Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  Knox noticed that Morton was frowning. The Lords had shown a curious reluctance to follow the thing to its logical conclusion. Jezebels and Athaliahs, no matter how pathetic and appealing they could seem when at one’s mercy, would always rise to fight and take revenge unless they were utterly destroyed. How could he make them understand the pressing necessity of it?

  “I appeal to you to spare not anyone if God commands otherwise. Remember that Abraham stood ready to sacrifice Isaac without question!”

  After a concluding prayer, he stepped down from the pulpit. The peers approached the sleeping baby on his throne and, one by one, knelt and did homage. Then the titles of the High and Puissant Prince, James VI of Scotland and the Isles, were proclaimed at the doors of the chapel to the sound of trumpets.

  * * *

  Mary sat at the window recess on the lower-floor room of her tower apartments. It was some eight feet off the ground, a great big belly of a window that protruded out from the tower. From where she sat, she could see across the loch to the other small islands, including the one with ruins of an old monastery on it. The trees were in full leaf and were rustling in the stiff breeze, teasing her with obscured vision.

  She had sat thus for two days during the daylight hours, turning her back on the chamber and just staring out the window. It was as if by sitting very still she could keep her thoughts from straying back to the scene enacted in her bedroom. If she just did not move, but concentrated on emptying her mind of all thoughts, then she would feel no pain. It worked for bodily injuries, and she had those as well.

  Every time the thought of Lindsay and the papers began to steal into her mind, she obliterated them. But still there were the reminders of the abrasions on her arm where he had grabbed her, and though she kept them covered with her shawl, they hurt.

  I am still alive, she thought, feeling like a liar as she mouthed the words. But why did she feel dead?

  Because, said her intellect briskly, you have lost a kingdom, a husband, and all your children—born and unborn, all in a short space of time. But the truth is you are not dead, only stunned.

  Your words are but wearying words, she answered herself. You tire me and convince me not. I have no desire to do anything ever again but to sit here.

  Believe me, you will rise from the chair and find there is still delight in the world, and that there is no such thing as a final battle.

  She smiled at the lecturing of her sensible, worldly self. But it was no use. Tell that to Marc Antony after Actium, to Richard III after Bosworth Field, she answered. Some battles are final; in some cases we know it at the time, and in others not until much later. I have lost all, I tell you.

  Bothwell still lives, and Lord James is returning, the Prince has not been crowned yet, and Elizabeth of England has shown herself your friend; she is the only ruler to have stepped forward for you in this dark hour. How can you say you have “lost all”? You yourself know that the papers you signed have no validity since they were signed under duress.

  Yes, Bothwell still lives.… At that thought, her heart stirred a little. Perhaps there was hope. Where there’s life, there’s hope, tiresome people said. But there was truth in it.

  What date was it? She had lost track of time since coming here. She and Bothwell had parted on June fifteenth, and they had brought her here late the next night, June sixteenth. And then she had lain ill for … how long?

  “What date is it?” she asked, in a voice so soft Mary Seton could hardly hear her.

  But at the slightest sound from her mistress, she flew across the room. “What?” she asked breathlessly. The Queen was talking!

  “I asked if you knew what the date is,” she said, her voice a whisper.

  “Why—July twenty-ninth.” Should she add the year?

  July twenty-ninth. Her wedding day to Darnley. It seemed impossible that it had been only two years ago. Even her time in France seemed, somehow, nearer.

  She nodded and patted Seton’s arm. “The dancing leaves make a very intricate pattern,” she said. “Perhaps you should sketch them, and we could make a tapestry based on it. See, the darker green of the oaks with their rounded edges, with the oval, thin lighter green of the birches would be most subtle and unusual.”

  “Aye. I will use the charcoal and a handkerchief.” When she saw her mistress looking at her oddly, she said, “We are allowed no pens, inks, or papers.”

  “Ohh!” So they would keep her from writing anything, except her signature on an abdication! No letters at all? How could a queen not correspond with the world?

