Текст книги "The Captive Queen of Scots "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Once she had opened her eye and seen him and he had looked at her with such yearning that he believed he aroused some response in her. He had been begging her not to die, for if she died he wished to die also. He was young and of little account in the castle where his mother and brother ruled, and where Moray was considered to be the most important person in Scotland, but he was fierce in his desire to help her; he wanted to give his life for her. Willingly would he do so and count himself blessed. That was what he had tried to tell her.
Did she understand? Was it coincidence that a few days later he had heard that the Queen was taking a little nourishment?
“Hi, watchdog!”
George turned quickly and glared at young Willie, who had crept up silently and flung himself down on the grass beside him.
“Where did you come from?” demanded George, embarrassed to have been caught by this alert boy gazing at the Queen’s windows. “And your doublet is filthy.”
Willie grimaced, and wriggled his bare toes as though in ecstasy.
“She does not notice my filthy doublet, Geordie watchdog. Why should she look at me when handsome Geordie’s near?”
George leaped up to cuff the boy but Willie was even quicker on his feet. He stood some little distance away and, placing his hands as though he held a lute, rolled his eyes like a lovesick troubadour in the direction of the Queen’s windows.
“You go to the kitchens. There’ll be work for you there, Willie Douglas.”
“Doubtless, doubtless,” cried Willie. “But there’s other than scullion’s work for me in the castle when we’ve a Queen living with us.”
George did not answer; he lay down on the grass once more and leaning on his elbows propped his face in his hands, this time making sure that he was looking, not toward the castle, but over the lake.
Willie watched him for a while; then he said: “There’s always fishing boats on the lake, Geordie.”
“And what if there are?”
“Nobody takes much notice of ’em, Geordie. They come and go between the island and the mainland.”
“Be silent,” said George fearfully and he rose to his feet again.
Willie hopped back a few paces assuming the posture of a troubadour.
George went after him, and Willie sped away, laughing over his shoulder. Down the slope he went to the shores of the lake, George in pursuit; but before George could catch him Willie was running into the lake where George, for fear of spoiling his sturtop boots, could not follow.
Willie stood, the water about his knees, still playing the troubadour.
Watching him in exasperation George’s eye was caught by a boat which was setting out from the mainland. As his keen eyes picked out the figures in the boat, he saw that they were not fishermen nor ferrymen, but strangers—grand personages with a look of the Court about them.
“Visitors for the Queen,” he said; and Willie turned to look.
Willie came out of the water to stand beside George; and forgetful of all else they stood side by side watching the approaching boat.
SIR ROBERT Melville, Scottish ambassador to the Court of Elizabeth of England, stepped ashore and looked at the castle of Lochleven.
A strong fortress, he thought. As impregnable as could be found in Scotland. She would not find it easy to break out of this place.
Melville’s feeling were mixed. He would have been far more sorry for the Queen if she had not acted so foolishly over Bothwell. It was natural that a suave diplomatist should hate the fellow—rough, vulgar Borderer that he was; and the fact that Mary could have become so besotted about him lowered her in her ambassador’s estimation. From the moment he had heard of the marriage, Melville had been ready to ally himself with her enemies.
She had been good to him, he was ready enough to admit. Because he had strongly opposed her marriage to Darnley it had been necessary at one time to take refuge in England; but Mary was not a woman to bear grudges; she had pardoned him and, because of his knowledge of the English had agreed that he should become her ambassador to Elizabeth.
He had been revolted by the murder of Darnley and had planned then to retire from politics, but Mary had insisted that he return to the English Court in the role of her ambassador; and as an escape from Scotland, Melville had done so.
Now he came to her with a mission—a most unpleasant one which he did not relish but which he was reluctantly obliged to admit was a just one.
Sir William Douglas was waiting to greet him as he alighted. With him were Lindsay and Ruthven; Lady Douglas came forward and her son George whom Melville had seen on the bank as the boat ran ashore, hovered in the background.
“Welcome to Lochleven,” said Lady Douglas. “I have had apartments made ready for you.”
“My lady is gracious,” murmured Melville.
As they walked toward the castle, Sir William said: “I believe you will agree that it would be well for us, with my lords Lindsay and Ruthven, to talk in private for a while before you visit the Queen’s apartments.”
