She turned to see the grim face of John Knox looking down at her. Looking past him to where Donald lay, she found herself transfixed by the staring, lifeless eyes of her lover. Her scream was lost amid the terrible noise of the guns.
As Marie turned away she stumbled against the pile of earth and rock that marked the entrance to the long-since abandoned mine. Numb with shock, all she could think of now was to get away from this hellish scene, the infernal noise, the smoke, the choking dust. She looked down at the gaping entrance to the mine and made her decision. Rushing down the rough wooden steps, she found herself in a dark, narrow passageway. The terrible sounds from above soon began to fade into the distance as she felt her way along in the darkness. Donald had often spoken about the mine, and she knew that it led in only one direction—out of the castle. If she could overcome her distress and fear and keep going, the way out could not be far away. She struggled on until, in the distance, she saw a dim flickering light. Dragging herself towards it, she found herself in a much bigger chamber, lit by one or two guttering candles. This was where Arran’s guards were usually stationed—but, fortunately for Marie, they had been hurriedly called away to join in the final assault on the castle. Marie moved on and came to a flight of rough steps, hewn from the wall of the mine, which led upwards. Filled with relief, and with no thought for what might await her outside, Marie scrambled up the steps and emerged into bright sunlight.
Once her eyes had adjusted to the daylight, she looked around to be confronted by a scene of utter confusion. Everywhere, men at arms were rushing towards the breach in the castle wall, and the air was filled with shouted commands and oaths. The smoke from the guns and the dust from the collapsed wall made it difficult to see anything clearly, but it also meant that no-one had seen Marie emerge from the mine. After one last look back at the shattered castle, Marie turned and ran, desperate to escape the horrors of that place.
VIII
STROZZI’S glorious victory, the ending of the siege and the downfall of the heretics gave the Queen Mother great satisfaction, but there was little time for rejoicing. If only her good friend David Beaton were still alive, he would have known what to do for the best. She had always turned to him in times of crisis, and he had never let her down. But the Cardinal had been taken from her, and now there was no-one she could rely on. And there was still an English invasion to be dealt with. Although Henry VIII had died, the savagery of the English attacks on Scotland had increased, and the danger to the Queen of Scots was escalating day by day.
The fiery cross was sent to every district, and as a result the divided Scots united to the call to defend their nation. Thirty-six thousand ordinary citizens hastened from all over the country to fight the English, who were advancing on Edinburgh, and even members of the clergy rushed to battle against the invader. The army thus raised, under the command of Arran, assembled at Pinkie Cleugh behind the town of Musselburgh. Hearing that her forces were ready for battle, Mary of Guise awaited news of this fateful encounter with growing unease.
As dawn broke over Musselburgh, young Gavin McNaughton, only son of Machar McNaughton, Duke of Glasgow, was already up and about preparing himself for the battle ahead. Summer had come to an end, and the chill of the early September morning cut through even his heaviest clothing. But in his excitement, he hardly even noticed himself shiver. There was so much to be done.
He had been in Edinburgh with his father the previous day, when the main army had marched out to meet the English who were advancing towards Leith. News had come from Musselburgh that the English army had already intercepted the Scots vanguard. There had been some heavy losses, and Gavin McNaughton cursed his ill luck at missing his first chance to get to grips with the invaders. He immediately rode out to be with the army, but by the time he reached Musselburgh, all was quiet again. Now he was determined not to miss anything more.
As the sun rose higher over the Scots army, Gavin surveyed the scene and smiled to himself. He had been given command of a mixed company of swordsmen and pikemen, mostly men from Glasgow who were loyal to his father. Rough-looking and ill-equipped though they were, Gavin felt sure their spirit would make them more than a match for the enemy. Over to his left, he saw the massive figure of Guthrie Jamieson, Earl of Edinburgh, galloping towards him astride a magnificent black stallion.
‘Good morning, my Lord,’ he called out.
‘A very good morning indeed, Gavin,’ replied Jamieson. ‘Are you ready for the day?’