  How could she make her plight known to anyone?

  A sickening feeling came over her, like a hand tightening around her chest. To be deprived of the power of speech to those out of earshot … She felt like a mute, a helpless mute.

  “I see,” she finally said.

  What difference did it make, anyway? She was dead, as good as in the tomb. This stone room was nothing but a sepulchre. Dead people did not write letters, and was she not among them? Had she not just said so?

  But somehow it was different to have no choice, not to be able to write if she wished. It aroused in her a fierce, burning desire to do so. And Bothwell—unless she found a way to write, that meant she would never speak to him again, in any form whatsoever.

  A bright sparkle caught her eye. It seemed to be leaping and quivering, and even as she watched it grew taller. A fire. Someone had lit a fire on the grounds near the boat landing.

  The size of it continued to grow, until it gave off great rolling clouds of smoke and obscured her view of the loch. She heard people around it start laughing and cheering.

  It was a bonfire. What was it for?

  Then she heard the startling boom of the castle ordnance firing from the walls. The report was so loud that even the floor shook in her room. She jumped up in fright. Were they being attacked?

  The cannon continued to fire, one after another, in a salute.

  “Send for George Douglas,” she told Mary Seton. “Ask him what this is.” She could have asked her guards, but they were surly louts who would take pleasure in pretending not to understand the question. George had shown himself to be pleasant, and he alone, of everyone in the castle, never mocked her in any way. And he was a handsome young man, even if a trifle unworldly.

  Quick as a garden snake, a thought passed through her mind: Perhaps George would bring me paper and ink. Immediately she felt ashamed. But the discovery of just how strict her imprisonment was, coupled with the realization that she had no way to affect it by any outside help, infuriated her. If they treat me thus, how can I be blamed if I use any weapon that comes to hand to help myself? They have taken everything else from me. Nothing remains but whatever sympathy I can excite in someone’s heart. If I cannot write to my friends outside the castle, then I must create new friends inside it.

  Interesting thoughts for a dead person, her intellect said with amusement. I told you you would rise from the chair, my lady.

  George Douglas was standing in the doorway, looking awkward. He had beautiful colouring: very fair skin, eyes the colour of wild hyacinths, and thick, wavy black hair. That was good; she had an aversion to the red-haired Douglas type of colouring, but that was probably because it reminded her of Morton, who exemplified it.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Master Douglas,” she said, wrapping her shawl about her, “what is the reason for the firing of the cannon salute? And why have you lighted a bonfire?”

  “I—I—Let my father tell you!” he blurted out, growing even paler. Before she could stop him, he bolted out the door, leaving her standing in the middle of the room, alone.

  She waited, growing more uneasy. At length the Laird William Douglas entered, using a walking stick.

  “Good sir,” she said, trying to sound pleasant, “wherefore have you fired a cannon salute? And lit a bonfire?”

  He blinked at her. What a weak, weedy little man. He seemed older than his thirty-four years, and made
of flimsy stuff compared to his thickset half-brother, Lord James. It was as if James had usurped all the good building material from their mother’s womb and left William with barely enough to constuct a human being.

  William coughed and, taking out a handkerchief, honked into it. Then he put it away and, leaning on his cane, said, “We celebrate a glorious family event today. The fortunes of the Douglases have risen to the highest pitch. For we have a new King in Scotland, and my brother, the Lord James, will be Regent.”

  A cold shiver went through her, in spite of the warm July day. “Today?”

  “Aye. Today, at Stirling, the Prince was crowned. Anointed, and crowned!”

  “Today?”

  “Not two hours ago, my lady.”

  “Ohhh!” It was like a physical blow to her, and she fell to her knees as if she had been struck. “Ohh! O heaven, take pity!” she cried, and great sobs shook her.

  A few moments earlier, she had not known she had anything left yet to lose.

