Royal Road to Fotheringhay

by Виктория Холт

  “It is my brother whom they will make their leader,” said Mary.

  “He … he … is riding with all speed to Edinburgh,” stammered Darnley. “He will be here at any minute.”

  “Then you will see how they will treat you. You will not live long to feel remorse for what you have done to David. My brother always hated you. It was because I wished to marry you that he went into exile. We defeated him then; that was because we stood together. Now you have gone over to our enemies who seek to destroy me, our child and you too, Henry. You will not escape. Indeed you will be the first whom they will dispatch. Who knows, they may let me live on as their prisoner.”

  “Do not speak so … do not speak so. Do you realize that they are all about us? There are armed men everywhere.”

  “Henry, consider this: Help me, and I will help you. You and I must stand together. We must find some way of getting out of here.”

  Lady Huntley had come into the room. She said: “Madam, forgive me for breaking in on you thus, but I thought you would wish to know that your brother, the Earl of Moray, has arrived at the palace.”

  DARNLEY AND Lady Huntley had left her, and her brother would be with her at any moment now. Lady Huntley had given her a message brought by one of Bothwell’s men and smuggled in to her. It was the most comforting thing that had happened for many terrible hours.

  “Do not despair,” began the message.

  Do not think Bothwell and Huntley have deserted Your Majesty. They left Holyrood in order to gather forces to come to your aid. Bothwell will soon have a Lowland force ready to fight for you; Huntley too will be there with his Highlanders.

  The message went on to say that it was imperative for her to leave the palace as soon as this could be arranged, and Bothwell was forming a plan whereby she would be lowered over the walls by ropes to where he would be waiting for her with horses.

  She laid her hands on her heavy body. Bothwell seemed to think she was a hardy adventurer like himself, instead of a woman, six months pregnant. Lowered over walls in her condition! It was impossible.

  Still, it was gratifying to know that outside these walls her friends were making plans for her safety.

  Nevertheless she must find some way to escape from the palace. She must do it, not by following Bothwell’s wild suggestion, but in a subtler manner; her plan was already beginning to take shape.

  Her brother came into the apartment at that moment. He knelt before her. He lifted his face to hers and there were tears in his eyes when he embraced her.

  “Dear Jamie,” she said.

  “My dearest sister, I blame myself for this terrible thing. I should never have left you. Brothers and sisters should not quarrel. Had I been at hand I should never have allowed you to suffer so.”

  Those tears in his eyes seemed to be of real emotion, but she was not so foolish as she had once been. Did he really believe that she did not know he had been in the plot to kill Rizzio? Did he really believe that she did not understand that he had returned to Scotland to wrest her power from her and take it to himself? It was with pleasure that she would deceive him now as he had so often deceived her.

  “Jamie,” she said, “you see me a sick woman. My child was to have been born three months from now.”

  “Was to have been born?”

  “I am in such pain, Jamie… such terrible pain. I fear a miscarriage.”

  “But this is more terrible than anything that has happened.”

  “You see, Jamie, they have so far taken only my faithful secretary. Now they will take my child as well.”

  “You are sure of this?”

  She put her hand to her side and groped her way to the bed. Moray was beside her. He put his arm about her.

  “Jamie, you will not let them deny me a midwife?”

  “No… no… certainly you must have a midwife.”

  “And… Jamie … it distresses me … all these men about me … at such a time. I… in my state … to have soldiers at my door. Jamie, look at me. How could I escape in this condition? How could I?”

  “I will have a midwife sent to you.”

  “I have already asked my woman to bring one. See that she is not kept back, I beg of you.”

  Mary turned her head away and groaned. She was enjoying her triumph; she had successfully deceived her brother.

  She gripped his hand. “And… the men-at-arms… they distress me so. I … a queen in my own palace … a poor sick woman … a dying woman … to be so guarded. Jamie, it is mayhap my last request to you.”

  “No … no. You will soon be better. Dearest sister, I will do all that you ask. I will have the midwife sent to you as soon as she comes. I will see what may be done about clearing the staircases about your apartments.”

  “Thank you, Jamie. This would not have happened, would it, had you been here? Oh, what a sad thing it is when a brother and sister fall out. In future, brother, we must understand each other … if I live through this.”

  “You shall live, and in future there shall be understanding between us. You will be guided by me.”

  “Yes, Jamie. How glad I am that you are back!”

  THE “MIDWIFE” had come. She was a servant of the Huntleys and knew that her task was not to deliver a stillborn child but to take charge of letters the Queen had written and see that they were dispatched with all speed to Lords Huntley and Bothwell.

  Moray and Morton had decided that if Darnley would stay in the Queens bedchamber all night, the guards about her apartments could be withdrawn. They trusted Darnley, and in any case the Queen was considered far too sick to leave her bed.

  In the evening all the lords retired from the palace to Douglas House, the home of Morton, which was but a short step from the palace. There they could feast and talk of the success of their schemes and make future plans.

  As soon as they had gone and the sentries had been withdrawn, Mary rose and dressed hastily. Darnley had changed sides completely now that she had inspired him with fear and had promised him a return to her favor. After the child was born they would live as husband and wife again. He had learned a bitter lesson, Mary said; she hoped that in future they would trust each other.