‘I am indeed,’ replied Gavin. ‘What plans are afoot?’
‘You will stay close to me. I have spoken to your father and he has charged me with your well-being. We will be moving within the hour, so make sure all your men are ready.’
‘We await your orders.’
With this, the Earl of Edinburgh turned away, leaving Gavin to his preparations.
It was the longest hour that Gavin McNaughton could remember. The commotion around him was intense, with messengers coming and going, men laughing and shouting and the rasping of swords being sharpened, some for the last time. Eventually they received the signal to move forward and Gavin positioned his men beside the Earl’s much larger company.
They marched out of the camp and on until they reached Inveresk, stopping just before the river. On the other side, swarming over the hill which faced them, were the massed ranks of the enemy. To Gavin’s eyes, the English army looked enormous, and he felt a thrill of anticipation, or perhaps it was fear. Obviously the Earl had sensed it as well.
‘Don’t worry Gavin, it won’t be long now. Just keep your horse steady, and your sword bloody.’
Gavin managed a glimmer of a smile, but his heart was now beating so fast that all other noise had receded.
The Earl gave the signal and the men in front started to wade across the shallow Water of Esk which flowed between the Scots and the English. Gavin couldn’t understand why they didn’t simply wait for the English to come down from the hill and attack—fighting uphill would put them at a disadvantage. When they had reformed at the other side, the main attack began.
Gavin watched as the first of the Scots soldiers advanced straight up the hill, but their attack was easily repulsed, and the English horsemen chased them back to where they had come from. Perhaps this had been the plan, though, because the horsemen immediately came face to face with the long Scottish spears. Riding so hard that they couldn’t stop in time to save themselves, they broke like a wave against solid rock. Both horses and riders were impaled, and dozens met the same bloody fate. Eventually, those left alive managed to turn and flee, to a roar from the Scots.
This was the moment Gavin had been waiting for. As they advanced, he could hear the soldiers ahead shouting insults at the English:
‘Away back home, ye English baistards!’
‘Keep close to me, Gavin,’ roared Jamieson over the din, as he raised his sword and spurred on his horse into the thick of the battle. Gavin did as he was bid, and kept tight to the flank of the Earl’s horse. They met the English with a wild shout, and were soon in the thick of the fighting.
The English foot soldiers were no match for the mounted horsemen and Gavin soon felled his first Englishman, grimacing as he saw the blood on his sword. So this was war! Thereafter, all was a blur as the battle ebbed and flowed. But Gavin kept close to the Earl throughout it all.
But it was the roar of the cannon that brought him back to his senses, and as he looked around at the main battle on his left, he could not believe his eyes. The English artillery was now raking the Scottish lines. Everywhere was carnage, and the Scots were in full retreat—he could scarcely believe the battle had turned so suddenly. The grapeshot from the English cannon had ripped through the Scots and all around him men lay dead or dying. He and the Earl had stayed to one side of the battle, but they were now surrounded, and only one of the Glasgow men and a few of the Earl’s mounted horsemen remained with them. Suddenly, a shattering blow felled his horse, and Gavin crashed to the ground. He lay th
ere for a moment stunned, his leg trapped by the weight of the horse, and then he began to struggle desperately to free himself. At that moment, Guthrie Jamieson saw what had happened and leapt off his horse. He dragged Gavin clear and got him to his feet, for the moment protected by his horsemen.
It was then that Gavin looked down and saw the blood.
He could feel nothing, but that was definitely his own blood. There was a wound in his thigh which looked bad, maybe the horse had broken his leg, but there was also blood coursing from a wound to the side his head.
‘Thank … you … Jamieson,’ Gavin managed, before the world around him blurred and then dissolved into the blackness of unconsciousness.
