Текст книги "The Captive Queen of Scots "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Had he need to take her there, to show her what he had proved in her Court when she had been surrounded by her courtiers?
She began to shiver. “No, my lord Herries,” she said, “I will not stay at Earlston.”
“Your Majesty, there is no other refuge for miles, and you are exhausted.”
Mary shook her head. “No,” she repeated coldly.
She turned her horse and as she did so she seemed to throw off her exhaustion. “Come,” she said, “we can ride on a few more miles.”
And as they rode the memories of Bothwell came flooding back. In this wild country he would have hunted and made sport. It was as though his spirit rode beside her, as though he mocked, as though he said: So even now, when I am miles away across the sea, you are afraid to enter a place which was once a home of mine. Why, Mary?
Why? she asked herself. He was far away. He could do no harm to her. Did she believe that the presence of one so vital could never be completely eradicated and must linger on in spirit when the man himself had departed?
Why was it that she could not endure to enter a place which must be full of reminders of him, where she would be afraid of encountering something which would bring back memories that were too bitter to be borne? Did it mean that she longed for him still?
She was not sure. But she believed that her abhorrence of Earlston meant that she no longer cared to be reminded; that memories brought back too much that was shameful; that there was a superstition in her mind that he it was who had brought her to disaster, and that some evil force within him could harm her still.
No, she could not be entirely sure. She only knew that, exhausted as she was, she would rather ride on than enter a house in which he had once lived.
So on they rode until at length they came to Kenmure, an estate belonging to the Laird of Lochinvar.
THE LAIRD of Lochinvar had bad news for her. Her pursuers had discovered the direction in which she was traveling, and were not many miles away. It could be fatal if she tarried; so, pausing just long enough to take refreshment, she and her faithful band were on their way again. On they rode through miles of wild and beautiful country; and eventually they came to a bridge which crossed the River Dee.
Here Herries, calling a halt, said they would cross the bridge and then break it down so that when their pursuers reached this spot they would be delayed in their crossing of the river.
Lord Livingstone looked with compassion at the Queen. “Your Majesty,” he said, “rest here while we demolish the bridge. At least it will be a small respite.”
So Mary dismounted and Willie Douglas tied her horse to a tree and she stretched herself out on the grass and closed her eyes. She was thirsty and, realizing how hungry she was, she called Willie to her.
“I would give a great deal for some food and wine,” she said.
Willie grinned and laid his hand on the sword, which he would not give up although it impeded him considerably. Willie felt that he was no longer a boy since he had left Lochleven; he was ready to work like a man and fight like a man for his sovereign.
“I’ll go and forage,” he told her.
George, who was busy at work on the bridge, called after Willie: “Where are you going? If you’re not here when we’re ready to go, you’ll be left behind.”
Willie answered: “Dinna fach yourself, Geordie Douglas.” He drew out his word and brandished it as though to show what he would do to any who stood in his way.
Mary could not help smiling, and when the men’s attention was on the bridge she rose and followed Willie.
“Willie,” she called.
He stopped and she came up beside him.
“Why dinna you rest?” he demanded, “you’re weary.”
“So are we all,” she said. “Where are you going?”
“There’s smoke in yon trees,” said Willie. “It means there’s a cottage there. I’m going to ask for food for you.”
“I shall come with you.”
Willie looked dubious, but she smiled and said: “I wish it, Willie; and I am your Queen, remember, although I sometimes think you forget it.”
“Oh ay,” said Willie, “Your Majesty’s such a bonny lassie that it slips the mind ye’re a Queen as well.”
It was impossible not to be amused by Willie. He was so loyal and so frank. She trusted him to work for her as she could never trust some who overwhelmed her with their flattery.
So she and Willie came to the cottage, and when Willie knocked on the door a woman opened it.
“What is it you want?” she asked.
“We’re travelers in sore need of food,” Willie told her. “This lady needs to rest and eat if we are to continue our journey.”
The woman peered at the Queen.
“Oh you poor creatures!” she said. “Come you in and you shall have some of that that’s in my cupboard.”
Into the small room stepped the Queen with Willie, and the woman bade them sit at her table.
“Have ye come far?” she asked, turning to the cupboard.
“Very far,” answered Mary.
“Ah . . . these are troublous times.”
“You live alone?” Mary asked.
“Nay, there’s my good man who works up at Culdoach Farm.”
“Is that far?”
“Oh no. We’re on the farm land now.”
The woman had brought oatmeal and sour milk from her cupboard. She had scarcely enough for herself but her heart was touched by the plight of the travelers and she was willing to share with them all she had. At any other time Mary would have been unable to eat such fare, but so great was her hunger that it tasted good.
