Текст книги "The Captive Queen of Scots "

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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He took a velvet robe—which had come in Melville’s box—and put it about her shoulders.

“Come then,” he said, and they left the apartments and went into the grounds.

“They allow you to walk out here, I suppose.”

“They are most vigilant. I have taken a few little walks but always surrounded by guards.”

“I do not see why you should not walk when you wish and go where you wish in the castle.” He was looking at the boats moored at the lakeside. He pondered: I shall tell William to have her more closely watched. But at the same time he wanted her to go on believing that he was her friend and that he had come to assure himself of her comfort and to give her as much freedom as he could, at the same time ensuring her safety.

“Oh, Jamie,” she cried, “I knew you would help me.”

“My dear sister, ever since the murder of Rizzio there have been murmurs against you. Your marriage with Darnley was undesirable. You know how I warned you against that.”

“Because, dear brother, you are such a stern Protestant, and you would rather have seen me make a Protestant marriage.”

“And his mysterious death . . . .” Moray shook his head. “And then, before he was cold, the marriage with Bothwell. My dear sister, how could you have allowed yourself to be led into such folly?”

“Darnley’s death was none of my doing.”

Moray’s lips were hidden by his tawny mustache but they were tight and stern.

“Rizzio murdered; Darnley murdered . . . and then that hasty and unseemly marriage!”

“What news of Bothwell, James?”

“None that is good.”

“Good for me, James, or for those who wish to destroy him?”

James said: “He fled North. He is said to be there with Huntley.”

He will come for me, she thought triumphantly, and when he comes this nightmare will be over.

Moray was thinking: My first act will be to send a squadron North to capture that traitor. There is little the people of Edinburgh would rather see than his head on a pike.

“Mary,” said James, “you must be patient during the next months. You must resign yourself to your confinement here. Willingly would I free you, were it in my power to do so, but it would not be for your good.”

“How long will it last?”

“Who knows? Until the affairs of this country are in order.”

“They have made my little baby King of Scotland. Poor innocent child, he knows nothing of this. What will he think, I wonder, when he is old enough to know that they made a prisoner of his mother in order to rule through him?”

“It is a dangerous situation.”

“So many of them struggling for power,” she agreed.

“What Scotland needs—until the people are prepared to receive you back on the throne—is a strong man who can rule.”

“If Bothwell were here . . . ”

“Bothwell is far away in the North. The people would tear him to pieces if they could lay their hands on him. They want someone who is not afraid of them to restore order. Someone who will give his life if need be . . . for our troubled country.”

“Yourself, James?” she asked gently.

He frowned and pretended to be reluctant.

“I? Our father’s bastard!”

“The people do not hold that against you.”

“’Twas truly no fault of mine. Had I been consulted I should have asked to be born in wedlock!”

“You are the man, James. Our father’s son. Sober and religious in a manner acceptable to the people, strong, firm, destined to rule.”

“You are asking me to take over the Regency until that time when you are allowed to assume the crown?”

“Why yes, James, I suppose I am . . . if I have any say in the matter.”

“You ask a great deal,” he said, and there was no hint in his voice or manner of the exultation which was his. The purpose of his visit was achieved, and he saw no reason why he should dally longer with his sister. It was true she had no power to bestow the Regency, but being the man he was he preferred to have her approval.

They were silent for a while, looking over the lake. It would soon be dark and Mary gazed longingly at the mainland. The biggest of the boats, which brought household articles from the mainland, creaked on its chains. Suppose he were to take me away in that boat, she thought; who would be waiting on the mainland to help me? Some of my friends, surely.

Moray was thinking how gullible she was. How fortunate for him that she had committed folly after folly which had brought her to Lochleven. Here must she remain. There was so much he might have told her. Many of her cherished possessions had been given away as bribes by the Protestant lords; he had helped himself to horses from her stables. He might have told her a very interesting piece of news which could have caused her serious alarm. But not yet. He and Morton had not yet decided what use they would make of the silver casket which was in Morton’s possession. Morton declared that George Dalgleish, a servant of Bothwell’s, had discovered this after Bothwell had fled; and in this casket were letters and poems which left no doubt of Mary’s guilt as murderess and adulteress.

No, as yet that little matter was a secret to be brought to light when it could be most useful.