Melville said he thought this would be desirable. So Sir William turned to his mother and asked that wine should be sent to his small private chamber, and there he would confer with the visitor.
While Lady Douglas summoned one of her daughters and bade her give orders in the kitchen, Sir William went into the castle with Lindsay, Ruthven and Melville.
Left there in the sunshine, George felt shut out. Something important was about to happen and he knew that it threatened the Queen.
He felt angry with his powerlessness, with his youth and lack of experience. Why could he not enter the castle in the company of those men? Why could he not know what was said between them?
Someone was tugging his coat, and he turned to find Willie beside him.
“Do ye think they’re planning to murder her in her bed?” he whispered.
“Be off with you.”
“There’s murder in their minds, depend upon it,” whispered Willie. “What are you going to do about that, eh, Geordie Douglas?”
George was silent. What could he do? There must be something.
THE QUEEN was lying on her bed when Melville entered. Jane was seated by the bed reading to her mistress while Marie sat at the window looking over the lake. She had seen the arrival of Melville, so the Queen was not surprised when he came in.
“Your Majesty.” Melville knelt by the bed and kissed the delicate hand.
“You see me indisposed,” Mary told him.
“Which grieves me sorely.”
“It is comforting that someone is moved by my plight. You have been in the castle for more than an hour, my lord. Did it take you so long to find me.”
Melville spread his hands. “I had to make sure that you were well enough to receive me.”
“And confer with your friends. I fear they are your friends, Melville. In which case you can be no friend to me.”
“Your Majesty, forgive me, but that is not so. Your welfare is my greatest concern.”
“You should tell me why you have come. I have been through such miseries that I tire easily.”
Melville looked at Jane and Marie significantly.
“What you have to say is for my ears alone?” said Mary quickly. “Very well. Jane and Marie, you may leave us.”
When they had gone, Melville said: “I would have Your Majesty know that I merely bring you a message from the Confederate Lords. That which I have to say to you is none of my doing. I am merely the messenger.”
“I see that you bring me evil tidings, and I pray you do not keep me in suspense. I have suffered so much that I can doubtless endure a little more.”
“Your Majesty, it is the wish of the Confederate Lords that you sign a formal abdication in favor of your son James.”
“Abdicate!” She had visualized so much that was evil, but not this. “James,” she whispered. “He is but a baby, being little more than a year old.”
“Your Majesty, the Confederate Lords would acclaim him King of Scotland.”
“And appoint a Regency!” she said bitterly. “A baby could do little to stand in their way, could he?”
“Your Majesty . . . ”
She turned her head away wearily. “I am too ill for such matters,” she said. “How cruel of them to confront me with this . . . now. Could they not let me live in peace for a few more weeks that I might recover my strength?”
Melville was silent. He was moved by her plight. It was difficult for any man not to be touched by Mary. Her beauty was indestructible, but it was not merely her beauty which was appealing; it was a certain helplessness; a certain fragility; she was completely feminine, possessed of all that was most appealing to men.
He had to steel himself not to turn from his principles and offer her his help. He might have told her that certain of the nobles were planning to liberate her. That Huntley, the Cock o’ the North, and the leading Catholic, was ready to bring his Highlanders to her support. That Fleming, Argyle, Herries and others were with him. But to do so would merely serve to stiffen her resistance and he had not been sent to Lochleven to do that.
Mary said mournfully: “Sir Robert Melville, have I not always dealt fairly with you? Why do you place yourself beside my enemies?”
“Your Majesty, if it were in my power to help you . . . ”
She turned back to him and stretched out a white hand, perfectly shaped but very fragile.
“You can help me,” she said. “You can take a message to my friends. Surely I have some friends. The Flemings . . . the Setons. I can always rely on them. Mary Fleming and Mary Seton were as my sisters. Where is my brother? Why cannot I see him? I do not believe he would act against me.”
“I can take no message from you to anyone outside Lochleven,” Melville told her. “I came here but to advise you to take this course which is the only one left to you.”
“Abdication!” she repeated.
Melville took a step closer to the bed and looked furtively over his shoulder.
“Your Majesty, if you signed a formal Abdication now, and later escaped from this place . . . you could always repudiate that signature with the plea that you had signed under compulsion.”
She looked at him sharply. “And that is your advice?”
He did not answer, but lowered his eyes.
