Текст книги "The Captive Queen of Scots "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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“He is a very ambitious man.”
Mary laughed. “For the first time I see my brother Jamie clearly, and I know that almost everything he has ever done has been a step toward the Regency. It is the most he can attain. How he would love to be James VI; but my little son bears that title. Still, Regent Moray has all the power that would have been his even if he had been James VI. My half-brother was always shrewd, Seton. What does a name matter? That is what he will be asking himself now.”
“Shall I bring out the tapestry, Your Majesty?”
“Ah, yes, Seton. Working those beautiful scenes soothes me, as you know. I can almost feel I am there . . . with our ladies and gentlemen. But perhaps it is not wise to be so soothed. Perhaps I should be making plans.”
“Plans are being made, Your Majesty. When the spring comes . . . ”
“Meanwhile there is the whole of the winter before us, Seton. How shall we endure it in this gloomy prison?”
“We shall endure it, Your Majesty.”
Yes, thought Mary with a grim smile, because we have our tapestry and our music, because we have our hopes, because of the devotion of young George Douglas.
THE WINDS OF LATE DECEMBER swept across the island when Moray came again to visit his half-sister.
This time he came with the Earl of Morton and Sir James Balfour—two men whose actions had certainly not endeared them to Mary, and when they entered her room she found it difficult to restrain her anger.
The wind howling about the castle made it at times almost impossible to hear each other speak. She looked straight at Sir James Balfour and immediately remembered that it was he who had provided that house in Kirk o’ Field which had been destined to be the scene of Darnley’s murder. He had been the lawyer who had arranged Bothwell’s divorce from his wife in order that he might marry Mary; and in exchange for these services had been made governor of Edinburgh Castle. But there was not a more vile traitor in Scotland; Balfour’s lawyer’s mind was alert for disaster and he was determined not to be on the losing side. So, as soon as he knew that the defeat of Mary and Bothwell was imminent he had surrendered the castle to their enemies, asking, as his reward, for the priory of Pittenweem, an annuity for his son and, should there be a trial of those involved in Darnley’s murder, a free pardon for himself.
And this was one traitor whom Moray brought with him to Lochleven.
As for Morton, in his treacherous hands was a certain casket of which Mary had heard rumors. It was said to contain letters and poems written by her to Bothwell, and to be one of the most important pieces of evidence in the Darnley case.
And James himself—her half-brother, Jamie, as she used to call him in the days of her childhood—what of him? There he stood, his cold fish-like eyes upon her. He may be Regent, she thought, but I am the Queen.
“How the wind howls,” she said coolly. “Such a noise must of necessity be for some arch-traitor.”
Her scornful gaze rested on Balfour who had the grace not to meet her eyes.
Moray went forward and would have taken her hands, but she drew away from him.
“Pray do not tell me of your concern for my well-being,” she cried. “I know your concern to be non-existent. My health has improved since we last met and I am sure that is a matter of deep regret to you.”
“Your Majesty!” began Moray who had stepped ahead of Morton and Balfour, but she cut him short.
“I will not listen to your soft words. I think of your actions. If you are my friend, my lord Moray, how can I remain your prisoner? Do you know how long I have been in this place? Six months! You have achieved your purpose. You have forced me to abdicate. You have set a baby on the throne. And you are Regent.”
“My dear sister,” Moray replied coldly, “what has happened to change you? When we last met you were loving and prepared to trust me.”
“Because I did not know you then, my lord Moray. While I have been in captivity my eyes have been opened. I have been thinking of the past . . . and the present . . . and the future. James Stuart, how many times have I given you my sisterly affection? How many times have you been disloyal to me, and have I accepted your excuses? When I had power I did not forget you. You were my bastard brother, but I could not have given you more honors if you had been a brother without the stain of bastardy upon him.”
“My dear, dear Mary, my sister, my Queen,” said Moray, “you have been listening to idle gossip. I am your friend now as I always have been. I come to discuss with you the possibility of your freedom. I come to lay certain conditions before you.”