Mary had turned to him questioningly. In the dusk she seemed to see him more clearly than she ever had before.

James, who was never on the spot when there was trouble. Was it accident or design? What calculation went on behind those cold passionless eyes?

Standing there by the lakeside Mary was suddenly aware that Moray’s purpose in coming to Lochleven had not been to soothe her, not to assure himself of her comfort, but to persuade her to persuade him to accept the Regency.

The Regency! It was what he had always set his heart on.

She wanted to laugh loudly and bitterly. But James was saying: “The air grows chill. Let me conduct you to your chamber. Then I must say farewell.”

“Ah yes, James, there is no longer need for you to stay, is there?”

He appeared not to have heard as silently he conducted her into the castle which struck her as chill and forbidding; it seemed to her now as much a prison as it had in those first days.

He is no friend to me, she thought. Once I am free the Regency would pass from his hands.

How alone she felt! How deserted!

As she went toward her apartments escorted by James she saw George Douglas. His eyes went to her at once and became alight with the longing to serve her.

Not entirely alone! she thought as she went into her apartment. Not entirely deserted.

SIR WILLIAM VISITED Mary the next day and said: “My lord Moray is disturbed on your behalf, for he is eager that you should have as much freedom as is possible in the circumstances. He says your apartments are dark and possibly damp. He thinks that you should be given the apartment you occupied on previous visits to Lochleven.”

Mary was delighted for since she had furnished those apartments herself they were the most elegant in the castle.

“I shall be delighted to move into them immediately,” she told Sir William; and smiling he conducted her to them.

They were in a more modern part of the castle which was known as the New House, and situated in the southeastern tower. Mary gave a cry of pleasure as she saw the presence chamber which was a circular room with a low ceiling; and from the windows she had a magnificent view of the surrounding country. First she went to a window and looked out across the loch to the mountains.

From the presence room she went into the bedroom and it was comforting to notice that the beautiful pieces of tapestry with their hawking and hunting scenes were still hanging there. There was the bed which she had had brought here; it was shaped like a chapel and made of green velvet; the counterpane was of green taffety. There was the regal canopy and her sofa and chairs of crimson satin fringed with gold.

As she looked from her bedroom window, she could see the other three islets of the loch; and she could almost imagine that she was staying here after a hawking expedition, as she gazed at the ruins of the priory on that islet known as St. Serf’s Inch.

Then she saw the town of Kinross on the mainland and immediately began to wonder how many of her friends were nearby, in the hope that they might come to her aid.

Lady Douglas came into the apartments and Mary expressed to her the pleasure she felt.

“And,” went on Lady Douglas, “my lord Moray fancies you did not look as healthy as he would have wished you to look.”

“Was he surprised?” Mary asked with faint sarcasm.

“He was indeed,” replied Lady Douglas, “and he has said that you should take more exercise. He does not see why you should not ride about the island if you wish.”

“He is most thoughtful,” murmured Mary.

Lady Douglas bore the look of a proud mother; she knew that very shortly she would be hearing that her son was the ruler of Scotland. It was something to make a mother proud. Ruler he would remain for as long as this woman was in captivity. She would see that there were no means of escape.

Sir William was thinking of his half-brother’s words: “Give her more freedom within the limits of the island, but double the guard, particularly at night, and make sure that the boats are securely moored when not in use.”

So under the semblance of greater freedom Mary’s imprisonment was in fact to become more rigorous.

Moray had added: “Watch Ruthven. I fancied I saw a certain fondness in his eyes when they rested on my sister.”

Sir William was therefore far from easy in his mind.

IN HER NEW APARTMENTS, Mary set to work on her tapestry, using the canvases, wools and silks which Melville had provided. It was a great pleasure and relaxation to be doing such delicate work again, and both Jane and Marie Courcelles shared her enthusiasm. Mary could forget her irritation with her imprisonment as she planned the design, which was a series of pictures of ladies and gentlemen richly dressed in brightly colored costumes and jewels. With the glazed flax thread which Melville had had the foresight to send she worked the jewels in satin stitch using white dots for the pearls. So as she worked out her schemes with these elaborately dressed men and women in their backgrounds of castles, bowers, terraces and country scenes, she was able to imagine herself free of her prison.

