Текст книги "The Captive Queen of Scots "

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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“I would reward you,” Mary began, but even so she saw the futility of pleading with them, for what were the promised rewards of a captive Queen worth?

“We’d like to do it, Madam,” said the first oarsman.

“But daren’t,” added the second. “Turn the boat, lad. We must row her back to the castle.”

As the two men applied themselves to their oars, Mary cried in desperation: “I beg of you, have pity on me.”

But they would not look at her. There was that about her which could make them weaken, and they had their lives to think of.

“We’ve got to take you back, Madam,” one of them said, “but we’ll say nothing to Sir William. If no one’s missed you . . . there’ll be no one to know . . . ”

Mary was almost weeping with frustration. The plan had so nearly succeeded. And when would there be another chance?

She could not bear to look at the island. Is there no hope? she was asking herself. Does everything I attempt have to end in failure?

It seemed so. For at the landing stage Sir William, who had seen the boat returning, was waiting to know the reason why.

There was a grim purpose in his eyes as he helped her ashore.

WHEN THE QUEEN was safely in her apartments Sir William went to his mother and told her what had happened.

Lady Douglas was shocked. “And what would Jamie have said if this had succeeded?” she asked.

“He would have said little, as is his custom,” replied Sir William grimly, “but his actions would have been far from insignificant. This must never be allowed to happen again. It points to one thing. There is a traitor in the castle and I am going to find out who it is. I have a shrewd idea.”

“You cannot blame George now.”

“But indeed I do blame George. George is involved in this. You may be sure of that. George is on the mainland with Seton and Semphill . . . and certain others. They were waiting there to receive her. Don’t you see the importance of this? By God, there might have been civil war—and George . . . your son George would have been responsible.”

“He is your brother,” Lady Douglas reminded him.

“I’m afraid young Willie has also had a hand in this. He goes to and from the mainland at will. I heard that he gambles with the soldiers. Where does he get the money with which to gamble?”

“Oh, Willie’s a sharp one. There are several ways in which he could get money, I dare swear.”

“I intend to find out.”

Sir William strode to the door and called to a servant. “Find Willie and bring him to me without delay,” he ordered.

Lady Douglas left him. There would be trouble, Willie would doubtless be beaten, and she did not want to witness such a scene.

Willie came boldly into Sir William’s presence. Willie was not perturbed. He had believed that Sir William was his father and that he must have had a special fondness for his mother to allow him to be brought up in the castle.

“Come here, boy,” said Sir William blandly.

Willie approached lightheartedly, and as he did so Sir William shot out an arm and gripped his shoulder.

“What do you know of this attempt of the Queen’s to escape?”

“Oh,” said Willie, “I know a lot. I saw her go out. She looked like the others . . . only taller. I saw her get into the boat and them row her away.”

“I mean how much did you know before it happened?”

Willie looked puzzled. “What should I have known before it happened, Sir William?”

“You knew there was a plot for her escape, did you not?”

“I reckon there’s been lots of plots.”

Sir William went on: “You gamble with the soldiers. Where do you find the money?”

“An odd job here and there brings its reward,” said Willie, slightly less truculent than usual.

Sir William took the boy by the shoulders and shook him until his freckled face was scarlet. “George Douglas gave you the money, did he not? You have been to see George Douglas on the mainland. You keep him informed of what is happening in the castle, do you not?”

Willie was silent. Sir William, who was not a violent man, was now a frightened one, and Willie’s stubborn silence alarmed him further.

He threw the boy across the room. Willie fell, knocking his head against a table. He felt the warm blood on his face, and as he picked himself up he was looking for the door. But Sir William was not prepared to let him go. He strode toward him and said in a quiet voice: “If you do not tell me all you know, I will give you the severest whipping you have ever had in your life.”

“It’s that I don’t know much, Sir William,” Willie began, but Sir William struck him again and this was no light blow. Willie felt as though the floor was coming up to meet him. He clenched his teeth together, and unfortunately Sir William noticed this and knew it meant that Willie was determined to let no secrets escape him.

“You’ve been seeing George Douglas,” he said. “You’ve been acting as a spy in the castle. The reward of spying is death. Did you know?”

Willie did not answer.