The woman was looking at the Queen’s hands and had noticed the dainty way in which she ate.
“If I had more and better fare,” she said, “you should have it.”
“What you have given us was good indeed,” said the Queen. “I shall always remember you with gratitude.”
The woman started up. She had heard the sound of galloping horses and, running to her window, she saw that her cottage was surrounded.
“Mercy on us!” she cried. “What does this mean?”
The Queen went to the window, Willie beside her, his sword drawn. Then he laughed suddenly because he had seen that those who surrounded the cottage were Herries, Fleming, and Livingstone and the rest.
“All is well,” he said. “You have nothing to fear, good woman. These are our friends.”
“Your friends!” she cried. “Then who are you?”
Mary said: “I am the Queen.”
The woman stared at her disbelievingly and then her eyes went to the table on which the empty bowl now stood.
“The Queen!” said the woman. “Sitting at my table . . . eating my oats!”
Mary laid her hand on her shoulder. Then she turned to Willie: “Go out and tell our friends that all is well, and ask Lord Herries to come here.”
“Lord Herries!” cried the woman, for in her eyes he was as grand a personage as the Queen, more to be feared perhaps because he was the laird of the land on which her cottage stood—whereas the Queen was merely a name to her.
“If you could ask for something,” said Mary, “what would it be?”
“Ask for something?” stammered the woman.
“Some gift. Tell me what you would rather have than anything in the world.”
The woman looked about the walls of her cottage; lovingly she raised her eyes to the ceiling. “I’d ask that this cottage was my very own,” she said.
Mary was about to say, It is yours, when she remembered that she was a Queen flying for her life, that she had been robbed of most of her possessions, including her crown. Was she in a position to say: This is yours?
She felt disconsolate. It was characteristic that she was more hurt now by the loss of her power to grant this woman her small wish than she had been by the confiscation of her precious jewels.
Lord Herries was at the door and the woman made a deep curtsy.
“I have enjoyed hospitality under this roof,” said Mary, “and I should like to show my gratitude. I should like to give this woman the cottage in which she lives and for which she now pays rent. It is on your land, Lord Herries.”
“The cottage is hers, Your Majesty.”
The woman stared from one to the other and in the emotion of the moment tears gushed from her eyes.
“My lord Herries . . . ” she began.
“Your thanks are due to Her Majesty,” Herries told her.
The woman cried: “But I only gave her that which I would give any hungry traveler. Oatmeal and sour milk . . . and for that . . . this cottage is mine.”
“Not for the oatmeal,” answered Mary gently, “but for your kindness to a weary traveler. Kindness is not always easy to come by and I value it highly.”
Herries said: “What is the name of your cottage, that I may know which one it is?”
“It is Dunn’s Wa’s, my lord.”
“Dunn’s Wa’s,” Herries repeated. “Now tell me where I can find fresh horses.”
“Up at the farm of Culdoach, my lord. They have horses there.”
So the Queen departed and in the cottage its new owner sat by her table and covered her face with her apron, rocking herself to and fro, because in that moment she could not bear to look at those beloved walls which would henceforth be her own. And all because she had given a stranger a share of her sparse supper! There’d be a little less to eat at her next meal—but she could not have enjoyed it if she had denied a weary, hungry stranger a share.
And for this . . . Dunn’s Wa’s was hers.
THE FUGITIVES had put fifty miles between them and the battlefield of Langside and had now come to Dundrennan Abbey.
Here they halted, for on the other side of the Solway Firth was England. Looking across the water Mary could see the mountains of Elizabeth’s country and she felt a great longing to be there. In Scotland she must remain a fugitive until she could raise a large enough army to win back all she had lost; and she could not do that while she was flying before the enemy. She needed respite which only refuge in a foreign country could give her.
So at the Abbey of Dundrennan she called together her faithful band, and with Gordon of Lochinvar who had joined them, they sat around a council table to discuss further plans.
Among those who talked with her were Lord Herries, Lord Fleming and the Laird of Lochinvar, Lord Livingstone, Lord Boyd and George Douglas.
Herries began by saying that he believed the Queen could stay in Dundrennan and there hold out against the enemy. The place would make a good fortress and would not be difficult to defend. There was no doubt that Huntley was on the march and would join them shortly. When he arrived with his Highlanders they would be ready for battle again, and this time they would defeat the enemy.
It was Livingstone’s opinion that they should move to a more doughty fortress than Dundrennan. There were stronger places not very far distant and they should make one of these their headquarters without delay and prepare for a siege.