Melville could not realize how he had served her; he had in fact, on receiving her thanks, sent her another box containing more of her clothes and her working materials.

There was yet another joy. Now that he had achieved his end Moray, anxious to appear her friend and to make her believe he had no wish that her term of confinement should be one of rigorous imprisonment, ordered that she should have more servants. She should have her own cook in her suite of rooms and two domestic servants whose duties should be to wait on her alone.

The greatest delight of all was when Jane arrived in Mary’s apartments, to tell her that a visitor had called at the castle to see her and was asking permission to present herself.

“Herself!” cried Mary. “Then it is a woman!”

“See for yourself, Your Majesty!” said Jane; and the newcomer was ushered into the apartment.

Mary gave a cry of great joy when she recognized her dearest friend, Mary Seton, the only unmarried one of the four Marys who had shared their childhood with her, and the one who had been most dear to her.

For some moments they could do nothing but cling to each other. Mary was laughing and crying at the same time and Mary Seton, who had always been the most restrained of the four Marys, was near to tears.

“Oh how happy I am to see you, dear Seton!” cried Mary, using the name by which she had called this friend of her childhood, for as there had been four Marys as well as herself it had been impracticable to call them all by their common Christian name. “I can bear my trials so much more easily with you as my companion.”

“I have been imploring the Confederate Lords to let me come, ever since they brought you here.”

“My dear, dear Seton!”

“They were very suspicious of my intentions. I had to assure them that I was quite incapable of arranging your escape. They would not believe that I only wished to share your imprisonment.”

“They would never understand friendship such as ours,” murmured Mary.

So there was the joy of showing Seton the castle, of hearing news of the other Marys, of Seton’s family’s devotion to their Queen, of recalling other days when they had been together.

The happiest thing which had happened to the Queen since she had come to Lochleven was reunion with Mary Seton.

THERE WERE TIMES when Mary longed to escape from watching eyes; she knew she never did. Although she was allowed to wander at her will about the island, she was aware that, from the windows and turrets of the castle, vigilant eyes were fixed upon her. There was no escape.

One day as she sat alone by the lake she saw a boat being rowed across from the mainland, and as it came nearer she realized that its occupant was George Douglas.

He saw her and to her astonishment gave no sign of recognition and as he brought the boat near to that spot where she was he shipped his oars and said in a voice which was scarcely audible: “Your Majesty, please forgive my remaining seated. It is the best way. If I come ashore it will be seen that we are speaking together. I shall pretend to be occupied with the boat while I talk to you.”

“Yes, George,” she answered.

“I have sought an opportunity to speak to Your Majesty for some days. It has not been possible. I have met Lord Seton who is not far away from Lochleven. He is trying to find a means of releasing you. He is enlisting the help of the Hamiltons. John Beaton is with him. They hope to bring in Huntley and Argyle.”

“Your words fill me with hope.”

“Your Majesty, you may entrust me with any message you wish to be sent to them. It will give me the utmost pleasure if you will look upon me as your messenger to take your orders to your subjects and to bring their plans to your notice.”

“This is the best news I have heard for a long time,” she told him.

“I must pass on now. It must not be noticed that we converse together.”

“Thank you. Thank you, George.”

She sat watching the boat skim lightly over the water. She felt elated by the adoration of this earnest young man. Ruthven’s burning gaze met hers from time to time. He was contrite, and was trying to convey that he was deeply ashamed of his outburst and was now ready to serve her . . . and hope.

She began to feel that her situation was not without advantages.

THE SUMMER was passing and the damp of autumn was in the air. Each day the memories of that terrible June seemed a little fainter. Mary was glad of the passing time but she was saddened by the arrival of autumn; summer was the time for escape. Mist rose from the lake and penetrated the castle; the cry of wild fowl sounded melancholy during the dull days, which all seemed so much alike. The Queen walked a little, dined, supped, prayed for her deliverance, sat at her tapestry, gazed longingly across to the mainland and wondered when her friends would come to deliver her.

She invited members of the Douglas family to her apartment, sometimes to supper, sometimes after the meal. Lindsay was not staying on the island although he paid periodical visits to the castle; Ruthven was often present at the gatherings, when his smoldering gaze would fix itself upon her and he would seek to converse with her. She avoided him; he might appear more docile but she was aware of the burning passion behind his eyes. He would be ready to help her but he would expect to be paid for his services. He might be curbing his tongue, but his motives were the same as they had been on that night when he had come unbidden to her apartment.