“What other plans are there?” Sir William demanded.

Willie whispered: “I don’t know, Sir William.”

“You’ve been seeing George though. George gave you the money?”

Willie thought quickly. What harm could he do by admitting that? They knew that George was on the mainland. It was obvious that they would have met. He could do no harm by admitting that he had seen George and that it was George who had given him money. All he must do was deny his part in the laundress plan, for Sir William would say that if he had helped once, he would do so again, and then, when the time came to put another plan into action, he would be a suspected person.

“I did see George,” he said.

“And he gave you money. Why?”

“Because he likes me,” answered Willie promptly.

“And you convey message from him to the Queen?”

“Messages . . . ?” began Willie and clenched his teeth again.

Sir William’s anger was dying. There was something appealing about the boy; but he knew that he had been acting as a spy; he knew that he was as dangerous as George had been. He could not afford to have Willie in the castle.

He liked the boy’s boldness; his refusal to betray his part in this was admirable—or would have been if he had been on the right side. But this was too important a matter to allow sentiment to get in the way of common sense.

Sir William put his hand into his pocket, and brought out a gold coin. He held this out to Willie who looked at it in amazement.

“Take it,” said Sir William. “You may need it.”

Willie took it in his grubby hand.

“And now,” said Sir William, “you will get out. This castle is no longer your home.”

Willie stared at Sir William disbelievingly, but the man would not meet his eye.

“Get out,” continued Sir William. “Get out while you’re still alive, you imp of Satan. Get out of my castle. Get off my island. We don’t harbor those who spy against us.”

Willie went to the door, clutching the gold coin; an impulse came to him to turn and plead with Sir William, to ask him to remember that this was his home. But he would not do it. He held his head high and walked out of the room and out of the castle to the shores of the lake.

He called to the old boatman who worked the ferry.

“Row me over to the mainland,” he said.

“I don’t know as I will,” was the answer.

“You should, you know,” retorted Willie. “It’s Sir William’s order. You’re to row me across and leave me on the other side.”

Then he stepped into the boat, and not once did he turn to look back at the castle; his eyes were fixed on the mainland, on the woods. Not far away, he was thinking, was George.

THE QUEEN WAS in despair. Not only had she lost George but Willie also.

There were new restrictions, and Sir William had ordered that one or two of the female members of his household must share the Queen’s room, so that she had no chance of making plots with her women. This meant that one or more of his sisters were in constant attendance; they were beautiful and naturally amiable women but they had been warned that they must act as spies.

They would come into the apartment and sit with the Queen, Seton, Jane Kennedy and Marie Courcelles while they all worked on the tapestry. It meant that conversation must be guarded for any remarks likely to arouse suspicion were reported to Sir William.

Mary had not felt so hopeless since those early days of her incarceration and she thought longingly of that period when she had been able to see George Douglas and be assured of his devotion; she thought sadly of Willie who amused her with his quaint ways but who had inspired her with hope as much as had the romantic George.

One day another member of the Douglas family came to her room presumably, thought Mary, for the purpose of spying on her. This was a young woman who had married Lady Douglas’s son Robert and was therefore a Douglas only through marriage; Mary was inclined to like her the better for that. She was modest and a little apologetic.

“Your Majesty, I am Christian, wife of Robert Douglas. My father was the Master of Buchanan.”

“But of course,” said Mary pleasantly, “I could not forget the Countess of Buchanan who was once betrothed to my half-brother.”

As the Countess flushed slightly Mary remembered that Christian had no reason to love Moray.

“Welcome to my apartments,” went on Mary. “I trust you will not find them as dreary as I do.”

“Your Majesty is a prisoner and that is why you hate your prison. It grieves me that I should be a member of that family who are your jailors.”

“Thank you for those words. Come, sit down. Are you fond of needlework?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then take a look at our work. I think we shall make it into a screen.”

“It is very beautiful,” murmured Christian.

“It is our great pleasure to work on it,” Mary told her. “There is something so satisfying about tapestry. It lives on after us . . . and consider, in years to come people will say: ‘That is what Mary Queen of Scots did while she was a prisoner in Lochleven.’”