“How can I know whom to trust?” she demanded.
Melville seemed to come to a sudden decision. “Your Majesty, may I speak frankly?”
“I should be pleased if you would.”
“I believe Scotland would be happy to see you on the throne if you would but repudiate Bothwell.”
“Repudiate my husband!”
“Scotland will never accept him, Madam . . . nor you while you remain his wife.”
“I am his wife. Nothing can alter that.”
“That unholy marriage must be repudiated. Only if you are ready to mount the throne without him at your side will you be allowed to do so.”
Mary was silent. To speak of him was to make his image rise vividly before her eyes; she could almost hear his rough laugh, feel his rough hands on her. Bothwell, she thought, where are you now? And she was sick with longing for the touch of his flesh against hers.
“It is the only way, Madam. I implore you to realize this before it is too late.”
“Where is Bothwell?” she asked, and she sounded breathless.
“I heard that he is in the North with Huntley.”
“Then he is collecting troops. He will come to rescue me from my enemies. Then it will be their turn to despair.”
Melville shook his head. “The whole country is against him. Scotland finished with him on the night Darnley was murdered.”
“There is much you do not understand.”
“Come, Your Majesty, give me your promise that you will sign the deed of Abdication. Give me your promise that you will repudiate Bothwell.”
Mary crossed her hands over her breasts and suddenly cried: “You are asking me to repudiate the father of the child I am carrying. I will never do that.”
“So . . . you are carrying a child?”
Mary lowered her head. “I long for its birth,” she said. “I long to have a living being to remind me of him.”
Melville looked at her sadly.
Was there ever such an unfortunate woman? Turned from the throne! Loyal to a murderer whose child she now carried!
Indeed she must be persuaded to sign her Abdication.
“Please leave me,” said Mary. “I am too weak as yet to deal with state matters.”
Sorrowfully Melville left her apartments.
He would have to report his failure to Lindsay and Ruthven.
THAT NIGHT Mary awoke in pain. She called in alarm for Jane Kennedy who came hurrying to her bedside.
“Bring me my apothecary,” she cried. “I feel sick unto death.”
The apothecary came with Marie Courcelles in his wake.
The man took one look at his royal mistress and, turning to the two women, he wrung his hands and cried: “The Queen is grievously sick.”
Then he recovered himself and began to give orders. He wanted to call a physician but Mary heard this and forbade him to do so.
“You three are the only ones in this castle whom I have reason to trust. Do what you can for me and we will leave the rest to God.”
The apothecary mixed a hot brew for her and when Mary had taken it, he whispered to Jane: “What can be expected! She has suffered so much. It is bound to affect the child she carried.”
“She is in danger?” whispered Marie Courcelles.
“Birth is always dangerous; but an unnatural birth doubly so.”
Tossing on her bed Mary was calling for Bothwell and little James, then murmuring in French, her mind obviously wandering, while Jane and Marie knelt and prayed that their mistress might emerge from this new trial as she had from all others. Their prayers were answered, for before morning Mary had been delivered of stillborn twins. “With care she will recover,” the apothecary assured them.
Marie and Jane exchanged glances. Bothwell’s twins! they were thinking. And they hoped, for the sake of the Queen, that the loss of his children would be the end of his connection with Mary.
MARY had not left her bed since her miscarriage. She felt physically weak, but strangely enough she could contemplate the future in a different light.
She mourned the loss of her twins and thought of them continually. His twins. She could not help wondering how like him they would have been. It had been too early to determine their sex, and she was almost glad of this; she had enough sorrow, and it seemed easy to forget them if she did not know them as belonging to either sex.
She shuddered to contemplate what their future would have been.
But her listlessness was less defined. Pregnancy had had its effect on her mentally as well as physically; and now that she was no longer pregnant, her thoughts turned more and more to the prospects of escape; and the desire to win back her crown was stronger than it had been since she had turned her back on Carberry Hill.
She lay in bed watching the wild geese flying across the lake, listening to the tramp of the sentinel outside her window, wondering now and then whether that fresh-faced boy, who had given her looks which long experience, both in the French and Scottish Courts, had taught her to interpret, was still in the castle.
As she lay there Jane Kennedy came into the room to tell her that Melville was back at Lochleven and that he, with Lindsay and Ruthven, were now demanding to be brought to the Queen without delay.