What a pleasure it was to turn to George Douglas. Dear George, being so young and earnest, was quite unable to hide his devotion, which was a pity; and yet she was moved by it, knowing that there was no motive behind George’s actions but to serve her.

So she would single George out for her attention, and he often sat beside her while his mother watched them, as did others present.

Ought she to warn George? wondered Lady Douglas. Ought she to tell Moray that George was so much in love with the Queen that he was clearly prepared to do something foolish for her?

Lady Douglas studied her young son. He was such a charming boy. Not like his half-brother Moray of course—not even like William. George was gentle; he would need someone to help him if he were to make his way in the world.

She would ask Moray to take him into his service . . . not yet . . . later. Lady Douglas liked to keep the members of her family about her as long as possible. But suppose the crown was restored to the Queen; dear Moray would perhaps not be so influential then. And the Queen would not forget George, her devoted admirer in adversity.

How an ambitious mother’s thoughts would run on! Mary was an impetuous woman. She had married Bothwell, who was no royal Prince. As she had married Bothwell, why should she not marry a Douglas?

So dreams ran on, sweeping aside all obstacles. Bothwell could either be killed or divorced from the Queen to make way for Lady Douglas’s handsome son.

Therefore if those two did talk dangerously, Lady Douglas could look on blithely. Mary could not escape from Lochleven until Moray was ready to let her go, but that was no reason why she should not enjoy her pleasant game of make-believe with Lady Douglas’s bonny son Geordie.

Mary Seton played the lute and there was dancing. Trust the Queen, thought Lady Douglas, to bring gaiety even into her prison. There she was, her chestnut hair escaping most becomingly from her coif, dressed in a gown of blue velvet trimmed with miniver, which Melville had sent to her, looking at young George as they danced together. She is making a Little France in Lochleven, thought Lady Douglas. And in the Little France of Holyrood House Mary had taken Rizzio as her favorite, had married Darnley, had loved Bothwell. Why should she not love George Douglas in the keep of Lochleven?

Mary was saying to George: “You must not look at me so devotedly, George. Others will notice.”

“They should not be surprised,” he said vehemently. “All the world must be devoted to you.”

“You should have seen your brother-in-law, Lindsay, with his sword at my throat.”

“He is a monster.”

“I agree, George. I feel my anger rising when I think of him. I tell myself that I will have his head . . . when I escape. When, George, when?”

“It shall be soon, Your Majesty.”

“If all men loved me as you do, George, I should have nothing to fear.”

“My plan is almost complete, Your Majesty.”

She moved nearer to him in the dance. “Can you tell me . . . without seeming to? Speak low; your mother watches us.”

“Your Majesty, when you are free, you will not hold it against my mother and brother that you were held in their fortalice?”

“Nay, George. It seems that I shall be so grateful to one Douglas that I shall love the whole family.”

“When you say such things I am filled with such happiness that I forget aught else.”

“Oh George, you must not love me so devotedly that you cannot help me to escape. There is one thing I long for beyond all others. Only when one has lost freedom does one realize how precious it is. I shall never forget you, George. For if I never leave Lochleven I shall remember that in my darkest hour you gave me hope.”

“Then I have not lived in vain. If they discovered that I had tried to help you, doubtless they would kill me. If that should come to pass, do not grieve for me. Remember that I should be the happiest man on Earth on the day I died for you.”

“Do not speak of dying for me. Rather live for me.”

George looked melancholy. “I am aware, Your Majesty, of the gulf that lies between us. You are a Queen. My only hope is to serve you.”

“You are too modest, George. I shall never forget that you are my very dear friend.”

Her long eyes were soft and full of affection. She wanted to take his head in her hands and kiss him. She was young and passionate; she was also very lonely, and the image of Bothwell was growing dimmer each day. Perhaps she had had enough of brutality; what she craved now was gentleness, this adoration, this loving homage which the charming boy was laying at her feet.

“My very dear friend,” he repeated.