“Let us hope, Your Majesty, that they will say: ‘The Queen started it in her prison of Lochleven but completed it in the royal apartments at Edinburgh Castle or Holyrood House.’”

Certainly Christian was more sympathetic than Lady Douglas’s daughters, thought Mary; and she was not wrong when she surmised that she might be an ally.

Very often Mary was alone with her, and on one of these occasions Christian said: “I shall never forget the time when Sir William was in disgrace with Your Majesty. The Earl of Moray was in England and you sent word to Lochleven that Sir William and his family were to surrender the castle and leave Scotland within six hours.”

Mary nodded, remembering the occasion well. They had tried to prevent her marriage with Darnley, and at that time she had been very eager for the marriage. Moray had taken up arms against her, and of course the Douglases were, as ever, firmly beside him in all he did.

“It was a terrible day when we heard the news,” went on Christian. “I was in labor with my first child, and the thought of leaving the castle was alarming. Sir William had had to take to his bed with sickness.”

“I remember,” said Mary. She had been skeptical of Sir William’s illness but there had been no doubt that the Countess of Buchanan was in childbed.

“And you gave orders that we might remain,” went on Christian. “All you asked was that the surety of the castle should be at your command. I shall never forget the relief. And I shall never forget my gratitude to Your Majesty.”

“Naturally,” said Mary quickly, “I should not have thought of turning you out at such a time. But Sir William does not feel equally grateful, I am sure. He has little pity for my plight and thinks only to serve my ambitious brother.”

“Your Majesty . . . ” Christian looked over her shoulder . . . “you may know something of my story. If that is so, you will understand that I feel no great desire to serve your ambitious brother.”

“I know,” Mary told her, “that you were once betrothed to him and that he forsook you for Agnes Keith, the daughter of the Earl Marischal.”

“A match more to his liking!” retorted Christian meaningfully. “But that was of no moment. Matches which are made for us in our youth often come to nothing. But I was also his ward, and I was an heiress. He was not eager for marriage with me, seeing a more advantageous one elsewhere, but at the same time he did not mean to lose my fortune. I think he was rather sorry that there was no convent into which he could force me. So he sent me here to his family, and in this castle of Lochleven, Your Majesty, I was as much a prisoner as you are now.”

“My poor Christian! I fear I have thought so constantly of my own woes that I have given little thought to those of others.”

“Your Majesty is well known for your generous heart. And my plight was made less hard by the sympathy of Lady Douglas, who, although she would serve her bastard son, is always ready to be kind to those in distress, providing of course that in doing so she does not go too much against the wishes of Moray. Even so, she is ready to risk a little . . . as in my case. When Robert and I fell in love she helped us to marry . . . and she did not let Moray know what had happened until we had gone through the ceremony.”

“So then there was nothing he could do about it!”

“Oh yes, Your Majesty, he is always resourceful. That is why he has reached his present position. He still kept me a prisoner at Lochleven and he has taken my fortune from me. So here I remain—no longer an heiress—dependent on the bounty of the Douglases because I am Robert’s wife.”

Mary was silent. Then she said thoughtfully: “It is a marvel to me that I always believed so firmly in the goodness of my half-brother. It is only now that I have time for reflection that I see him in his true light. Again and again he has stood against me; then when he was in my presence, his calmness and his appearance of stern devotion to duty deceived me. It will do so no longer; one of my greatest enemies in Scotland today is my own half-brother, Regent Moray.”

“But Your Majesty has good friends. The Setons, and the Flemings are with you. And the Huntleys in the North.”

“The Setons and Flemings have always been my good friends. Mary Seton and Mary Fleming were brought up as my sisters. Then there is Lord Semphill who married Mary Livingstone, another of my Marys, and he is also on my side.”

“And I understand, Your Majesty, that Lord Semphill, with Lord Seton, is not far off at this moment. I do not doubt that they often look toward your prison from the mainland.”

“It’s a comforting thought.”

“Then you have friends abroad.”

“The King of France greatly desired to marry me,” mused Mary. “I am certain that he would help if he could; but he is ruled by his mother, Catherine de’ Medici, and he never liked me.”

“Yet no Queen is happy to see another in captivity. It is an insult to royalty, which they must needs resent.”

