Текст книги "The Captive Queen of Scots "

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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Contents

Title Page

Chapter I: The Prelude

Chapter II: Lochleven

Chapter III: Langside

Chapter IV: Carlisle

Chapter V: Bolton

Chapter VI: Tutbury

Chapter VII: Wingfield

Chapter VIII: Return to Tutbury

Chapter IX: Coventry

Chapter X: Tutbury Again

Chapter XI: Chatsworth

Chapter XII: Sheffield

Chapter XIII: Chatsworth and Buxton

Chapter XIV: Return to Sheffield

Chapter XV: Buxton, Chatsworth and Sheffield

Chapter XVI: Tutbury Once More

Chapter XVII: Chartley

Chapter XVIII: Fotheringay

Reader’s Group Guide

An Excerpt from The Queen’s Secret

Bermondsey Abbey

The Hôtel de St.-Paul

Read Jean Plaidy’s Queens of England series in historical order

Copyright

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 Darnley’s 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 Borderer’s 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 Provost’s 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 Queen’s 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 William’s 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 mother’s 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 King’s 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 William’s 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.

DISMOUNTING, Mary could scarcely stand. The noise of those raucous voices was still echoing in her ears. Lord Lindsay, who was at her side, said in a tone which had an edge of roughness in it and was devoid of the respect due to a Queen: “The boat is waiting.”

“Boat! Then where are you taking me?”

“You will know in time.”

How dared they! She turned to Lindsay, and goaded out of her exhaustion, cried: “I’ll have your head for this, my lord.”

Lindsay did not reply.

Lord Ruthven who had come to stand beside her said gently: “It is only a short distance across the lake, Your Majesty.”

Mary turned to him eagerly for she fancied she heard a note of compassion in his voice. So desperately alone did she feel that any sign of friendship lifted her spirits.

Ruthven did not meet her eye; he was ashamed of his mission. She thought: He is so young. He is not yet grown cruel like so many of my Scottish lords.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said.

Young Ruthven looked uncomfortable, fearing, Mary suspected, that Lindsay would have heard his remark and accuse him of softness toward their victim.

It was young Ruthven who helped her into the boat, where she sat listening to the rhythmic suck of the water as the oars displaced it.

“My lord Ruthven,” she whispered at length, “where are they taking me?”

“To Lochleven, Your Majesty.”

“Lochleven! To the Douglases! Ah, I see. To Sir William—the half-brother of my half-brother, Moray. He will doubtless make a good jailor. And conducted there by Lindsay—his brother-in-law.”

“Your Majesty . . . ” The young man did not continue; he was turning his face away that she might not see his emotion.

She said softly: “Do not be ashamed, my lord Ruthven, to show pity for a poor woman who is surrounded by her enemies. She will not forget that you alone showed her compassion on this fearful night.”

Ruthven did not answer, perhaps because Lindsay, hearing the murmur of voices, had edged nearer to them.

There was silence now, broken only by the dipping of the oars.

Mary, dazed and exhausted, felt the years slipping away from her; the only way in which she could endure the present was to return to the past. Once before, long long ago, she had been in flight from her enemies; and then, as now, she had sat in a boat and been rowed to an island in a lake.

“Inchmahome!” she whispered; and found comfort in the name. Inchmahome . . . where she had lived for a short period of her childhood when it had been necessary to find a refuge from her enemies; and how pleasantly she had lived in that monastic community. Inchmahome . . . Lochleven. Oh, but there was a difference. Then her enemies had been the English, who had crossed the Border and inflicted defeats on the Scots, culminating in the disaster of Pinkie Cleugh. How much more tragic when there was strife among Scotsmen; when she was a prisoner of her own subjects!

“Inchmahome . . . .” she whispered. “If I could but go once more to Inchmahome!”

The monks she had known would be long since dead. But there would be others, gentle monks, who tended their gardens, who worked together in peace, away from the world of intrigue and ambition.

Ruthven whispered: “We are there, Your Majesty.”

She saw the dark shapes of people, and in the light of torches the gray shape of the castle loomed up before her. A fortress! she thought; my prison.

Sir William had come forward. He was bowing over her hand. So there were some who remembered that she was their Queen.

“I and my household will do our best to make Your Majesty’s stay at Lochleven comfortable,” he told her.

And there was she who had been Margaret Erskine, who was now Margaret Douglas—the beauty who had been her father’s mistress and was her brother James’s mother.

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 bedside 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.