERESS!” The words were still echoing in Mary’s ears as she rode through the night. Her hair had escaped from beneath her hood; the wind tore at it, tossing it this way and that with as little respect as she herself had been treated so recently in her capital city of Edinburgh. Beneath her cloak her gown was in shreds; she herself had torn it from her shoulders in a frenzy of despair as she had stood at the window of the Provost’s house while the mob shouted below. She could still see their cruel faces, the red glow from the torches reflected in their eyes, while they shouted: “Burn the adulteress!”
Not one friend among them, she had thought. Is there no one in this cruel and barbarous land to help me?
Maitland of Lethington had walked shamefacedly on the other side of the road. He was the husband of her dear Mary Fleming who, with Mary Beaton, Mary Livingstone and Mary Seton had been one of her four devoted Marys, those who had shared their childhood with her. She had cried for help to Maitland but even he had passed by.
So there was no one. Bothwell had fled. She dared not think of Bothwell, for that would reawaken more turbulent emotions. Where was he now, the man who had taken her by force, the man who had arrogantly linked his life with hers, to her degradation and destruction? Yet would she have cared about that if he were with her now?
But if he were with her now her enemies would not have dared to treat her thus. She would not be riding through the darkness, their prisoner.
Surely Moray, her half-brother, would come to her rescue. Where was Moray? Where there was no trouble! Could it be accidental that always where there was trouble Moray was not. He is after all my brother, she thought; whatever happens he must always remember that.
But she was too tired for thought; she was exhausted by fear and rage, by despair… yes and even hunger; she had forgotten when she had last eaten; she had not thought of food since before Carberry Hill, that decisive battle which had brought her to this state. She had been exultant before the battle, believing that she must be victorious because Bothwell was at her side. But even he, magnificently virile as he was, could not fight an army when his own followers—and hers—had deserted to the enemy. There had been nothing but disaster since Darn-leys death and, because it was generally believed that she had played a part in his murder, it was easy enough to turn her army against her. Yet she had been confident because Bothwell had been with her; brave, defiant, cruel, he was ruthless and unfaithful; all knew it, and she herself had reluctantly and most bitterly learned it, but there was not a braver man on either side of the Border, not a braver man on Earth.
He obsessed her as he had ever since, with his Borderers audacity, he had forced his way into her apartment and committed rape—“the rape of the Queen.”
“Leave him,” they had said. “He shall go free if you will return with us to Edinburgh.”
And like a fool she had believed them, although he had not.
She would remember that last fierce embrace as long as she lived, for there would never be another like him.
“Fool!” he had cried. He had treated her as a Queen only on State occasions; in private she was a foolish woman completely under his domination. “Don’t you see they want only to separate us so that they may more easily destroy you. Leap onto your horse. We’ll escape them yet. We’ll go to Dunbar… together.”
“No!” she had cried, although she had longed to ride with him. They would have killed him. They longed to kill them both. They had offered her his life if she would deliver herself into their hands that they might inflict that which was more bitter than death: the humiliation, the degradation which they were forcing her to suffer now.
So she had parted from him. He had escaped to… she knew not where; and for her there had been the terrible journey to the Provosts house, the night of horror there, in the room which looked on the street; and placed outside her window was that hideous banner on which was depicted the murdered Darnley and her little son James—hers and Darnley’s—kneeling as he prayed “Judge and revenge my cause, O Lord!” And all through the night the mob roared for her destruction like wild beasts roaring for their prey.
In the morning she had followed the fearful walk to Holyrood House, the banner held before her, the mob pressing close.
That was the very depth of despair. There could be nothing more horrifying than that which she had already suffered. But perhaps there could be.
On she rode, the prisoner of those grim and silent men … to what destination?
II
Lochleven
IN THE CASTLE OF LOCHLEVEN which was built on an island in the middle of the loch an exciting expectancy prevailed. All through the day, the serving men and maids had been aware that they must prepare for an important visitor, and rumor had seeped through to them that this was none other than the captive Queen. Ears were strained for the sounds of arrival; eyes continually turned to the strip of water which separated the island from the mainland on which could be seen the roofs of the houses of Kinross. She would embark there and the boat was ready, waiting for her.
The castellan of the castle, Sir William Douglas, was uneasy; he did not relish the responsibility which had been given him; he foresaw trouble. Yet it was a commission which he dared not refuse; he should, he supposed, have been grateful because his half-brother, James Stuart, Earl of Moray, would wish him to be the Queens jailor. Yet he knew that a tense and stormy period lay before him. Wherever Mary Stuart was, there was trouble; it was hardly likely that Lochleven would escape it.
Now he was waiting for her arrival which surely could not long be delayed; and he decided that once more he must impress upon his mother the importance of the task which had been given them; and for this reason he made his way to her apartments.
He found her seated at a window; like most people in the castle she was gazing out across the lake, and with her was Williams younger brother George.
Margaret Douglas looked eagerly at her elder son as he entered. He noticed with a twinge of jealousy that she looked younger than she had before they had received the news. He knew the reason; it was because, by keeping the Queen a prisoner at Lochleven, she would be serving Moray. Why had he felt the need to warn her of the importance of this duty when all that she did for Moray she would do well?
“Is there news?” she asked, and the animation on her beautiful, though aging face, was startling.
William shook his head.
“I trust all will be well. Jamie will expect us to do our duty.”
“We shall do it, have no fear of that,” William replied. He might have reminded her that Moray—now that the Queen was a captive—was the most influential man in Scotland, that before long he would be the ruler of Scotland, which was what he had always intended to be. If one hoped to live in peace in Scotland, one must obey Moray; he, William Douglas, castellan of Lochleven since the death of his father, Sir
Robert Douglas, would have been prepared to do that even if Moray had not been his half-brother, and his mother’s bastard.
