The Captive Queen of Scots

by Jean Plaidy

  “The impudence!” she raved. “How dared they! Jane, Marie . . . Lindsay held the sword at my throat. Let him be sure that he shall not escape my fury.”

  The maids exchanged glances. They were delighted to see their mistress’s animation. Anything was better than the listlessness she had displayed since her arrival at Lochleven, no matter what was the cause of it.

  “I shall not be here forever,” Mary continued. “I have friends . . . .”

  “Your Majesty must keep up your strength,” Jane warned her. “When the time comes to leave this dismal place you will have to be well.”

  “You are right, Jane,” answered the Queen. “This is an end of my lethargy.”

  They brought her food and she ate it. She called for a mirror and studied her face with more attention than she had bestowed on it since the beginning of her incarceration. She had lost her pallor and her delicately tinted complexion was regaining its beauty; her lovely mouth was no longer melancholy; slightly parted it disclosed her perfect white teeth; there was a sparkle, left by recent anger mingling with new-born hope, in the long, deeply-set hazel eyes; her chestnut hair, hanging over her shoulders, was regaining its luster.

  She rose from her bed and walked a little, leaning on Jane’s arm. Then she stood at the window looking out over the lake. She could see the mainland, and caught glimpses of distant mountains and forests. It was such a small stretch of water which separated her from freedom that she wondered why she had felt so hopeless.

  “Somewhere on that mainland,” she mused, “are friends who will help me.”

  Dusk had fallen. Outside her window the sentinels patrolled. With the coming of night two others would take their places. Lindsay was determined that she should not escape.

  She was feeling so much better. She believed she would soon be free. All her life she had recovered quickly from adversity because her optimism had been one of her strongest qualities and, she guessed, always would be. Rarely—and the days and nights which followed Carberry Hill was one of these periods—had she been completely bereft of hope. But to lose a kingdom, a lover and a beloved baby son at one stroke had been too much even for her resilient nature.

  Now she could look back on her despair and say: There is always hope. There always must be hope. All through her life—except that gay and romantic period at the Court of France—there had been trouble. And even in France the insidiously powerful Catherine de’ Medici had been her enemy from the moment they had set eyes on each other.

  So hope came now. Somewhere in Scotland there were friends waiting to help her. She believed she would find them.

  Jane had been right when she had said she must build up her strength. Lying in bed and refusing food was folly. Once she felt quite well again her natural gaiety would return. And when she had recovered her high spirits, her belief in her destiny, she would be happy again. Scotland would be hers once more. And Bothwell?

  Now that she was calmer she could look back with a clearer vision at that turbulent period of her life. With him she had reached an emotional climax which she had never attained before. Through him she had known a savage joy and a savage despair. There would never be another like him, and she knew that if he came back tomorrow she would be entirely his slave. Should she say the slave of her own body’s desires? With him she had experienced sensations which she had not known existed: Erotic bliss which never seemed to be without its companions—humiliation and despair.

  She had experienced enough of those two to wonder whether anything was worth the price.

  Since she had made herself realize that she was a Queen with a Kingdom to fight for, Bothwell’s image had faded a little. Let that suffice. And in due course, if and when he came back to her, it might be that he would find a different woman, a clever woman, a woman of some judgment who, while she welcomed him as her husband, would ask him to remember that she was his Queen.

  But Bothwell was far away—she knew not where. And she was a prisoner in Lochleven. Her first duty was to escape, and if she were to break out of this fortalice she would need all her wits to do so. She would not achieve that end by dreaming sensual dreams of Bothwell.

  She rose from her bed and wrapped her robe about her. She was growing stronger and now able to walk about the room without the aid of Jane’s or Marie’s arm.

  While she was wondering whether they would increase her guards now that she was able to leave her bed, she realized with a little shock that the door of her room was being slowly and cautiously opened.

  Startled, she drew her robes more tightly about her and, seeing who the intruder was, she cried: “Ruthven!”

  Ruthven came into the room hesitantly. He stood before her and dropped to his knees.

  “Your attitude has changed, my lord, since you came here with those fellow-traitors.”

  He lifted his eyes to her face and now she understood the expression in them. It angered her, yet at the same time she felt exultant. In the extremity of her grief she had forgotten the power she had always possessed to make men her slaves.

  Ruthven rose to his feet.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “if you could but know how I have suffered for my part in this!”

  Mary turned from him and took a seat by the window.

  Ruthven said: “Your Majesty, do not show yourself to the guard. It would be well if we were not seen . . . together.”

  “You have something to tell me?” she asked, rising and moving away to a part of the room which could not be seen from outside. Ruthven brought a stool and she sat down.

  “I can go back and forth between the mainland and the castle, Your Majesty,” he said.

  She wanted to laugh aloud. Had she not known that some way of escape would be offered her?

  “And I have friends on the mainland . . . .” she murmured.

  “Seton, Fleming, Herries . . . .” he said.

  “Huntley,” she added. “Bothwell.”