  * * *

  The following days passed quietly. After six weeks in which event after event, each one more shocking and profoundly hurtful than the one before, had followed like toys strung on a rope pulled by a child, it seemed odd to have nothing happen. Mary wept some days, lay down and rested some days, walked some days, prayed some days, read some days. Gradually, without her being aware of it, the days sorted themselves out and she no longer lay awake all night and dozed all day. She knew what day it was, even down to the saint’s day, although no priest was permitted her. She began working on the embroidery she and Seton designed. She began to enjoy her meals occasionally, and drank too much wine once in a while. She wrote to Melville, asking him to deliver her some clothes that she had left behind at Holyrood.

  They moved her to the square tower keep across the courtyard, into her old quarters, where she had stayed in happier days. Her tapestries, the series of ten depicting hunting scenes in green and yellow silk, were rehung, and the walls had been freshly plastered during the month she had been in the other tower. This one had wide fireplaces and even an eastern window that had been used as an oratory, a Catholic prayer niche, earlier. They brought out the original Madonna (stored away now that the family was firmly Protestant) for it, and she hung the crucifix nearby.

  In some ways she missed the isolation of the round tower, because now she was annoyingly near the rest of the Douglas family, and they could watch her much more closely. She assumed that was why they had moved her here. On the other hand, she could watch them, study them, and get to know their habits and weaknesses; and she could see George Douglas many times in passing. She always contrived to look at him from underneath her downcast eyes. She caught him staring at her often. When she did, he would blush furiously.

  George was a man who should have been born at least two hundred years earlier, or perhaps even served at King Arthur’s court. He and Bothwell were the only men she had ever known who truly believed in settling things through trial by single combat. He and Bothwell … perhaps they were alike in many ways. Perhaps Bothwell had been like George when he was very young, before his father had taught him that the world was a nasty place and true knights did not fare well. Bothwell …

  She would sit and dream of Bothwell, wondering where he was and what was happening. She gathered, from the guarded conversations of the Douglases, that Kirkcaldy had not encountered him yet in his pursuit north. Once she heard Lindsay talking about what they would do to him when they caught him, and even the Laird said, “You must not merchandise the bear’s skin before you have caught the bear.”

  Ruthven suddenly disappeared from the island, removed from his position. Lindsay muttered about how he might have to do the same if it would manage to get him taken from this odious duty. But why Ruthven was gone she did not know. It was a pleasure not to have to encounter him any longer, although he had actually been surprisingly gentle with her since that horrible afternoon. Perhaps he had been ashamed after all, like a normal person.

  She had managed to get George to bring her pen and ink, although she had not found anyone to carry letters for her. That would come in time, she thought. In the meantime it felt good to be able to write again; it made her feel stronger. She had noticed that George had a habit of supporting lost causes; monasteries, the crusades, Troy, Carthage, and Constantinople all excited him. Perhaps she was another lost cause in his mind, and therefore alluring.

  The Lord James had arrived back in Scotland, so she heard. He had come through England, taking his time, conferring with Elizabeth and Cecil, and finally had reached Edinburgh. She knew that he would come to Lochleven, and she was grateful that she had had these two weeks to rest and be restored before encountering him. He must see that she was herself again: calm, in good health, clear-headed. When he realized that, he would have to make arrangements to alter what had been done by the Lords in his absence. He would not take the regency, but recommend that she be restored to power … if …

  There was always an if. The if would be that she allow him to be her Cecil, her most senior adviser. That she would agree to. It seemed a small price to pay at this point. And had he not been that, in the beginning, before Darnley? He and she had governed well together. Those days seemed almost idyllic, when all they had had to worry about was the senior Huntly’s revolt.

  She almost laughed in remembering it. Why, there were no problems at all, none to speak of, for four years! My biggest problem was pestering Elizabeth to recognize me as her successor, and trying to decide whom to marry, which foreign prince to favour. And there was Knox, of course, but he was more like a buzzing fly, or a crocodile snapping at a distance. Oh, I did not know what a paradise I lived in then!