Had he been more calculating he might have read an invitation in her words. Any other might have given her a passionate look of understanding and, when the castle was sleeping, she would have opened her eyes to find him beside her. But not George. He had no thought beyond service; he did not think, as Ruthven did: I will help the Queen escape and in exchange she may take me for her lover. George only asked to serve.

It would have been easy to divert to George Douglas that passionate desire which had once overwhelmed her for a different kind of man.

He was too young to understand. He did not know how he might so easily have become her lover.

He was whispering: “Have you noticed the large boat moored at the lakeside? It is not securely moored. Be ready when I give the warning. It may be very soon.”

“You would take me to the mainland in this boat?” she asked. “How should we elude the guards?”

“You have many supporters on the mainland. I have suggested to them that they come in force to attack and force their way into the castle. While you and I take the boat and go to the mainland, they will engage the guards until we have made our escape.”

“It sounds simple,” she said. “But are there enough men to prevent our being caught before we reach the mainland?”

“I will arrange it,” said George.

She smiled; but she thought: Is it possible?

George had no doubt; she could see by the happy smile on his lips.

Seton had stopped playing the lute and the dance was over. Lady Douglas watched benignly while George escorted the Queen to her chair.

IT WAS DUSK and George bent over the chains by which the boat was fastened.

A simple matter, he thought. He wished they could have a rehearsal. He would make his way straight to the keep, where she would be waiting in her cloak. Then they would hurry out of the castle while the invaders held off the guards. On the mainland Lord Seton and others would be waiting for them with fast horses.

“Is aught wrong with the boat, sir?”

George started on seeing Will Drysdale, the garrison commander, looking down at him. George flushed, annoyed because he could never cover his embarrassment. “Oh . . . no . . . It seems secure enough.”

Drysdale bent over the chains to examine them. “H’m,” was all he said. Then he straightened himself and stared beyond George to the mainland. “I believe this boat causes you some anxiety, sir. I saw you examining it the other day.”

“I think it’s secure enough,” said George turning away.

Drysdale looked after him and scratched the side of his face. He watched George until he was out of sight; then he went to find Sir William.

Sir William was in his apartments and Drysdale asked: “Could I have a word with you alone, sir?”

“Anything wrong?” asked Sir William when they were alone.

“The big boat is not very securely moored, Sir William. It would not be difficult for anyone to release it. I suggest that we make it very secure. If we do not . . . ”

“You have discovered something, Drysdale?”

“Well, Sir William, I hardly know. It was just that I wanted to make sure.”

Sir William eyed him quizzically. “You’d better tell me, Drysdale.”

“It may be conjecture on my part, Sir William, but Master George seemed uncommonly interested in that boat, and anyone can see with half an eye that . . . ”

“The Queen is a very desirable woman,” sighed Sir William, “and my brother is a chivalrous young man . . . . That’s what you mean, is it?”

Drysdale nodded.

“I should not like the young fool to run into trouble,” said Sir William.

“Where the Queen is, trouble will soon follow, Sir William. What shall I do?”

“Make the boat doubly secure, strengthen the guard, and keep your eye on my young brother. And so will I. For the time being let that suffice. And . . . say nothing. He is young and inexperienced. I would not like this to reach the ears of my lord Moray. He would not understand the emotions of a young boy in love. My lord Moray could never have been that. Such as we are, Drysdale, are more lenient, eh. This could cost the boy his life.”

“Very well, Sir William.”

“But remember, we have been warned.”

GEORGE LAY STRETCHED out on the grass moodily staring up at the keep. She was seated in her window, her tapestry in her hand.

He had failed! George was telling himself what an ineffectual fool she would think him. The plan had had a chance of success but he had had to raise their suspicions by his too careful examinations of the boat. Now that they suspected him, he would have to think of something very ingenious if he were going to give her her freedom.

But he would succeed; he was determined to. In his imagination he saw himself at her side, defending her for the rest of their lives, his sword drawn ready for all who came against her. All that he asked was to be her slave. When she rode away from Lochleven he would go with her, no matter in what guise; he would not care. He would be her page, her scullion . . . anything—all he asked was that he might be with her.

A low chuckle at his side brought him out of his dream of chivalry. He frowned; he was in no mood for young Willie so he ignored the boy stretched out beside him until Willie began to whistle untunefully. Then George cried: “For the love of God, be silent!”