Lord Boyd with Lochinvar considered that the Queen was in danger as long as she remained on Scottish soil. In France she had powerful relations; she could enlist the help of the King of France. They believed that without delay she should set out for France.
Mary listened, considering each proposal as it was offered. To stay in Scotland? To risk capture and another long imprisonment such as she had suffered at Lochleven? She could not endure that.
Go to France? She thought of her ambitious uncles and the Queen-Mother of France who had always hated her. How could she return to that country where she had once reigned as Queen, where she had been beloved—except by the Queen-Mother—where she had been so happy? How could she return, a miserable fugitive, begging for help, seeking a refuge?
She could imagine the reception she would get from Catherine de’ Medici. She shivered and as she looked through the window at the distant mountains of England, she spoke firmly: “I am going to England. I shall throw myself on the mercy of my cousin Elizabeth.” The men about the table stared at her in dismay, but Mary went on: “She will help me. She is angry, I have been told, to hear that I am so treated. She will give me her sympathy, and more. She will help me to regain my kingdom. We are of an age—though she is a few years older than I. We are both women, both Queens. There is a bond between us.”
“Your Majesty,” said Herries, “I implore you to reconsider your decision. You know that Elizabeth has been helping Moray to defy you?”
“He sought her help and she gave it.”
“It does not seem as though she feels herself to be Your Majesty’s friend.”
“If I can go to Hampton Court, and confer with her there, I know I shall win her sympathy. We are two women; we are cousins.”
“Your Majesty,” began Livingstone, “can you trust the Queen of England?”
“I have never had any reason not to.”
“The English have always been our enemies. They killed your father.”
“I know, but that was not the present Queen.”
“May I recall to Your Majesty’s mind how your illustrious ancestor, James I, ventured to England in a time of peace; he was made prisoner for many years.”
“This is a woman, a Queen like myself. She is no hard-hearted man who wants to go to war and pillage and kill. The Queen of England hates war. We know that.”
“She likes the spoils of war and prefers others to fight for them.”
“She hates war,” said Mary firmly.
“Your Majesty,” said Livingstone, “when your royal father was invited to York to meet Henry VIII of England he was warned by his nobles, after setting out on the journey, that he would be wise to turn back. He did.”
“I cannot see,” said Mary, “that any good will come of my staying in Scotland or going anywhere else.”
“To France . . . ” began Herries.
“A perilous journey, and how can I be sure what my reception will be?”
“But . . . to the Queen of England!”
They were studying her in dismay. Had she forgotten that long ago, secure under the sheltering wing of the royal house of France, she had assumed the title, Queen of England? Elizabeth was not the woman to forget that.
She was weary of being a fugitive and across the Firth the country looked beautiful and at peace. She could never rest easily on Scottish soil. Her sleep would be broken by the slightest noise. She would be continually on the alert for the coming of the enemy who would carry her away to a prison like that of Lochleven.
She had made up her mind. She was a Queen and would insist on their obedience to her wishes.
Calmly she faced them.
“I am going to England,” she said.
SHE SENT FOR George Douglas.
“Ah, George,” she said, holding out her hand. “It is such a short while since I walked out of Lochleven, yet it seems like a year. What will you do now that I am going to England?”
George gulped because of the lump in his throat; his eyes were earnest as they met hers.
“Whatever Your Majesty commands.”
“I would not command you, George. I would have you act of your own free will.”
“My will is to obey Your Majesty’s orders.”
She sighed. “Oh, George,” she said, “if I were not myself . . . I could be very happy with you. But are you wise to link your fortunes to those of an exiled Queen?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, since I am only happy serving her.”
“You cannot stay in Scotland now, George. Your life would not be worth much if you did. You should go to France. I will give you letters of commendation which you could take to my uncles. They would reward you well for all you have done for me.”
George was silent.
Mary continued: “Christian told me that before I came to the castle there was talk of your betrothal to a French heiress. That was true, George?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And you are no longer eager for that match?”
“I am eager only to serve my Queen.”
“Then, George, there is nothing for it. I shall have to give you your orders.” She laughed and, because she could not bear to see the anguish on his face, she said quickly: “I order you to come to England with me, George Douglas.”
The relief shone from his eyes as he said: “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“My friends do not trust the Queen of England, George. But I shall visit her, and when I talk to her I will make her understand. The sooner I am in England the easier I shall sleep. George, I wish you to go down to the Solway and arrange for a boat to carry us to England.”
George bowed low and eagerly went to perform his task.
WHILE GEORGE went off on his quest with Willie as his companion, Lords Herries, Fleming, Livingstone and Boyd conferred together.