“Conditions!” she cried. “You would offer me conditions! Let me tell you this: I would rather remain in this prison for the rest of my life than accept any conditions you might lay before me, for I know full well that those conditions could only be for the good of Bastard James and not for Queen Mary. I know that you have hunted Bothwell from this land because you feared him. I know that all those who are friends of mine are no friends of yours. Do not imagine that, because I am your prisoner, because you hate me and seek my destruction, all are of your mind. I have friends, James Stuart, and one day they will free me from this castle and then . . . there will be no conditions . . . .”
She walked past them to her own private apartments.
James Balfour, his color heightened, his lips tight, spoke the thoughts which were in all their minds: “It is clear that she has a friend within the castle . . . someone who is in touch with her friends outside and brings her news.”
Moray and Morton looked at each other.
“Have no fear,” said Moray angrily, “we shall soon discover the traitor.”
MORAY, ALONE WITH Sir William, expressed his displeasure. “Not everyone in this castle is with us,” he snapped. “Someone here brings information to the Queen.” Sir William flinched. “Why brother,” he said, “it is the wish of us all to please you.”
“Yet the Queen has information which could only have been given to her by traitors in our midst. Someone is talking too freely, and, it would seem, is more eager to serve her than me.”
“I have noticed that Ruthven is casting languishing glances in her direction,” said Sir William.
“I too was aware of that. Ruthven is to leave at once for Edinburgh.”
Sir William did not mention the matter of the boat. He had no wish to incense Moray against George, particularly as he himself was inclined to shrug aside George’s devotion to the Queen. Calf love, he thought. It happens in the very young and George often seems to be young for his years.
Later when they were at supper—the Queen supped in her own room and refused to join the family and their visitors—Moray was aware of the expression in his young half-brother’s face when Mary was mentioned.
Lady Douglas, alert where her sons were concerned, realizing that the very manner in which George spoke the Queen’s name betrayed his feelings, was very uneasy. Moray was the son of whom she was most proud of course—son of a King, Regent of Scotland—what more could a mother ask! But she loved wee Geordie too, and fervently hoped the lad was not going to fall into trouble.
Her hopes were vain. Moray left the supper table quickly and summoned his young brother George, with his mother and Sir William, to a private chamber.
He came straight to the point and, looking into George’s face, he accused: “I believe you are concocting some foolish plot to rescue the Queen.”
“There is no such plot,” answered George; which was true, for try as he would he had found nothing satisfactory.
“But if you saw your opportunity you would be ready to serve the woman?”
“Do not speak of the Queen so disrespectfully in my hearing,” retorted George.
An oath escaped Moray, which was rare with him. He was really shaken.
“You lovesick fool!” he muttered. “So it is you, is it? It is because of you that I find her so changed. You have fed her with news and promises of help. You fool! And you call yourself a half-brother of mine!”
Lady Douglas, distressed to witness conflict between her loved ones, said: “Geordie meant no harm, Jamie.”
“No harm!” cried Moray, turning on his mother. “This is not a boy’s game. Remember that. This Geordie of yours could plunge Scotland into civil war.”
“’Twas nothing but a little flirtation, Jamie. What can you expect of young people?”
“Young people! That woman is old in sin, Madam.”
“Geordie would never go against your interest any more than I or William would.”
Moray was impervious to her distress. He glared at his half-brother through narrowed eyes. “You will get out of Lochleven,” he said. “When next I call here I shall expect to find you gone.”
“This is my home,” insisted George.
“It was. It is no longer.”
“Mother . . . ” said George, turning to Lady Douglas; but what could she do? Moray had spoken.
George strode out of the room and Moray, who disliked scenes of this sort, signed to his mother and brother that he wished no further reference to the matter.
That night Moray left the castle.
LADY DOUGLAS watching him go was sad. Where would Geordie go? she was asking herself. It had been a favorite dream of hers that Moray would find some place of honor for George. Families should stand together. And now they had quarreled. Oh, how distressing!
Sir William understood her feelings: he laid his hand on her arm. “James is right,” he said. “Young George is playing with fire.”
“He has been so happy since she came. Oh, William, he has become a man through his devotion to her. He is different from the rest of you. He was always so gentle and affectionate. And where will he go? We cannot drive him from his home.”
“You heard what James said.”
She sighed. “But James will not be back for some time. Let George stay awhile . . . until he has made plans. I’m sure James did not mean him to go away at once . . . just like that. It is monstrous.”