“I will receive them,” said Mary; and within a few minutes they were at her bedside.
Melville began by expressing his sorrow to find her still indisposed and his hopes that she would soon recover.
She nodded in acknowledgment of his good wishes, but her eyes went to the scroll he carried and which she guessed to be the documents relative to the Abdication. Her hazel eye hardened as she looked up to find Lindsay’s baleful black ones fixed upon her.
“I think I know to what I owe the honor of your coming, my lords,” she said with a trace of sarcasm in her voice.
“Sir Robert Melville has acquainted you already with the wishes of the Confederate Lords,” began Lindsay.
“They are not my wishes,” retorted the Queen.
“You will realize, Madam, that on account of your present position, your wishes are of no great moment.”
The man was insolent; and this depressed her. Lindsay must believe that her hopes of escape were poor, since he treated her with such a lack of respect. How she hated him!
She addressed herself to Melville. “I gave you my answer when you visited me on a previous occasion. Need you inflict this on me again?”
“I fear so, Your Majesty,” replied Melville soothingly. “I would like to advise you that I believe it to be in your interest to sign this deed of Abdication.”
“To sign away my throne? I cannot see how that would benefit me.”
“Your son would take the throne, as you would expect him to do one day.”
“That day is far distant,” she retorted hotly and was surprised at her vehemence, when but a short time ago she had been longing for death.
Melville came closer to her; it was as though he wished to tell her something which was not for the ears of the others.
“Madam,” he said, “it would be to your advantage to sign. This is the view of your friends.”
“Who are my friends?” she asked bitterly. “Where are they?”
Melville drew his sword and laid it on her bed. Then from the scabbard he took a letter. He held it out to her and whispered: “It is from Sir Nicholas Throckmorton who Your Majesty knows is the ambassador of the Queen of England. He is now in Edinburgh and tells me that his mistress is deeply shocked at the insult offered to royalty by your imprisonment in this fortalice.”
“I rejoice to hear it,” answered Mary. “It is what I expect.”
“Sir Nicholas Throckmorton has written this on behalf of your royal cousin. I pray you read it.”
Mary read the document which warned her that she would be in danger if she did not sign the deed of Abdication. She must ensure her personal safety, and the Queen of England doubted not that ere long she would be free of her enemies. Then she could justly repudiate what she had been forced to sign in prison.
She raised her eyes to Melville who was watching her expectantly.
“You think that the Queen of England is my friend?” she asked.
“I think that the Queen of England is deeply disturbed by any insult to royalty.”
“Then she must be deeply disturbed at this moment,” retorted Mary bitterly.
“Her advice is sound, Your Majesty. I can assure you that, if you will repudiate Bothwell, there are many nobles in this land who will be ready to fight at your side until all that you have lost is restored to you. Atholl gave me this turquoise. He says you once gave it to him and he has treasured it. He sends it to you now as a sign of his devotion to you.”
She took the turquoise and looked at it. “Such a gesture could have little meaning,” she murmured.
“Maitland of Lethington once received an ornament from you. He also sends it as a like token.”
Melville laid in her hand an oval piece of gold enamel. Engraved on it was Æsop’s mouse liberating the lion.
She smiled, remembering the occasion when she had given the trinket to Maitland. He had recently married her dear Mary Fleming, and she had been delighted to see Mary’s happiness.
Now she thought of Maitland who, such a short time ago, had passed by on the other side of the road.
“I am not impressed by these gestures,” she said. “They could mean nothing.”
Lindsay had come over to the bed, arrogant and impatient.
“Come,” he said, “it is time that your signature was put to this document.”
“I have not agreed to sign it,” Mary reminded him.
“Read the document!” Lindsay commanded.
“I refuse to look at it,” retorted Mary.
Lindsay’s eyes blazed in his dark face. “Madam,” he said quietly, but in tones which indicated that he meant every word, “you will rise from your bed without delay. You will be seated at yon table. There you will sign the deed of Abdication in favor of your son.”
“And if I refuse?”
Lindsay unsheathed his sword. The gesture was significant.
“You would murder me in cold blood!” demanded Mary.
“Madam, my blood grows hot with this delay. Come, rise from your bed.”