Herries said: “As we cannot persuade the Queen not to go to England, there is only one course open to us. We must go with her.”
The others agreed, and Livingstone added: “There can be no greater peril for us all than to stay in Scotland; and I doubt that the young Douglases will find such a craft as could carry us to France in safety. It may be that this plan to visit England is the best after all.”
The others were silent. The position was full of dangers. They distrusted Elizabeth; in her realm they might lose their liberty; but if the Moray faction captured any of them it would be their heads that would go.
“Then,” said Herries, “I will write to Sir Richard Lowther who is the Deputy-Governor of Carlisle and I will ask him for a safe conduct for the Queen and her party.”
“Do so without delay,” said Livingstone. “I shall feel much happier when we receive it.”
So Herries wrote at once and dispatched a messenger to England.
AWAITING the return of George Douglas, Mary found it difficult to rest. She had in her possession a ring which Elizabeth of England had once sent her. This she had lost for a time but Melville had restored it to her with other possessions, and she took it out now and examined it.
It was delicately made and had two joints which, when put together, formed two right hands supporting a heart made of two diamonds which were held in place by a spring. When this was opened the ring could be divided into two halves.
Mary had been delighted to receive such a ring from her cousin of England. The symbolism implied by the ornament pleased her; believing Elizabeth to be of a nature similar to her own—warm, generous, forgiving, tolerant—she had thought that such a gift must mean the desire for her friendship.
Therefore merely to look at the ring comforted her.
She decided to write to her and send half of the ring, which she was sure would touch a tender chord in Elizabeth’s heart, as it did in hers.
She sat down at a table and wrote:
My dearest sister,
You are not ignorant of my misfortunes but these which induce me to write at present have happened too recently yet to have reached your ear. I must therefore acquaint you as briefly as I can, that some of my subjects whom I most confided in and raised to the highest pitch of honour have taken up arms against me and treated me with the utmost indignity. By unexpected means the Almighty Disposer of all things delivered me from the cruel imprisonment I underwent; but I have since lost a battle in which most of those who preserved their loyal integrity fell before my eyes. I am now forced out of my kingdom, and driven to such straits that, next to God, I have no hope but in your goodness. I beseech you therefore, my dearest sister, that I may be conducted to your presence, that I may acquaint you with all my affairs. In the meantime I beseech God to grant you all heavenly benedictions, and to me patience and consolation, which last I hope and pray to obtain by your means. To remind you of the reasons I have to depend on England, I send back to its Queen this token of her promised friendship and assistance.
Your affectionate sister, Mary R.
From Dundrennan.
She put half the ring with the letter and sealed it; and as she was doing this Lady Livingstone came to tell her that her husband wished to speak to the Queen.
Mary received him immediately, when he told her that in case the rebel army should have received word that she was at Dundrennan Abbey and attack during the night he, with Herries and the rest had thought it best for her to leave the Abbey and spend the night in a mansion close by. This was Hazlefield, the home of a family named Maxwell who were kinsfolk of Herries and eager to help her.
Mary agreed to this. “With good luck, it may be for one night only,” she added, “for if George Douglas succeeds in finding a vessel we shall leave for England tomorrow.”
“We cannot hope yet, Your Majesty, to receive a safe conduct from the Deputy-Governor of Carlisle. Herries’ request can scarcely have reached him.”
Mary laughed. “Rest assured we do not need such a safe conduct. We shall set out as soon as the vessel is found.”
Livingstone was less sure, but Mary added that delay was dangerous. She would not sleep easily until she had left Scottish soil.
Shortly afterward she left Dundrennan in the company of a few of her female attendants and went to Hazlefield, there to await news of what vessel George had been able to find to convey them to England.
THE MAXWELLS greeted her with respectful enthusiasm and had already prepared their best suite of rooms for her use.
Jane Kennedy suggested that she should retire early and sleep while she could, for at any moment she might hear that the journey must continue.
Jane and Lady Livingstone were helping her to retire when the door of the chamber was silently pushed open. All three turned somewhat startled. There was no one at the door; but while they stared at it, it was gently opened further and a child came into the room. He was little more than a baby, and he was chuckling as though he were enjoying himself. He stopped a short distance from the group at the mirror and then, with a gurgle of laughter, darted at the Queen and threw himself against her.
Mary picked him up and sat him on her lap.
“And who are you?” she asked.
He stared at her wonderingly.
“So you have come to see me?” she asked.
He nodded and caught at one of the rings on her fingers which completely absorbed his attention.