Sir William gave her a look of affection. It was so like her to try to please all her sons. How distressing for her when they ranged themselves on opposite sides! As for Sir William himself, he did not see what harm George could do. It was hard on the boy to be banished from his home merely because he had done the most natural thing in the world—fallen in love with a beautiful woman.
James had gone. So there was no hurry for George to leave.
GEORGE WENT TO his own chamber and began to pace up and down there. He was angry. How dared James order him from his home! He was shocked to realize how much he hated James. All his life he had been taught to admire his half-brother. James Stuart had been as a god to the Douglases. Lady Douglas had made sure of that; and George had never been envious of his mother’s preference for her bastard son, because it was not in George’s nature to be envious. He had no great opinion of himself, and it was only since he had become obsessed by his love for the Queen that he had rebelled. Now his pride made him long to leave the castle; but any personal feelings would be swamped by his desire to do what was best for the Queen.
If he could stay in Lochleven for a week . . . two weeks . . . he might be able to perfect some plan of escape. What a pity that the weather was so bad. If he were exiled from the island, how could he keep in touch with the Queen?
His door opened slowly and a mischievous face appeared to grin at him.
“Oh, Willie, go away.”
Willie’s response was to come into the room.
“I heard you get your marching orders,” he said.
“You hear too much.”
“Dinna be a daftie, Geordie. No one can hear too much.”
“I don’t want to talk to you now, Willie.”
“Which shows how soft you are, Geordie. For if you’re out there . . . ” he pointed through the window “ . . . and if you mustna’ set foot on the island, how’ll she know when you’re ready for her to leave . . . without Willie Douglas tells her?”
George stared at Willie who grinned almost bashfully.
“Ye’ll be over there, Geordie Douglas,” he said, “but Willie’ll be here . . . and he can do all ye did . . . and better.”
George strode across the room and gripped the boy’s shoulder. “You’d be in this, Willie? You’d help?”
“Oh ay . . . I’d do it.” He grinned. “She’s a bonnie lassie!”
George was excited. He made his way to the Queen’s apartments, which was rash, but for all he knew there might be little time to lose.
Seton was with the Queen who received him at once and asked Seton to leave.
George’s heart beat fast when he found himself alone with the Queen. He could scarcely speak, so deep was his emotion. Then the words came tumbling out. Moray had discovered his devotion to her and as a result he was to be exiled from the castle.
The Queen turned pale and put one of her exquisite hands to her throat. “Oh no . . . George,” she whispered, “that would be more than I could bear.”
He stared at her as though he could not believe his ears.
“It’s true,” she went on. “Nothing has given me so much courage to live through these dreary months as your presence.”
“Your Majesty . . . .”
“Oh George, how I hate Moray. This is his doing.”
“It seems, Your Majesty, that he discovered my love for you.”
“When you are older, George, you will more easily hide your emotions.”
“I could never hide an emotion so great that it is my whole being.”
“I have had sonnets written to me, George, but nothing has ever pleased me quite as much as those words of yours. Have you come to say goodbye?”
“I trust not. Moray has gone and I may have a few days left to me. I would like to see some of your friends on the mainland and tell them what has happened, and myself tell you what they plan to do.”
“We shall have to wait for the spring for my rescue, George.”
“It will give us three months in which to perfect our plans, Your Majesty.”
“And this may mean that any day . . . perhaps tomorrow, I shall look for you in vain and be told that you have gone away.”
“That could well be.”
She took a pearl drop earring from her ear.
“Take this, George,” she said. “You shall have one and I the other. If you send a messenger to me with that earring I shall know that the messenger truly comes from you.”
He took the earring and held it reverently in the palm of his hand. For some seconds he seemed bemused; then he said: “Your Majesty, I believe that young Willie Douglas yearns to be made use of in your service.”
“The little freckled-faced boy? I often find him watching me.”
“He is a strange boy, Your Majesty, but is a friend of mine . . . and of yours.”
“I need all the friends I can muster . . . and more so when the most trustworthy of them all is taken from me. Then I could send Willie Douglas with a message to you . . . if the need should arise?”
“I know he would bring it to me, Your Majesty.”
“Oh, George,” she cried, “I am going to miss you so much.”
He knelt and kissed her right hand while she laid her left on his head; stooping suddenly, she kissed it, and when he raised his wondering face to hers impulsively she bent and kissed his lips.