His sword was close to her throat and she saw the purpose in his eyes. She looked at Melville and Ruthven, but they would not return her gaze.
He means it! she thought. He has come here to say: Sign or die.
She looked about her helplessly; she was here on an island, far from any friends she might have had. The cry of wild fowl suddenly came to her ears. They would murder her as many had been murdered before. Perhaps they would bury her body under some stone slab in the courtyard, or under a stair that was little used.
Now that death was so near she longed to live; a greater desire than she had felt for Bothwell was with her now; she wanted to escape, to regain her throne, to punish these men who had dared degrade her royalty.
She reached for a robe. They had expelled Jane Kennedy and Marie Courcelles from the room, so there was no one to help her. Ruthven took the robe and put it around her shoulders; as he did so she detected a burning gleam in his eyes; he was sending her a message of some sort; she was not entirely sure what. Perhaps it was merely desire for her body. But somehow it gave her a small comfort.
She was out of bed and, because she was still weak, Melville gave her his arm. She felt his fingers on her wrist and she believed there was something reassuring in the touch.
It was Lindsay who was her enemy, Lindsay with his black flashing eyes and his ready sword.
The quill was put into her hand; she sat down and read the document. Once she had put her name to it she would no longer be the reigning Queen. Scotland would have a King—James Stuart, son of Mary Stuart and Darnley.
She wanted to shout her refusal but Lindsay was standing over her, his sword still drawn.
She signed the Abdication and threw down the pen. Then she was on her feet, facing Lindsay who with a slow smile of triumph was putting away his sword.
She felt hysteria overcoming her. She shouted: “I was forced to it. You held a sword at my throat and forced me to sign. Is that justice? Rest assured, my lord, that when I am free the first pleasure I shall allow myself will be to see your head severed from your body. And I tell you this: These documents to which, under duress, I have put my name, have no meaning. I signed under compulsion, and I do not consider my signature valid. Do not think that I am entirely friendless. I shall not always be your prisoner. And then . . . my lord . . . beware.”
Lindsay continued to smile as he murmured: “So you do not think you will long remain our prisoner? Lest there should be some meaning behind those words we must make sure that your jailors double their precautions. As one of those jailors, Madam, you may rest assured that I shall do my duty to Scotland.”
Ruthven said: “The Queen is ill. I will help her to her bed.”
He put an arm about Mary and held her firmly. His face was close to hers. He was undoubtedly trying to convey some message to her. Had she not felt so ill she would have understood, she was sure. Was he telling her that he was her friend?
She stumbled onto the bed; she felt sick and dizzy.
Vaguely she heard voices from afar—Ruthven’s and Melville’s.
“The Queen is fainting. Her maids should be sent to her.” And when she opened her eyes again she found that Lindsay, Ruthven and Melville had gone, and that Jane and Marie were at her bedside with her French apothecary.
MARY QUICKLY RECOVERED with the help of her maids and her apothecary. Her anger against those lords who had forced her to sign away her right was so intense that it was like a crutch to her weakness.
“The impudence!” she raved. “How dared they! Jane, Marie . . . Lindsay held the sword at my throat. Let him be sure that he shall not escape my fury.”
The maids exchanged glances. They were delighted to see their mistress’s animation. Anything was better than the listlessness she had displayed since her arrival at Lochleven, no matter what was the cause of it.
“I shall not be here forever,” Mary continued. “I have friends . . . .”
“Your Majesty must keep up your strength,” Jane warned her. “When the time comes to leave this dismal place you will have to be well.”
“You are right, Jane,” answered the Queen. “This is an end of my lethargy.”
They brought her food and she ate it. She called for a mirror and studied her face with more attention than she had bestowed on it since the beginning of her incarceration. She had lost her pallor and her delicately tinted complexion was regaining its beauty; her lovely mouth was no longer melancholy; slightly parted it disclosed her perfect white teeth; there was a sparkle, left by recent anger mingling with new-born hope, in the long, deeply-set hazel eyes; her chestnut hair, hanging over her shoulders, was regaining its luster.
She rose from her bed and walked a little, leaning on Jane’s arm. Then she stood at the window looking out over the lake. She could see the mainland, and caught glimpses of distant mountains and forests. It was such a small stretch of water which separated her from freedom that she wondered why she had felt so hopeless.