Willie, resting his elbows on the grass, propped his face in his hands. “You were a daftie, Geordie Douglas,” he said. “It was a poor plan, did ye know?”

“What do you mean?”

“To think to go off in the boat and then let old Drysdale know it by looking over the old vessel every few hours to make sure it was worthy to carry your Queen.”

“So you knew . . . ”

“Hey, Geordie Douglas, what have I got this pair of peepers for, did ye think? Now if I was going to rescue my Queen I’d go a different way about it, that I would!”

“You rescue the Queen!”

“And why not, Geordie Douglas? I may wear your cast-off breeks but I am a man for all that . . . and she’s a bonny lass though a Queen.”

George sprang to his feet but Willie was quicker. George lifted his arm to cuff the boy but Willie dodged away; he stood some distance off, poised to run, grinning insolently.

I have indeed been a fool, thought George. Even Willie would have done better.

DECEMBER HAD COME and as Mary sat with Seton over their tapestry she said: “I shall have to wait for the spring before I can hope to escape from this place. How long that seems.”

“The next three months will pass quickly,” Seton comforted her.

“It is the monotony of the days which is so hard to bear; to look out from my window every hour of the day and see the same stretch of lake. Oh, I am happy that you are with me. I am fond of George, and Lady Douglas seems to be a good friend as far as her fondness for our Regent will allow her. But there are times when I feel very melancholy.”

She did not mention Bothwell, but she was thinking of him. During the last weeks she had had a premonition that she would never see him again. Through George news was brought to her from the mainland; no one had been able to stop that, and she knew that Moray had sent Kirkcaldy of Grange to capture her husband.

Bothwell, learning of the plan to capture him, had left Huntley and taken temporary refuge at Spynie with his great-uncle and old tutor and guardian, Patrick Hepburn the Bishop of Moray. He had attempted a feat which was typical of him when he had tried to enlist the help of pirates in order to raise a naval force with himself as its commander. Indeed, it seemed that he had not hesitated to turn pirate himself. He would have brought many an uneasy moment to Moray and his friends, for Bothwell was the man they feared more than any in Scotland. How often had Mary wept for the strength he could have given her as well as that erotic satisfaction which, having tasted, she often craved for. But there was no substitute for Bothwell; there never would be. She was aware of this and that was why the fear that she would never see him again was as acute as a physical pain.

But even Bothwell had not been sufficiently prepared to make a stand against Moray’s might, and he had gone to the Orkneys and Shetlands where he had narrowly escaped capture; but Kirkcaldy in hot pursuit had been wrecked on the rocks, while Bothwell escaped across the North Sea to be captured off the Norwegian coast by a Danish commander and taken to Bergen. There he was allowed to take up residence, but a certain Anna Thorssen was, to Bothwell’s misfortune, residing in Bergen, and when she heard that he was in that town, determined to settle an old score. The buccaneering Bothwell had gone through a form of marriage with her some years before, taken possession of her considerable fortune and then deserted her. His sins were catching up with him. She brought a suit against him and, only by promising her an annuity when he returned to Scotland, did he manage to elude the law. He had been expelled from Bergen and was now in Copenhagen.

While he was free there was hope, and yet with the passing of each day the bold Borderer seemed to become more like a figure in a dream than in reality. There were times when she could not bear to think of him, when looking back on her life she knew that it would have been different if she had never surrendered to Bothwell, if she had never allowed him to make herself the slave of her senses.

That had brought her to Lochleven . . . here in the castle surrounded by the lake, where only the companionship of her women, the unswerving devotion of a chivalrous young man could in some measure compensate her for all she had lost.

“Before this,” she told Seton, “I never had the time to look back on my life, and consequently never learned the art of contemplation. Life passed too quickly; it was like playing a part in one pageant after another. It is different now.”

“Very different, Your Majesty.”

“I begin to see events in the right perspective. I see people for what they are. Do you know, Seton, before this I believed Moray was my friend. What a stupid woman I must have been! Moray could free me tomorrow if he wished. Of course he does not wish to do so because once I am free he loses his power. All his life brother Jamie has longed for the power which his illegitimacy denied him; always he has been saying to himself: ‘Where Mary is, there might I have been had I been born in wedlock.’”