He looked dazed, and then his face was illuminated. “I never thought . . . ” he began. “I never hoped . . . ” And then he went on hurriedly: “Your Majesty, have I your leave to retire?”
For one moment she thought to detain him, then she nodded and turned her head so that she could not see his perplexed face.
It was the moment for him to go. If he had stayed she might have been tempted to change the relationship between them. It must not be so. A short while ago she might have kept him with her; but she had changed since Carberry Hill. She was a wiser woman; never again would she allow her emotions to lead her to disaster. At least she would make some attempt to curb her sensual longings that they might never again control her destiny.
Perhaps, she thought when she was alone, I was never loved before, as George Douglas loves me.
She would remember that through the dreary months which lay ahead.
WILLIE DOUGLAS HAD always freely roamed about the castle and its grounds; when the boat went from the castle to the mainland he often went with them. He performed his duties now and then and if he were missing for several hours no one took much notice. Willie had always been in a specially privileged position and, although Sir William appeared not to notice the boy, instinctively the servants knew that he would not welcome complaints against the urchin.
So Willie went his own way. When the Queen took her walks in the castle grounds he was often seen with her. She seemed to be amused by his mischievous ways. As for Willie he showed no awe of her and behaved as though there was little difference between queens and scullions in his opinion.
George had left Lochleven, for even Lady Douglas could not arrange that he should stay. Moray might descend upon them any day, and, moreover, there were always tradesmen and such-like coming and going between island and the mainland so that the news would soon have spread that George had remained at Lochleven.
Both Lady Douglas and Sir William knew that George was not far off; they knew also that somewhere in the Kinross area many of Mary’s supporters were lodging in the house of loyal townfolk, waiting for the day when an attempt would be made to free the Queen from captivity. That must not happen, of course, for Sir William would be blamed if she escaped; he did not believe any attempt would be made until the coming of spring, but then he would have to be more vigilant, if that were possible. He believed—and so did Lady Douglas—that George had joined forces with Lord Seton and his friends, and they were not many miles away.
Young Willie Douglas’s shrill whistle could be heard through the courtyards; he swaggered a little, which seemed all part of the business of growing up. Now and then he enticed the guards into a gambling game, for Willie had a coin or two to jingle in his pocket. Nobody asked where he procured the money. Willie would have had his answer ready if they had. He had been given it for some service rendered to some merchant on the mainland. Willie was never at a loss.
While he played with the guards he watched the arrival of the boats and the supplies for the castle being unloaded.
“Keeping a sharp watch-out, laddie,” said one of the guards. “They might make you do a bit of work for a change and you wouldna like that at all.”
“Oh ay,” said Willie, absently staring at the laundresses, who were going into the castle to collect the soiled linen which they would take away and bring back clean.
March had come and the first signs of spring were on the countryside. The winds were still strong, but now and again they would drop, and when the sun shone there was real warmth in the air.
One day Willie was helping to unload food from a boat which was moored on the shore, and his industry pleased those he was helping. When the unloading was done he leaped into the boat and sat there waiting.
“Coming back with us, young Willie?” asked one of the boatmen.
“Oh ay . . . ” answered Willie nonchalantly.
“Come on then, lads, back to Kinross.”
Willie whistled as the boat carried him across the water. When it touched ground he jumped out, saluted the boatmen and ran off.
He skirted the town, now and then breaking into a run, sometimes leaping in a rush of high spirits. When he came to a small hillock he stood for a few moments and looked about him. He could see the roofs of the Kinross houses and a quarter of a mile or so away the woods. Assuring himself that no one was following him he made quickly for these woods and was soon on the narrow path which led through them.
He began to whistle, and after a few minutes his whistle was answered.
He stood still waiting, listening. Then he heard the rustle of twigs; George was coming through the trees.
“I thought you were never coming,” said George.
“It took so long to unload the boat.”
“Are you sure no one followed you?”
Willie looked exasperated. “Who d’ye think I am, Geordie Douglas?”
George smiled. Willie was a first-class agent, because not only was he alert and nimble but it was scarcely likely that anyone would suspect him.
“Let’s sit down . . . away from the path . . . here where the trees are thickest. Then we shall hear anyone approaching. And speak low. Voices carry.”