“Somewhere on that mainland,” she mused, “are friends who will help me.”
Dusk had fallen. Outside her window the sentinels patrolled. With the coming of night two others would take their places. Lindsay was determined that she should not escape.
She was feeling so much better. She believed she would soon be free. All her life she had recovered quickly from adversity because her optimism had been one of her strongest qualities and, she guessed, always would be. Rarely—and the days and nights which followed Carberry Hill was one of these periods—had she been completely bereft of hope. But to lose a kingdom, a lover and a beloved baby son at one stroke had been too much even for her resilient nature.
Now she could look back on her despair and say: There is always hope. There always must be hope. All through her life—except that gay and romantic period at the Court of France—there had been trouble. And even in France the insidiously powerful Catherine de’ Medici had been her enemy from the moment they had set eyes on each other.
So hope came now. Somewhere in Scotland there were friends waiting to help her. She believed she would find them.
Jane had been right when she had said she must build up her strength. Lying in bed and refusing food was folly. Once she felt quite well again her natural gaiety would return. And when she had recovered her high spirits, her belief in her destiny, she would be happy again. Scotland would be hers once more. And Bothwell?
Now that she was calmer she could look back with a clearer vision at that turbulent period of her life. With him she had reached an emotional climax which she had never attained before. Through him she had known a savage joy and a savage despair. There would never be another like him, and she knew that if he came back tomorrow she would be entirely his slave. Should she say the slave of her own body’s desires? With him she had experienced sensations which she had not known existed: Erotic bliss which never seemed to be without its companions—humiliation and despair.
She had experienced enough of those two to wonder whether anything was worth the price.
Since she had made herself realize that she was a Queen with a Kingdom to fight for, Bothwell’s image had faded a little. Let that suffice. And in due course, if and when he came back to her, it might be that he would find a different woman, a clever woman, a woman of some judgment who, while she welcomed him as her husband, would ask him to remember that she was his Queen.
But Bothwell was far away—she knew not where. And she was a prisoner in Lochleven. Her first duty was to escape, and if she were to break out of this fortalice she would need all her wits to do so. She would not achieve that end by dreaming sensual dreams of Bothwell.
She rose from her bed and wrapped her robe about her. She was growing stronger and now able to walk about the room without the aid of Jane’s or Marie’s arm.
While she was wondering whether they would increase her guards now that she was able to leave her bed, she realized with a little shock that the door of her room was being slowly and cautiously opened.
Startled, she drew her robes more tightly about her and, seeing who the intruder was, she cried: “Ruthven!”
Ruthven came into the room hesitantly. He stood before her and dropped to his knees.
“Your attitude has changed, my lord, since you came here with those fellow-traitors.”
He lifted his eyes to her face and now she understood the expression in them. It angered her, yet at the same time she felt exultant. In the extremity of her grief she had forgotten the power she had always possessed to make men her slaves.
Ruthven rose to his feet.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “if you could but know how I have suffered for my part in this!”
Mary turned from him and took a seat by the window.
Ruthven said: “Your Majesty, do not show yourself to the guard. It would be well if we were not seen . . . together.”
“You have something to tell me?” she asked, rising and moving away to a part of the room which could not be seen from outside. Ruthven brought a stool and she sat down.
“I can go back and forth between the mainland and the castle, Your Majesty,” he said.
She wanted to laugh aloud. Had she not known that some way of escape would be offered her?
“And I have friends on the mainland . . . .” she murmured.
“Seton, Fleming, Herries . . . .” he said.
“Huntley,” she added. “Bothwell.”
“They are in the North, Your Majesty. There are others nearer . . . not far from this island, on the mainland across the water.”
“And you have a plan for helping me to escape from this prison?”
“Not . . . yet, Your Majesty. I wished to talk to you of such a plan.”
“Tell me one thing first. Why have you changed sides?”
Ruthven was silent. He was a connection of Darnley’s and had joined those nobles who had determined to avenge the murder. He had been against the Queen at Carberry Hill. Her adversaries had considered him sufficiently her enemy to put him in charge of her—with Lindsay—on the ride from Edinburgh to Lochleven. And now he was ready to be a traitor to his friends for her sake.
She must be cautious. But because there had been so many men ready to serve her she asked the question of Ruthven merely that he might confirm what she believed she knew.