  She had satisfied him that the lords who held them prisoners represented but a small proportion of the population. Had he forgotten what had happened when they had married and Moray had believed he would raise all Scotland against her? Who had mustered the stronger force then? She assured him that all he had to do was escape with her from the palace and join Bothwell and Huntley, who were mustering their forces at this very time. Darnley would be a fool if he did not join her, for her friends would have no mercy on him if he did not. Those with whom he had temporarily cast in his lot would have no further use for him either.

  So, trembling, Darnley agreed to deceive the lords, who were feasting and congratulating themselves in Douglas House; he would escape with Mary from Holyrood and ride away.

  * * *

  “NOW,” said the Queen.

  She was wrapped in a heavy cloak. She stood up firmly. The child was quiet now; it was almost as though it shared the suspense.

  “Down the back staircase,” said Mary. “Through the pantries and the kitchens where the French are. The French will not betray us… even if they see us. We can rely on their friendship.”

  With wildly beating hearts they crept down the narrow staircase, through the kitchens and underground passages to one of the pantries, the door of which opened onto the burial ground.

  Darnley gasped. “Not that way!” he cried.

  “Where else?” demanded Mary contemptuously. “Will you come or will you stay behind to share David’s fate?”

  Darnley still hesitated, his face deathly pale in the moonlight. He was terrified of going on, yet he had no alternative but to follow her, and as he stumbled forward he all but fell into a newly made grave.

  He shrieked, and Mary turned to bid him be silent.

  “Jesus!” she cried, looking down into the grave.
“It is David who lies there.”

  Darnley’s limbs trembled so that he could not proceed. “It’s an omen!” he whispered.

  In that moment Mary seemed to see anew the terrified eyes of David as he had been dragged across the floor. Angrily she turned on her husband: “Mayhap, it is,” she said. “Mayhap David watches us now… and remembers.”

  “No… no,” groaned Darnley. “’Twas no fault of mine.”

  “This is not the time,” said Mary, turning and hurrying forward.

  He followed her across the grisly burial ground, picking his way between the tombs and shuddering as he caught glimpses of half-buried coffins.

  On the far edge of the burial ground Erskine was waiting with horses. Silently they mounted, Mary riding pillion with Erskine.

  “Make haste!” cried Darnley, now longing above all things to put as great a distance as possible between himself and the grim graveyard. He imagined David’s ghost had been startled from his grave and caused him to stumble there. Terror overwhelmed him—terror of the dead and of the living.

  They rode on through the quiet night, but Erskine’s horse with its royal burden could not make the speed which Darnley wanted.

  “Hasten, I say!” he cried impatiently. “’Tis dangerous to delay.”

  “My lord, I dare not,” said Erskine.

  “There is the child to consider,” cried Mary. “We go as fast as is safe for it.”

  “They’ll murder us if they catch us, you fools!” cried Darnley.

  “I would rather be murdered than kill our child.”

  “In God’s name that’s folly. What is one child? If it should die this night, there’ll be others to replace it. Come on, man. Come on, I say. Or I’ll have you clapped in jail as soon as we are out of this.”

  Mary said: “Heed him not. I would have you think of the child.”

  “Yes, Madam,” said Erskine.

  Darnley shouted: “Then tarry and be murdered. I’ll not.”

  And with that he whipped up his horse and went ahead with all speed, so that soon he was lost to sight.

  Mary felt the tears smarting in her eyes, but they were tears of shame for the man she had married. She was not afraid anymore. In moments such as this one, when she was threatened with imminent danger, she felt a noble courage rise within her. It was at such times that she felt herself to be a queen in very truth. She had duped Darnley; she had lured him to desert her enemies. She had foiled the plots of Moray and the scheming Morton. Once again, she believed, she had saved her crown.

  Oh, but the humiliation of owning that foolish boy for a husband! For that she could die of shame. He was not only a fool; he was a coward.

  How she wished that he could have been a strong man, a brave man on whom she could rely. Then she would not have cared what misfortunes befell them; they would have faced them and conquered them together.

  After many hours in the saddle, just as the dawn was breaking, Erskine called to her that they could not be far from the safety of Dunbar Castle.

  A short while after, he told her that he saw riders. Mary raised her weary eyelids. One man had ridden ahead of the rest. He brought his horse alongside that which carried the Queen. She looked with relief and admiration at this man who reminded her, by the very contrast, of the husband whom she despised.

  She greeted him: “I was never more glad to see you, Lord Bothwell.”

  FOUR

  THE JUNE NIGHT WAS HOT AND THE QUEEN LAY TOSSING on her bed. She had suffered much during the last months, but now her greatest ordeal was upon her.

  Her women were waiting now, and she knew that they did not expect her to leave her bed alive.