“Ye dinna need to tell me that!”
“No, Willie, but we have to be very careful. If the plan fails how can we say what they might do to her?”
“Oh ay,” Willie agreed.
When they were seated George said: “Listen carefully; we are going to send a large box to the Queen, purporting to come from Melville. We will load it with some heavy substances—perhaps stones—and we shall say it contains articles and documents for the Queen. You must tell her that this box is to arrive shortly, and when it comes she is to take out the contents and hide them, and after a few days we must ask for the box to be returned to Melville. When the box is taken out of the castle, she will be in it.”
Willie stared at George and his light eyes suddenly crinkled with amusement. Willie held his sides and began to shake, giving a display of uncontrollable mirth.
“What is it?” said George impatiently.
“It’s just that you make me laugh, Geordie Douglas.”
“This is no laughing matter.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. It was one laughing matter when you planned escape by boat and then go sniffing around till Drysdale says: ‘Now why would wee Georgie be taking such interest in the boat?’ And this box is another.”
“It is not for you to laugh at your elders . . . and betters, Willie.”
“Oh ay,” said Willie mockingly disconsolate.
“All you have to do is to tell the Queen our intentions. I cannot say when the box will arrive, but you must come and tell me when it is to be sent back. Then I shall be ready for her . . . and I shall not be alone. We shall have horses waiting for her.”
Willie sat silently nodding. “You understand?” said George impatiently.
“Oh ay,” repeated Willie. “I understand. The box goes in . . . and Lady Douglas and Sir William watch it unloaded. ‘What lovely stones!’ cries my lady. ‘What is the Queen’s new pastime to be? Throwing stones from the keep windows on the sentinels?’”
“We have to arrange that the box arrives when Sir William is not there.”
“If Sir William is not there, someone else will be. Hoch, man, dinna ye know that our Queen is a prisoner and that everything that goes into her apartments is watched and ferreted over. Talk sense, Geordie Douglas. You wouldna get farther than the castle courtyard before they’d see through your game with boxes. Nay, Geordie Douglas, think again.”
George was silent. It was true that he had put forward one or two grandiose schemes which Lords Seton and Semphill had thought impracticable. The trouble with George was that he saw himself as a knight who was ready to die for his Queen; he would have preferred to go boldly to the castle and fight his way through to her. Lord Seton had said that it was subterfuge which was needed. Those who could best help the Queen would be crafty spies rather than bold knights.
And now even Willie was scorning his latest plan, and George had to admit that there was a great deal in what the boy said.
“I thought of something,” said Willie. “’Tis a better plan than yours, because it could work. It was when I watched the laundresses bringing out the dirty linen that I thought of it. You know the shawls they wear . . . some of them . . . over the head and gripped round the shoulders . . . and they carry the bundles of linen on one shoulder. Well, I thought to myself, Who counts them that goes in? Is it four or five? Who’d know if six came out?”
“What’s this?” cried George.
“Your Queen would have to wear a laundress’s shawl; she’d have to carry her bundle. I reckon Geordie Douglas would think that was summat a Queen shouldna do . . . even if it meant she got her freedom by doing it.”
George’s eyes began to sparkle. Willie’s scheme was so simple. And yet Lord Seton had said that they needed a plan that was too simple to be suspected.
He gripped Willie’s arm. “There may be something in this.”
“May be, George Douglas? I tell you there is summat in it all right.”
“When do the laundresses come?” George asked.
“This day week.”
“We’ll arrange that two whom we can trust shall be with them. Willie, you’re a bright boy.”
“Thank ye, George Douglas.”
“I am going to make plans to carry out your idea. You go back and, at the first opportunity, tell the Queen what we hope to do. Be here the day after tomorrow and I will give you instructions. The Queen shall walk out of the castle with the laundresses. Now Willie . . . go. And for the love of God take care.”
“Oh ay,” said Willie; and whistling shrilly he went to the shores of the lake where he waited for a boat that was going to the castle to carry him back.
“OH, SETON,” whispered the Queen. “This could be successful. If I escape I shall send for you as soon as possible.”
“Do not think of that now,” said Seton; “think only of the part you must play. Do not speak, whatever happens. It must succeed, for it will all be over in fifteen minutes. Out of the castle . . . into the boat . . . and then across to the mainland. There your friends will be waiting for you with horses. You will always be grateful to these Douglas boys.”