“If I could but write to them . . . . if I could but make them see my humiliation and the indignity of my position . . . ”

“I am sure Your Majesty’s eloquence would move them to pity.”

“I have no means of writing. No writing materials. They have been taken from me. I have no means of conveying letters to my friends.”

Christian was silent, and Mary picked up her tapestry and began to work with a desperate concentration.

But the next day when Christian came to see her she brought writing materials.

“Your Majesty must have a care that you are not seen with these,” she said. “But if you wrote your letters I could see that they are delivered to a reliable messenger. They do not watch me, you see. They do not fear that I shall escape. Here I have my home and my family . . . and my fortune is already Moray’s.”

How quickly hope was ready to spring up. The Queen sat at her window looking out over the lake. She had lost George and Willie, and now Fate had offered her Christian.

Charles of France would help her. She knew he would because he had loved her with all the force of his strange, twisted nature; although he was much younger than she was his jealous rage, when she had married his brother François, had been alarming to behold.

But he was entirely ruled by the mother whom he feared, and Mary knew that any letter he sent to Charles would first pass through his mother’s hands. So there was only one thing to do. She must write to Catherine de’ Medici and try to arouse in her the indignation all queens must feel for insulted royalty. She must hope that the Queen would show her letter to her son; and then the King of France would long to come to her aid.

There were few moments when it was safe to bring out those writing materials, and she had to wait for her chance. But it came at last, and Seton and Jane kept watch while she sat at her table and wrote.

Her appeal was pathetic.

. . . I am so closely guarded that I have no leisure but when they are at dinner or sleeping, when I rise stealthily, for their girls lie with me. This bearer will tell you all. I entreat you to give credit and reward him as you love me. I implore you both to have pity upon me for unless you take me hence by force, I shall never come out, I am certain. But if you will send troops all Scotland would revolt from Moray and Morton on perceiving you took the matter in earnest . . .

She sealed the letter. And when Christian came to her apartments next day she took it and assured the Queen that it should be dispatched to France at the earliest possible moment.

HOW LONG the waiting seemed! How long before she realized how foolish she had been! To have written to Catherine de’ Medici, to expect help from her, surely showed how blind she had become. The woman had hated her from the moment they had first met when Mary was a child and she, the neglected wife of Henri Deux, was taking second place to the dazzling Diane de Poitiers.

Why should Mary expect help now when she was alone and helpless? But it was in her nature to dream of the impossible and, if it were pleasant enough, imagine it would come true.

She could picture the slow smile on that flat, expressionless face as Catherine de’ Medici read her appeal. She could hear the sudden loud laughter which she had always found so unattractive.

Young Charles would never see the letter.

How foolish to have hoped for succor from that direction! But for what else could she hope? She was only in her twenties. Was she to spend the rest of her life in the dreary island fortress of Lochleven?

The waters of the lake had begun to have a great fascination for her. They were dappled now with April sunshine. Spring was here but it brought her little hope. George was lost to her. She had not realized until she had lost him how much he had done to make her life tolerable.

When she sat at her window looking down on the lake, she began to picture herself walking there and letting the water lap about her ankles (those ankles which had betrayed she was no laundress to the observant and lecherous boatmen) and not pausing but walking on and on until the whole of her body was submerged in the water of the lake.

She would not struggle for life, for what had life to offer her? She would eagerly embrace death because she was weary and hope had fled.

But that was folly; it was sinful. Whatever happened she must go on living; hope would return to comfort her; it had never deserted her for long.

Sir William and Lady Douglas were alone in the latter’s apartment and on a table before them lay a letter which they had both perused with some concern.

It was from George, who wrote that he realized there was nothing for him in Scotland, since he had ruined his hopes of advancement, and he planned to leave for France where he hoped to make his fortune. Before he left, however, he wished to see his family. Would Sir William be prepared to receive him at Lochleven? He merely wished to say goodbye and would be gone within an hour. But he had a great desire to see his mother as he did not know when they would meet again.

“Of course he must come!” cried Lady Douglas. “I cannot agree, William, that he should be allowed to go to France without saying goodbye to his mother.”

“All this time,” Sir William murmured, “he has been in the Kinross area. He will have been with Seton, Fleming, Semphill and the rest. How do we know that this is not yet another plot?”