  “They are in the North, Your Majesty. There are others nearer . . . not far from this island, on the mainland across the water.”

  “And you have a plan for helping me to escape from this prison?”

  “Not . . . yet, Your Majesty. I wished to talk to you of such a plan.”

  “Tell me one thing first. Why have you changed sides?”

  Ruthven was silent. He was a connection of Darnley’s and had joined those nobles who had determined to avenge the murder. He had been against the Queen at Carberry Hill. Her adversaries had considered him sufficiently her enemy to put him in charge of her—with Lindsay—on the ride from Edinburgh to Lochleven. And now he was ready to be a traitor to his friends for her sake.

  She must be cautious. But because there had been so many men ready to serve her she asked the question of Ruthven merely that he might confirm what she believed she knew.

  “It has caused me much pain to see Your Majesty treated in this way.”

  “You gave no sign when Lindsay had his sword at my throat.”

  “Had he attempted to harm you I should have killed him. I stifled my anger because I thought I could serve you better in secret.”

  “And how do you plan to serve me?”

  “By obeying your orders.”

  “How can I trust you?”

  Ruthven took a step toward her. She was amazed when he lifted her from her stool and, putting his lips against hers, kissed her violently.

  She tried to draw away in anger, but she was so weak that she found herself powerless in his arms.

  “You . . . are insolent,” she panted.

  “I love you,” said Ruthven. “I have fought against this without avail. I will bring you out of this prison. I will set you on the throne. They speak true when they say you are the most desirable woman in Scotland. I would say in the whole world . . . .”

  “I command you to release me,” she cried.

  But he laughed at her. He had heard rumors of the manner in which Bothwell had swept away her protests. She was a Queen, it was true; but s
he was completely feminine. It was her submission to Bothwell which had brought her to her present state. She was not meant to be a lonely monarch like Elizabeth beyond the Border. She was meant to be a woman first. It was merely by chance that she was also a Queen.

  Bothwell had conquered; so would he.

  His impatient hands were on her robe, and she cried in panic: “Jane! Marie! Where are you?”

  But now his hand was over her mouth. It was meant to be like that scene in Buchanan’s House, when Bothwell had come to her unannounced and torn her garments from her quivering body. But it was so different. The memory of Bothwell was vivid; and this was no Bothwell.

  “Mary,” he cried breathlessly, “do not bring them here. That would spoil our plans. If it were known that you and I were lovers . . . ”

  With a great effort she held him off and, although he still kept his arms about her, their faces were no longer close. “You insolent fool!” she said. “Do you think that I would take you for my lover? Do you think you merely have to break into my room and insult me, to have me begging for your favors? You must be mad, Lord Ruthven. And if you do not take your arms from about me I shall shout for help. I shall tell Master Lindsay what you have done . . . what you have said to me.”

  He would not release her; he had caught her against him once more, and she felt his face hard against hers. She tried to catch at his hair but he only laughed wildly.

  “Is it too much to ask?” he whispered. “I will make you free. All I ask is a little affection.”

  “My affection would never be yours, Lord Ruthven.”

  She tore herself from his arms and ran to the door. He was there before her, barring her way.

  “You act like a coy virgin,” he complained. “All Scotland knows you are not that.”

  Her face was very pale and she was shaking with anger.

  “I have loved men,” she said quietly, “and men have loved me. I never offered myself for profit, my lord Ruthven. You are mistaken. You have invaded the privacy of your Queen, not any man’s harlot. Go now. It would be well if I never saw your face again. Then I might find it easier to forget your conduct on this night. It would go hard with you if I, escaping from this prison, remembered it.”

  She looked so regal standing there that Ruthven was overcome by dismay at what he had done.

  He stammered: “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I fear my love for you was greater than my good sense.”

  “Go,” she said. “And if you would please me, keep from my sight.”

  He bowed and went out, and she leaned against the door; her heart was beating madly and she was still trembling. She stumbled over to her bed and lay there.

  She was thinking: At any time he could come in to me. So could others. I have subdued him on this occasion, but will there be others?

  Jane and Marie must in future sleep in her apartments. Otherwise she would never feel safe from the lechery of those who were supposed to be guarding her.

  I must escape, she told herself. There must be some who would help me . . . without conditions such as Ruthven’s.

  MARY LAY DOZING in her bed. Jane slept at the foot of it and Marie on a pallet on the floor. She had not told them the reason why she had insisted on this arrangement, but they guessed that she had been disturbed by the attention of some male member of the household, for they looked upon this as inevitable now that she was regaining her health and with it her beauty.

  A sudden explosion split the silence. Jane and Marie were on their feet exclaiming with surprise because there was a reddish glow in the room.

  The Queen sat up in her bed, shaking back her luxuriant hair.

  “The Highlanders have come to rescue Your Majesty!” cried Jane.

  “Is it so?” said Mary excitedly; and as she rose from her bed and Jane ran to help her on with her robe another explosion was heard.