  I will impress James with my regained health and sensibility; I will persuade him to liberate me and restore me to my throne, with him at my side as a reward.

  * * *

  It was Assumption Day, August fifteenth. Every Assumption Day as long as Mary could remember, she had marked the day in some way, and in France it had been a day of celebration. Now, on Lochleven, without any way to observe it formally, she knelt before the Virgin in the embrasure in the misty dawn. She did not speak to the Blessed Mother, even in her mind, but just let the peace of the presence wash over her. She had prayed herself out of words, and now wished to rest in silence. She still did not feel able to meet the gaze of the eyes on the crucifix.

  She could hear the lapping of the water near the castle wall, could hear the deep rumbling croaks of the frogs. They called all night, in a chorus to remind her that all creatures had their amours. She had found them soothing, although her companions—a daughter and granddaughter of Lady Douglas—who had been posted in her bedroom complained of the noise.

  The ladies slept on, snoring quietly. Her own attendants were forced to sleep on the floor above, adjoining Nau in his quarters.

  A little privacy, here, in the pearl-blue dawn, was all Mary could hope for. Day and night she was attended. The privacy, the privilege of being able to kneel unobserved, was like a gentle soothing of aloe-balm.

  A few moments later, after listening to make sure the women were still asleep, she drew out the paper on which, whenever she had the rare chance, she was composing a letter to Bothwell. How he would get it she did not know, but when the opportunity to send it suddenly came, the letter would have to be already written. With a silence that she had taught herself well, she wrote quickly.

  My dearest heart, my soul, it is now almost two months since I have beheld your face, a thing I never thought I could have sustained. My misery is beyond what I once thought it was in the human soul to endure. Without you, I have lost the best part of myself, but my constant fear for your safety has turned ordinary yearning and fierce desire and regret into fearsome torture. They speak of you in the vilest manner, and torment me by withholding what they know of your whereabouts and state.…

  A groan and a stirring from the other room sent Mary quickly back to the prie-dieu. When Euphemia Douglas e
merged from the bedroom, rubbing her eyes, she saw the Queen of Scots on her knees, hands folded, eyes closed in adoration.

  The rest of the day passed as all the days there passed: occupied in minute, harmless, inconsequential actions. Mary strolled by the water’s edge—accompanied by her gaolers—played at archery, and even danced a bit when the castle fiddler played “The Bride of Loch Lomond” on the castle green. In the shade of an oak, she and her two ladies sat and played cards, and invited the garrison soldiers to join them. Some of the friendlier ones did, and they sat on the grass and played Triumph as the shadows grew long.

  The company of the castle always ate separately from Mary, who was served in her apartments, and as suppertime drew near, Mary ended the card game and prepared to return to the tower. Just then she saw a boat full of people making its way toward the western landing stage.

  “Jane! Who is that?” she asked.

  Jane Kennedy shaded her eyes and looked hard. “’Tis Lindsay,” she finally said, and Mary shuddered. It had been pleasant without him these past few days, when he had gone to Edinburgh for more directions from his masters. “And Morton. I recognize his red hair.”

  Morton! Then this was a delegation of some sort. What could they want now? She had given them everything. Except … her life.

  “And Lord James!” Jane clutched her sleeve. “And Atholl, sitting in the rear.”

  Lord James! He had come at last—but with Morton and Atholl. What did this mean?

  Mary walked down to the castle gate and waited for it to open. She wished she had had an opportunity to have her hair combed and rearranged. Without her wigs she felt altogether too much like an ordinary woman and not enough like a queen. Only wigs made it possible to have huge mounds of hair that cried out for a crown.

  The gates swung open with a creak and the four men strode in, Lord James leading. He saw her at once, but no hint of a smile softened his stony face. Instead he nodded jerkily, like a puppet whose strings are stiff. “Your Grace,” he said.