He was beautiful and, as she looked at the plump wrists with their creases of soft flesh, Mary was overcome with emotion. This child was about the same age as her little James. In that moment she forgot all ambitions, all desires but one—to have her baby with her again. She caught at the boy and held him against her so tightly that he wriggled in protest while she kissed the soft hair and the rounded cheek. He submitted, not without some displeasure, and when she loosened her embrace he seized her fingers again and returned to his examination of the ring.
There were sounds of consternation outside the apartment, and when Jane Kennedy went to the door she found the child’s nurse there.
“He is safe,” Jane told the woman. “He is now on the Queen’s lap examining her jewels. Come in. The Queen will wish to speak to you.”
So the nurse entered and, at the sight of her, the child turned toward Mary and gripped her hand tightly, and began to chant “No—go away. He wants to stay.”
“You are his nurse and come to look for him?” said the Queen with a smile. “Do you know, I think he would prefer to stay with me.”
The nurse made an embarrassed curtsy and said: “Now that he can toddle about he’s more than one body’s work, Your Majesty.”
“I am glad he toddled into my apartment,” said the Queen. “And you, my little man, are you glad you came to see me?”
The child regarded her solemnly and chuckled. “He stay,” he announced.
“Could you leave him with me for a while?” asked the Queen.
“Why . . . yes, I suppose so, Your Majesty. It was just that . . . it’s his bedtime and . . . ”
“Leave him for a while,” said the Queen. “I will tell his parents that he is with me.”
As the nurse curtsied and went out, Mary said: “My little one must be very like this. While I hold this child in my arms I can almost believe that he is my own son.”
Then she saw that about the child were attached leading-strings, and she thought of those which little James had once worn and how, when she had visited him in Stirling Castle and knew that she had to be parted from him, she had taken his leading-strings with her and kept them as something precious. They had been lost to her after Carberry Hill, but she often thought of them with regret.
The little boy was absorbed with interest in the Queen’s fingers; he then examined her face and, as his plump fingers explored it, Mary caught them and kissed the little palms.
The boy wriggled off her lap and toddled over to a table behind which he hid himself, to emerge after a second or so almost choking with laughter. Then he hid himself again, and the Queen and her women pretended to hunt for him.
This game was in progress when the boy’s mother appeared.
“You have come for your son?” asked Mary.
“I fear he is disturbing Your Majesty.”
“He is giving me much pleasure. May I keep him awhile?”
“If it is Your Majesty’s wish.”
The child had come out and threw himself at his mother’s skirts. He pointed to the Queen, as though to draw his mother’s attention to her.
“Look” he cried. “Look!”
His mother lifted him up and he continued to cry: “Look!” turning to point at Mary.
“Come,” said his mother, “it is time you were in bed. I am sorry, Your Majesty. I know you wish to rest.”
“It was a pleasure to meet your son,” Mary answered.
The little boy, sensing that he was about to be taken away, turned in his mother’s arms and held out his own to the Queen.
“He wants to stay with that one,” he cried.
“Hush! Hush!” said his mother.
But Mary went to him and again took him in her arms. “I should like to keep him with me this night.”
“Your Majesty, he will disturb you.”
“I do not think so. If he is agreeable, it would please me to have him in my bed this night.”
The child’s mother was secretly delighted at the Queen’s pleasure in her son, so she kissed him and left him. As for the boy, he was delighted to be with Mary and her ladies; and when the Queen lay in bed, the boy was beside her.
He slept almost at once and Mary slept too, although several times during the night she awoke and remembered the child; and she wept a little out of longing for her own little James who had been taken from her.
In the morning she left Hazlefield for Dundrennan Abbey, but before she went she took a little ruby ring from her finger and gave it to the boy’s mother.
“I pray you,” she said, “give him this when he is a little older, and tell him that it is a gift from the Queen to whom his company gave such pleasure on what may well be her last night in Scotland for many a long year.”
MARY WAITED with her friends at the secluded Bay of the Abbey of Burn-foot on the Solway Firth. The vessel which George had been able to procure was nothing but a fishing-boat, and there was great misgiving among those assembled there.
Mary uttered a prayer as she stepped into the boat: A safe passage across the water, a warm welcome from the English Queen, the help she needed, and soon she would be back in Scotland.
Several of her friends were looking at her anxiously reminding her that there was still time to change her mind; but Mary had no intention of doing that. She was filled with hope on that beautiful May morning.
The surf in the Abbey Creek impeded the boat for some minutes, and then they were out on the Firth.
Scotland lay behind them—before them was England and what Mary believed to be the way back to her throne.