‘Help me get him on my horse,’ the Earl roared to Gavin’s last remaining man, a youth of about nineteen who Jamieson recognised as one of the Duke of Glasgow’s servants. They struggled to get him up and the Earl mounted his horse behind Gavin’s limp body. As the youth waited to be told what to do next he was seized by two of the Earl’s horsemen. Bewildered, he looked towards Jamieson. ‘Forgive me, my friend,’ Jamieson said. ‘I’m afraid I cannot afford any witnesses to what is about to happen, but be assured I will tell everyone you died a hero’s death.’ And with that he nodded to one of his men who, in one swift movement, drew his dirk and cut the astonished youth’s throat.
Then the Earl turned to his men and shouted, ‘Come on, we have a pretty prize here, but we had better hurry in case he dies before we can claim our reward.’ With that, he spurred on his horse and made for the top of the hill. As the four horsemen rode on, they met little resistance. The battle was all but over now, and the English were too busy chasing the few Scots remaining on the field, cutting the throats of the wounded or looting the bodies where they lay.
As they crested the hill, the English camp came into view—rows and rows of field tents, some with flags fluttering in the afternoon breeze. The Earl recognised the pennant of his old friend Randolph, and made straight for it.
Luckily, Randolph was near at hand, and the Earl cried out, ‘Randolph, my friend, I have what you wanted. Guthrie Jamieson always keeps his promises!’
‘Jamieson, you never cease to amaze me,’ Randolph replied. ‘Is this Machar McNaughton’s young pup?’
‘It is indeed, though he is sorely wounded.’
‘We must look after him well, then. He is worth a good deal to us, and, of course, to you.’
‘A thousand gold pieces seems a small price for the trouble I have taken to get him here,’ said Jamieson.
‘There will be many more rewards if you continue to be useful, my friend,’ Randolph replied. ‘The money will be delivered in the usual way.’
‘I thank you, and now we must take our leave and inform the Duke of Glasgow of the bad news!’
When news reached the Queen Mother of this terrible defeat, it was clear to her that the time had now come to remove the young Queen of Scots from Stirling Castle. As a temporary refuge, she chose Inchmahome island on the Lake of Menteith, some twenty miles north of Glasgow. Accompanied by Lord Erskine and Lord Livingstone, two of the Queen’s guardians, and Lady Fleming, the Dowager spirited the royal child away. Although she knew her daughter could not be safe there forever, it would provide a safe haven from her enemies for the time being. Here they could relax in the quiet of the priory, or walk amid pleasant trees. But it was only a temporary solution. It had become clear not only to the Dowager but to many Scots that a French alliance, at the price of marriage for their young Queen, was the only way out of the morass of defeat, disunity and suffering.
Between them, Mary of Guise and the Earl of Arran arranged for parliament to give its assent to the marriage of Mary and Francis, the French Dauphin, on the condition that the King of France would defend Scotland as he would his own realm. At the same time, he must respect Scotland’s independence.
Only then could the Dowager breathe a sigh of relief. She knew that her child would be safe in France, the country of her own birth, where her mother, the Duchess Antoinette of Guise, and her powerful and ambitious Guise brothers, would make sure the Queen of Scots had not only every care, but every advantage.
But first there were preparations to be made for the journey. From Inchmahome, they would ride to Dumbarton. There a fleet of French galleys would meet the royal party, which would include the Queen’s young companions—the four Marys—Beaton, Seton, Fleming and Livingstone; her governess, Lady Fleming; Lord Seton and Lord Livingstone. It was only once they reached Dumbarton that the Dowager began to realise what a personal tragedy the leave-taking would be for her. She loved her daughter dearly but she knew where her own royal duties lay. She had to remain in Scotland and carry on the fight to preserve her daughter’s inheritance and the authority of the Crown.
To add to her anxieties, her daughter took ill at Dumbarton Castle and the journey to France had to be postponed. At first, it was thought to be smallpox, but to everyone’s great relief, Queen Mary recovered with no marks to her face.
As their departure neared, the Queen Mother became fearful of the dangers of the sea journey. Even in summer the sea could be treacherous and stormy, and pirates could attack the royal ship at any time.
‘Nonsense,’ Lady Fleming laughed. ‘What pirate would dare approach the royal galley when it is protected by such a vast fleet.’