  Mary was at the window. In the sky was a glow and there was a smell of smoke in the air. Near the lake a great bonfire was blazing and she could see men about it—soldiers with pikes and halberds.

  Then again came a shattering explosion.

  “They are firing the ordnance of the castle,” she said.

  “What does this mean?”

  “It would seem, Your Majesty,” suggested Marie, “that they are celebrating some great event.”

  “I must know what,” insisted Mary.

  She went to the door of her chamber; a guard, who was standing outside her door, immediately turned to her and she asked: “It would seem some great event is being celebrated. I would know what.”

  The man let his eyes wander from her head to her feet in their velvet slippers which showed beneath her loose robe. There was insolence in his manner which he scarcely troubled to hide.

  “The coronation of the King of Scotland,” he answered her.

  He was resentful because he was not outside, taking his part in the celebrations; he had to remain at this door and guard the prisoner. And who was she? he asked himself. Nothing but a whore if rumor was true—a whore and a murderess. And there was he, denied the pleasure his fellows were enjoying—because of her.

  It was true that he had drunk rather freely of the wine which had been brought to him by one of his comrades; and since drinking it he had felt a fine fellow, which made it all the more irritating that he should have been left to guard the woman.

  “Coronation of the King of Scotland!” repeated Mary, aghast.

  “That’s what I said,” the soldier gruffly answered.

  Mary did not hear the step on the stair; and when a voice said: “You forget you address the Queen!” she was startled. And looking up she saw the young Douglas—the one with the earnest eyes and frank, open face.

  The soldier’s attitude changed slightly and the young Douglas went on: “Stand to attention when the Queen addresses you.”

  The soldier obeyed.

  The young man came forward and bowed. “Your Majesty, I trust you have not been subjected to a lack of respect.”

  “It is something to which I have become accustomed since entering this place,” she answered.

  “Then I ask forgiveness for all who have failed to treat Your Majesty with the homage due to you.”

  She smiled, and the young man said to the soldier: “You may join your friends outside. I will take your place.”

  “Sir,” began the soldier, “my orders were . . . ”

  “I give you orders now. Go and join the revels.”

  “If you’ll take responsibility . . . .”

  “I will.”

  The soldier saluted and went away.

  Mary looked at the young man and again she smiled. He did not step nearer to her; he stood looking at her as though he were not quite sure whether he was dreaming. The authoritative manner which he had used toward the soldier had disappeared. He now looked extremely young.

  “Thank you,” said Mary. “I feel less like a prisoner now.”

  “Oh . . . my most gracious Queen . . . if I could only do something to help!”

  “You have already done something.”

  He lifted his shoulders in a gesture of frustration. “I would I could show Your Majesty . . . .”

  “Please tell me what is happening.”

  “They are celebrating the coronation of your son at Stirling. They are calling him James VI of Scotland.”

  “It is to be expected. I signed my Abdication . . . with a sword at my throat.”

  “How dared they!” he whispered.

  “They dare much when they believe they have little to fear. I am friendless, alone and in their power.”

  “Not friendless, Your Majesty.”

  “Who are you?”

  “George Douglas . . . at your service now . . . and for as long as I shall live.”

  “Thank you, George Douglas. I shall sleep happier tonight knowing that I have such a friend within these walls.”

  He came to her then and, kneeling before her, lifted the hem of her robe and kissed it.
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br />   “You had better rise, George Douglas,” she said. “If any knew that you were my friend they would be watchful. They do not wish me to have friends.”

  “In me you have a friend who is ready to die in your cause.”

  “It is strange that I can believe you on such a short acquaintance. I have lived my life among flatterers and sycophants. Men have said they would die in my cause but when my fortunes changed they have proved themselves to be anything but my friends. How old are you?”

  “I am eighteen, Your Majesty.”

  “I feel it is not very old. I am not yet twenty-five but I feel that to be very old indeed. It is experience which makes us old, and I have already passed through a lifetime of experience.”

  “Your Majesty, ever since you were brought to the castle I have longed to serve you. If there is any commission . . . ”

  “There is one thing I desire above all others: To leave this place.”

  “I would willingly give my life to satisfy that desire.”

  “Thank you.” And she repeated softly: “I believe you.” There was a brief silence while they looked at each other and, because of that recent scene with Ruthven, she felt more drawn toward this young man than she would otherwise have been. There had been so many to cast languishing glances in her direction, and admiration was something she had grown to take for granted. For as long as she could remember she had been eluding the passionate entreaties of men who desired her. She had learned how to assess the advance of men; and the look in this young man’s eyes reminded her of her first husband, young François, King of France, who had been her humble and adoring slave from the day when they had met and had both been about six years old. She felt a great desire then to be back in those happy days when she had been the darling of the French Court, when all—except the terrifying Catherine de’ Medici—had petted and done their best to spoil her.

  Because he seemed in a daze of delight she went on: “You have put new hope in me. When I heard the revelry and learned its cause I felt a deep despair, because I knew that ambitious men had put a baby on the throne that they might rule. But you will help me. We will devise a plan . . . together . . . .”