“Nonsense!” snapped Lady Douglas. “He is going to France. How could he plot from there? He says he will not remain more than an hour. I insist on his coming. He is my son, William, as much as you are.”

“And have you thought what your other son might have to say if he knew George had come back after he had banished him?”

“Jamie need never know,” retorted Lady Douglas complacently. “Or if he does, it will then be too late for him to protest, for George will be in France by that time. It is a sad thing when a mother must plead to be allowed to say goodbye to her son.”

At length William gave way and replied to George’s letter that they would see him at the castle.

George arrived half an hour before supper and was received with tearful embraces by his mother, and even William was not unmoved. There had always been deep family feeling among the Douglases; and William, being really fond of his young brother, sincerely deplored the fact that he had made what he called a fool of himself over a woman—not that William could not understand that.

“Come along in, my dear son,” cried Lady Douglas. “Come to my own private chamber. I have much to say to you. You come also, William.”

When they were alone, Lady Douglas looked in consternation at her younger son. He was thin, she declared. How had he been living since he left the castle? She had suffered many a sleepless night on his account.

George told her she was not to worry. He was well able to take care of himself, for he was not a boy any longer.

“I suppose,” said William, “you have been with Seton and Semphill on the mainland?”

George nodded.

“And you’ve been within a stone’s throw of the island, I swear.”

“Where else did you expect me to be?”

“And you were in that plot to smuggle her out as a laundress, I’m certain.”

“You should not feel so disgruntled about it, brother. It failed.”

“And might so easily have succeeded,” growled William.

“Don’t you see,” said George, “the matter is hopeless. That is why I want to get away to France.”

Sir William was pensive. He was thinking: Out of sight, out of mind. He is no longer so enamored of his Queen. He is weary of the plots and subterfuge. Well, he was but a boy suffering from the pangs of calf-love.

“Look here,” he said, “your mother does not wish you to leave Scotland.”

“Oh, George,” cried Lady Douglas, “stay in Scotland. I am sure that Jamie would give you some position with him . . . if you could only assure him that you would serve him faithfully.”

“He is, after all, your brother,” added Sir William.

“I do not think Moray will ever be my friend again,” said George. “No, it is better for me to get right away. Perhaps in a year or so I shall return and by that time Moray may have forgiven me. But I think it best now that I go to France.”

Lady Douglas continued to persuade and Sir William joined with her; but George shook his head and at length they realized that he had made up his mind.

As it was supper time, Lady Douglas said that George must take the meal with them. George said he would be delighted to join them, and so once more he took his place at the supper table.

He noticed the keys beside William’s plate, and William followed his gaze.

“We have been doubly careful since the attempted escape,” he told his brother. “As all the guards are off duty during mealtime, when they come to table I lock the castle gates and the Queen’s apartments, and during that time the keys are never out of my sight.”

“Ah,” said George, “you had a good warning, brother. You were nearly caught once. I’ll warrant you will not be so easily caught again.”

Sir William drank freely of the wine which the page had poured into his goblet. He was feeling sad, partly because he was wearying of his commission to guard the Queen, and partly because he was saying goodbye to his young brother.

“No,” he said firmly, “it shall not happen again. We’re determined on that. We watch her night and day. She would not now be able to slip out of the castle in the guise of a laundress. Everyone who leaves is closely scrutinized.”

“William,” said George, “there is one request I would make to you before I go. I trust you will grant it.”

“I will if it is in my power to do so.”

“It concerns young Willie.”

“That young rogue!”

“Oh, not such a rogue, William. I admit he worked with me. I gave him money . . . and he was always my friend, as you know. We were like brothers.”

Sir William nodded.

“You cannot blame him for doing what I asked him to.”

“So you admit you asked him to help you.”

“I do. You should blame me for what happened . . . not Willie.”

“You might have caused God knows what damage between you. You weren’t rescuing a lady in distress, brother. You were freeing a Queen and preparing to start a civil war.”

“I know. I know. I was young . . . so was Willie. It was my fault. But I ask you not to blame Willie. He has been with me since he left the castle. What will happen to him, think you, when I go to France?”

“You’re taking him with you?”