“Jamie will expect us to do this duty well,” went on Margaret Douglas complacently.
Young George clenched his hands in disgust; he was eighteen, romantic, and chivalrous and could not bear to contemplate his mothers dishonor.
As for Margaret she was unaware of any dishonor, for in her opinion there was nothing but honor in bearing the bastard of a King. Often she delighted in Jamie’s resemblance to his father. She had not been the only woman to catch the roving eye of James V of Scotland and to offer the world living proof of what had passed between them. To her he had been faithful for a while and she would never forget that. She had been jealous of the others. How she had hated Euphemia Elphinstone when he had borne the King her son Robert; not that Robert was the only one. James was a King who could be gay and melancholy, and when he was gay he was very gay; there had been numerous known bastards, and even James did not know how many unknown ones. Yet, she thought wistfully, all the Stuart charm was his and to have known it was to have drunk deep of pleasure. There were no regrets. And when she looked at her Jamie—James Stuart who had been Earl of Mar and was now Earl of Moray—how could she refrain from thinking what a cruel fate it was that had made him the bastard, and that giddy girl, Mary Stuart, the Kings only legitimate heir? Jamie resented it—oh how bitterly. But perhaps now the bitterness was less acute.
She smiled. It was ironical that Mary should now be in the hands of one who had been her father’s mistress and who would do everything in her power to further the aims of her own son. It was rough justice of a sort. Sometimes she believed that her clever fox of a Jamie had all along intended that something like this should happen.
“And the silly giddy girl deserves her fate,” she said aloud. “Something like this was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“She is a brave woman. She was not afraid to venture onto the battlefield with her army at Carberry Hill.” That was young George, and as he spoke his face flushed. He wondered why he had spoken; he should have known better and kept his thoughts to himself. He did not share the opinions of the others. The Queen was a beautiful woman in distress. His half-brother, the bastard, who should surely shame his mother every time she thought of him, was a ruthless man. George knew whose side he himself was on. But it was foolish of course to say so before his brother and mother.
Fortunately they did not appear to have heard him. I am too young for my opinions to be of any importance to them, thought George resentfully.
His mother was speaking to his brother William. “I hope you have increased the guard about the castle.”
“Naturally,” replied Sir William.
“Is it wise to keep her on the ground floor? Escape would be easier from there.”
“She will be well guarded there for the time being. Perhaps later I shall make other plans.”
Sir William was suddenly alert. He had thought he had seen movement on the mainland. But it was not that band of riders who were escorting the captured Queen.
Margaret said: “She will not be here for some time. They would not set out from Holyrood until nightfall. It would be too dangerous. The mob would tear her into pieces.”
William did not answer, but George could not restrain himself. “Might that not be what they wish?”
“No, no, Geordie,” said his mother soothingly. “You are too vehement. The last thing Jamie wishes is for any harm to befall his half-sister. Don’t forget that she is his own flesh and blood.”
“Bearing a similar relationship as that between him and myself,” murmured George with a hint of cynicism in his voice which was lost on his mother. If she could only know, thought George, how I hate these casual relationships which can bring about such havoc in families.
“Perhaps,” William put in, “we should go to sup. It is foolish to wait, when she may not be here until morning.”
“Then let us go,” said Margaret.
In the dining hall the company had eagerly been awaiting the appearance of the castellan and his mother and, as they came in, the tension relaxed. The daughters of the family, who were seated near the dais, whispered together that this could only mean that the Queen was not expected that night.
As Sir William took his place on the dais with his mother, there came to stand behind his chair a boy of about fourteen who was wearing a jerkin which had once belonged to George. He was a bold-eyed boy, with hair of a carroty tinge, and a freckled face; and the position he held in the household was unique, because he was not quite a servant nor yet a member of the family. George could not remember exactly when this boy had come to the castle; he had heard it said that as a baby the boy was left at the castle gates, and that one of the servants had found him there, but George had never received confirmation of this, as his elders were evasive on the matter. He was cheeky, that boy, sensing his specially privileged position; one of his duties was to wait on Sir William at table. No one asked questions as to who he was and why he should be different from the rest of the servants. Perhaps it was because there was a look of a Douglas about him; he was in fact always known as Willie Douglas.
George had had an affection for the boy which dated from the day when he was about ten and Willie six. That was before George had discovered how much he hated the casual relationships of grown-up people which led to unorthodox results. He suspected now that Willie was the result of one of his brother Williams indiscretions; but that could not change his affection for the boy once it had been firmly founded.
As he seated himself at table Willie whispered to him: “Great days in store for Lochleven, eh, Geordie?” And he gave George a wink that made his pert, freckled face slightly more comical than it had been before, so that George could not help smiling.
The meal progressed; and when the night had fallen there came with it a return of that brooding tension.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JEAN PLAIDY is the pen name of the prolific English author Eleanor Hibbert, also known as Victoria Holt. More than 14 million copies of her books have been sold worldwide. Visit www.CrownHistorical.com to learn of other Jean Plaidy titles available from Three Rivers Press.
Copyright © 1955, 1968 by Jean Plaidy.
Copyright © renewed 1996 by Mark Hamilton.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Three Rivers Press, New York, New York.
Member of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.
www.crownpublishing.com
Originally published in the United States by Putnam, New York, in 1968.
THREE RIVERS PRESS is a registered trademark and the Three Rivers Press colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Control Number: 68-31841
eISBN: 978-0-307-49762-8
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