“Give me the shawl. There! Is that right? How do I look?”
“So tall, so regal. Could you stoop a little? The bundle you carry will help. Let me pull the shawl forward so that your face is hidden. Like that . . . no one would guess.”
The two laundresses came to the door of the apartment then.
“The bundles are ready,” said Seton.
The two women came in. They were not the usual laundresses but two who had taken the place of those whose custom it was to come to the castle. They looked at the tall shawled figure with some apprehension.
“She will walk between you when you go out,” said Seton. “Go straight down through the courtyard to the boat, and do not speak to her, yet try not to give the impression that she is any different from the rest of you.”
The women nodded and the Queen watched the way in which they carried their bundles and tried to imitate them.
The moment had come. She followed them down the stairs, and out through the courtyard. At the castle gate young Willie Douglas stood idly watching the boat and the oarsmen.
He began to whistle; then he turned and went into the castle.
THE TWO OARSMEN were talking together. They were young, and while they had waited they had been on the lookout for any comely serving girl who might appear. There were usually one or two who made some excuse to come out of the castle when they were about.
They were telling each other of their latest conquests trying to cap each other’s stories to prove their virility.
“These laundresses are a poor lot,” one bewailed. “I remember one pretty laundress I used to row over . . . . Ah, she was a beauty.”
They exchanged stories about the saucy laundress until one of them said: “Here they come. You’re right . . . a poor lot.”
“Their ankles get thick through too much standing at the washtub,” agreed the other. “And their hands are rougher than an ordinary serving girl’s.”
“That’s true.”
The women were preparing to step into the boat, while the connoisseurs of women watched them without much interest. It was true, they were thinking, that standing at the washtub thickened the ankles.
One of them caught his breath as a laundress stepped into the boat; then he saw that his companion had noticed too. What a pair of ankles! As neat and slim as any Court lady’s. It was not true then that all ankles were thickened at the washtub.
Four pair of eyes traveled up that slim body which, although enveloped in its shawl, they saw was comely. This woman was taller than the rest and the shawl was wrapped so closely about her head that it was impossible to see her face. She almost dropped her bundle as she stepped into the boat, and one of the other women put out a hand to steady her and there she was, throwing down her bundle and pulling the shawl even more tightly across her face as though she suffered from a toothache.
“I wonder if her face is as pretty as her ankles?”
“I’d like to find out.”
“I mean to . . . before we put them ashore.”
They had put only a short distance between them and the island, when the bolder of the two men called: “Hey, my beauty.”
The tall woman did not look in their direction, but kept her eyes steadily fixed on the mainland.
The man leaned forward to seize her shawl and when, as he jerked it, with a little cry of protest she put out a hand to prevent his snatching it, the hand attracted even more attention than the ankles; it was very white; the fingers were long, the nails the shape of a perfect filbert nut. It was the hand of one who had never done a day’s washing in her life.
The two men stared in amazement at the hand before it was hastily hidden within the folds of the shawl; then one of them grasped the shawl in both his hands and sought to pull it away; now two white hands were visible—equally perfect, as in grim desperation they gripped the shawl, holding it up to her face.
But she was of course no match for the oarsman; in a few seconds he had ripped off the shawl and was looking into the flushed face of the Queen.
There was an immediate silence. The laundresses looked on openmouthed; the oarsmen were speechless.
Then Mary spoke. “Continue to row,” she ordered. “Take the boat to the mainland. You will not regret it if you do.”
One oarsman scratched his head and regarded the other.
“That is a command,” Mary continued imperiously. “If you do not obey me your lives are in peril. I am the Queen.”
The second oarsman said: “I’m sorry, Madam, but it would be more than our lives are worth to take you to the mainland now.”
“It will be more than your lives are worth to take me back to the castle!”
“We canna do it, Madam.”
“Why not?”
“Our orders are to carry the laundresses . . . and only they.”
“But I have given you orders, and I am the Queen.”
The men were still perplexed.
“Come,” persisted Mary, “I am in a hurry.”
But the oarsmen continued to look at each other. “They’d take us prisoner,” whispered one. “They’d cut us into collops . . . ”