Lady Fleming was the royal child’s aunt, a pretty woman known more for her lively charm than her intelligence. She was the illegitimate half-sister of James V, the Dowager’s late husband, and she had been given the post of governess only because of her charm and her royal connection.
Her confidence was of no comfort whatsoever to the Queen Mother. Indeed she had grave misgivings about Lady Fleming’s competence in looking after the young Queen, far less teaching her. But, despite all her fears, the Queen Mother kept telling herself over and over again that she had no choice in sending the child to France.
‘It is for the best,’ she kept telling herself. ‘It is for the best, both for the child, and for Scotland.’
IX
‘IREFUSE to believe it, mother.’ Marie Hepburn closed her eyes. ‘I simply cannot believe that you are doing this to me.’ But of course, knowing Effie Dalgliesh, it was all too believable. Marie was to be betrothed to the repulsive Duke of Glasgow, and her own feelings about this seemed to count for nothing when set against the burning ambition of her mother.
‘My dear lassie, it’s for your own good. Think of how lucky you’ll be. Everyone says he’s the life and soul of Glasgow.’
‘Lucky? Lucky? Married to that slobbering fat mountain? You must be mad.’
‘But Marie, think of it! A wealthy, influential man like that! He has a castle in Glasgow, another near Loch Lomond and vast tracts of land in between.’
‘So you keep telling me. And I keep telling you, mother, I don’t care how wealthy he is. Or how many castles, or how much land he has. I do not love the man. Indeed I loathe and detest the very sight of him.’
‘Och, what’s love got to do with it? You can have all the love you want with lovers. The Duke of Glasgow wants you as his wife. He can give you comfort and security and position in the land. You can’t refuse him. I forbid it. Anyway,’ she said turning away and dismissing the subject, ‘I’ve already agreed to deliver you to him. We’re leaving for Glasgow within the week.’
Effie summoned Nellie and they began discussing what clothes she and her daughter should take to Naughton Castle.
‘What dresses do you think we should include, Marie?’
Marie bit her lip. ‘You have not listened to one word I have said. I do not wish to go to Naughton Castle. I will not go and discuss marriage or anything else with that great toad of a man.’
‘I wish you’d learn to be respectful,’ Effie said absent-mindedly. She was already intent on examining the heap of dresses the maid had dumped on the four-poster bed. ‘Of course you’re going.’
Marie left her mother’s bedchamber in despair. Months had passed
since she escaped from the castle and made her way back to Spynie, but she was only just beginning to come to terms with the loss of Donald and the other horrors she had witnessed during the siege. Effie had seemed almost completely disinterested in where Marie had been or what she had been doing—all she was interested in was marrying her daughter off as quickly as possible. Now Marie was faced with this awful prospect, and thoughts of intimacy with the Duke of Glasgow grew in her mind, making her feel violently ill. His appearance was gross. He had a flabby pockmarked face and his eating habits were coarse in the extreme. He literally shovelled food into his mouth and his beard and moustache were never other than wet and sticky with the remains of his last meal.
Marie had visited Glasgow before with her father’s household and stayed at the Bishop of Glasgow’s palace near the High Church of Glasgow. She would have been happy to live in Glasgow, had she been promised to almost any other man from that parish. Anyone but Machar McNaughton. Appalled at the prospect, she hurried out of the house and round to the stables. Her only hope was that her father would take pity on her and intervene on her behalf. Half an hour’s ride would take her to the Bishop’s palace.
Marie ordered the manservant to saddle up one of the horses, and without hesitation, she mounted the beast and galloped away towards the palace.
The Bishop was surprised to see her. Donald’s death had quenched his thirst for vengeance, and he had long since resolved to put the whole dreadful business behind him. As a result, his attitude to Marie had softened. They now met each week to discuss the progress of her studies.
‘What’s all this? I wasn’t expecting you until next week.’
‘This can’t wait, father. I must speak with you now.’
‘Very well. Sit down. Tell me what ails you.’
‘Mother has told me I’m to be promised in marriage to Machar McNaughton.’
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