  She was weary. Since the death of David she had become increasingly aware of the villainies of those about her; she could put no great trust in anyone. Even now, in the agony of a woman in childbirth who has suffered a painful pregnancy, she could not dismiss from her mind the thought of those hard, relentless men. Ruthven was dead; he had died in exile; but his son would be a troublemaker like his father. Morton, Lindsay, George Douglas, Boyd, Argyle were all traitors. Moray, her own brother, she knew, had been privy to the plot, and the plot had been not only to murder David Rizzio, but to destroy her. Maitland of Lethington—her finest statesman, a man whose services she needed, a man who had always shown a gentle courtesy which she had not often received from others—was of doubtful loyalty. He had fled to the Highlands with Atholl—surely a proof that he was not without guilt.

  These men were dangerous, but there was one, the thought of whom depressed her so much that she felt she would welcome death. Why had she married Darnley whom she was beginning to hate more than she had believed it was possible to hate anyone?

  He was loyal to nobody. He betrayed all those with whom he had worked against David. Now he was in a state of torment lest she pardon those lords who were in exile and they return to take their revenge on one who had turned informer. He sulked and raged in turn; he whimpered and blustered; he cringed and demanded his rights. She could not bear him near her.

  It was an unhealthy state of affairs. It was true that with the followers mustered by Huntley and Bothwell she had returned triumphant to Edinburgh, and the lords responsible for Rizzio’s murder—with the exception of Moray who, she must feign to believe, was innocent of complicity—had all hastened to hide themselves. Some minor conspirators had been hanged, drawn and quartered—a proceeding which she deplored for its injustice, but which she was powerless to prevent. Bothwell was in command and, although he was the bravest man in Scotland, as a statesman he could not measure up to Maitland or Moray.

  So she made her will and thought of death without any great regret.

  She had failed; she saw that now. If only she could go back one year; if only she could go back to the July day when she had walked into the chapel at Holyroodhouse and joined her future fortunes with those of Darnley! How differently she would act and how different her life might consequently be!

  She would have come to understand that she could have rallied her people to her and deprived her brother of his power. She had to be strong, but there was this terrible burden to hinder her; she had married the most despicable man in Scotland and he had all but ruined her.

  But now the pains were on her and it was as though a curtain was drawn, shutting out those grim faces which tormented her; but the curtain was made of pain.

  Between bouts of pain she noticed that her dear ones were about her. There was Beaton who suffered with her. Poor Beaton! Thomas Randolph had been sent back to England in disgrace, for he had been discovered to be trafficking with the rebels and exposed—not only as a spy for his mistress, which was understandable—but as one who worked against the Queen with her Scottish enemies. Poor Beaton! thought Mary. Like myself she is unlucky where she has placed her affections. There was dear Flem on the other side of her—heartbroken because Maitland had fled from the Court. Sempill was in disgrace and dearest Livy was with him.

  But for the murder of David they would all be happy. And but for Darnley’s treachery David would be alive now.

  I hate the father of this child! reflected Mary. Evil things are said of me. There is doubtless whispering in the corridors now. Who is the father of the Prince or Princess who is about to be born—Darnley or David? Who is it—the King or the secretary? That was what people were asking one another.

  Darnley might be with them when they whispered, and it would depend on his mood of the moment whether he defended or defamed her.

  Why did I marry such a man? she asked herself. Now that I am near dying I know that I can only wish to live if he should be taken from me.

  Beaton was putting a cup to her lips.

  “Beaton—” began Mary.

  “Do not speak, dearest,” said Beaton. “It exhausts you. Save your strength for the child.”

  Save your strength for the child! Do not fritter away your strength in hating the child’s father.

  There came to her then that strength whi
ch never failed her in moments of peril. She battled her way through pain.

  At last, from what seemed far away, she heard the cry of a child.

  Mary Beaton was excitedly running from the apartment crying: “It is over. All is well. The Queen is delivered of a fair son.”

  HER SON WAS BORN—that child who, she prayed, would unite her tortured land with the kingdom beyond the Border; for she knew that there could be no real peace between them until they were joined as one country under one sovereign. Her kingdom must be held for him as well as for herself.

  There was one thing she must make sure of immediately. It should not be said that this little James Stuart was a bastard. Rumors of bastardy meant trouble in the life of a would-be king.

  Already she had noticed the scrutiny of those who studied the baby. She saw the faint twitch of the lips, the appraising gaze. Now who does he resemble? Is it Darnley? Are his eyes particularly large? I wonder if he will be a skilled musician.

  Her first task was not a pleasant one. She must feign friendship with her husband. She must not allow him to pour poison into people’s ears, for he would do that even though it was clear that by so doing he injured himself.

  She called Darnley to her in the presence of all the people who crowded the chamber and said in a loud voice: “My lord, you have come to see our child. Look into his bonny face. God has blessed you and me with a son, and this son is begotten by none but you.”

  Darnley bent over the child. She was implying that she knew what slander had been spread. He was afraid of her and all that she could do to punish him. He was afraid of those lords who were implicated in the Rizzio plot. They were now in exile, but once let them return, and he feared that his position would be as perilous as David’s had been. He was uncertain how to act. At times he felt he must cringe before his wife; at others he wished to show that he cared nothing for her; but when she confronted him with a serious matter such as this, he was always at a loss.