“That was not my plan. I am going to ask you to take him back into the castle. He can do no harm; I shall be in France, so there’ll be no temptation to. He’s sharp but he’s too young to roam the country by himself. He’d starve to death or fall in with robbers. William, will you take young Willie back?”

Sir William hesitated. He would not have admitted it, but he had often thought of the engaging lad, and he was secretly pleased to have an opportunity of bringing him back.

He pulled at his beard. “Well . . . ” he began, and tried to make excuses for his leniency. “’Tis true the fellow who now serves me at table is a clumsy loon.”

“So you will? I thank you, William. Now I can go with an easy mind.”

George did justice to the food on the table. Not at all, as Lady Douglas said afterward to Sir William, like a lovesick young man.

Afterward they conducted him to the boat, for in spite of his seeming indifference Sir William could not run the risk of his seeing the Queen.

No harm had been done. He had been with George all the time he had been in the castle, and even Moray could not take exception to that.

He stood with Lady Douglas beside him watching until the boat reached the mainland.

“Did you notice,” he said to his mother, “that George did not once look up to the keep?”

“I did. Jamie was right to banish him for a while for the trick has worked. But how I wish that he could now come back to Lochleven.”

THE SOLDIERS WHOSE duty it was to guard the Queen found the days somewhat monotonous. The importance of their task was continually being pointed out to them, but that did not alter the dullness of their duties which consisted of standing in one spot for a number of hours, or pacing back and forth a few paces each way.

They were continually thinking of ways to pass the time. Gambling was a favorite occupation; another was rough horseplay; and one of the favorite games was what they called “liberating the Queen.” In order to play this they divided themselves into two sides and had a mock battle, using lumps of turf, for ammunition, with which they pelted each other.

This game caused great amusement, not only to themselves but to watchers in the castle. Serving men and maids would call from the windows urging on this side or that, and sometimes they would even take part in the mock battle.

Even Will Drysdale, the commander of the garrison, found the game irresistible, and one day to make the battle more realistic he fired a hackbut, which mistakenly he believed to be loaded with powder only, into a group of the “enemy.”

The result was that two of the men were wounded in their thighs, so what had begun as a game turned out to be a serious matter.

Mary, who had been watching from her window, immediately sent her French apothecary down to see what he could do to help.

The two wounded men were carried into the castle and their wounds dressed; but when the apothecary returned to his mistress he was thoughtful.

“A sorry end to their play,” the Queen remarked.

The apothecary grunted.

“It would seem you do not agree with me?” went on the Queen, astonished.

“Your Majesty,” answered the apothecary, “I noticed that one of these men is he who is in charge of the boats.”

“He is badly wounded?”

The man lifted his shoulders. “His wound will incapacitate him for some time, Your Majesty.”

Mary understood his meaning and she sighed. It might have been important when George and Willie had been in the castle. They might have devised some plan. But now, who was there to help her? Sir William had redoubled his precautions. There were always soldiers on guard except at meal times when she was locked in her apartment and the castle gates were also kept locked; and Sir William never let the keys out of his sight.

That accident to the boatman might have been significant and advantageous when George and Willie were in the castle.

A few day later Willie returned to Lochleven.

IT WAS THE FIRST of May. This should be a joyous time of the year. In the past Mary had ridden out with her courtiers dressed in green to go a-maying. Such occasions only served to bring home more bitterly the plight to which she had been reduced.

The sun shone into her room and, rising from her bed, slipping on her robe, Mary went to her prie-Dieu and there knelt, with her hair streaming about her shoulders while she prayed for what now would seem like a miracle.

When she rose she felt exhilarated and, as those members of the Douglas family who shared her bedchamber were still sleeping, she went into the small ante-room and, cautiously taking out her writing materials from where she had hidden them, began to write.

This letter was addressed to Elizabeth of England, and she was making an appeal for help.

From Lochleven the first of May, [she wrote] Madame, my good sister, the length of my weary imprisonment and the wrongs I have received from those on whom I conferred so many benefits are less annoying to me than not having it in my power to acquaint you with the reality of my calamities and the injuries which have been done to me in various ways. Therefore, I have found means to send you a line by a faithful servant . . . .