by Jean Plaidy
Lady Douglas studied her young son. He was such a charming boy. Not like his half-brother Moray of course—not even like William. George was gentle; he would need someone to help him if he were to make his way in the world.
She would ask Moray to take him into his service . . . not yet . . . later. Lady Douglas liked to keep the members of her family about her as long as possible. But suppose the crown was restored to the Queen; dear Moray would perhaps not be so influential then. And the Queen would not forget George, her devoted admirer in adversity.
How an ambitious mother’s thoughts would run on! Mary was an impetuous woman. She had married Bothwell, who was no royal Prince. As she had married Bothwell, why should she not marry a Douglas?
So dreams ran on, sweeping aside all obstacles. Bothwell could either be killed or divorced from the Queen to make way for Lady Douglas’s handsome son.
Therefore if those two did talk dangerously, Lady Douglas could look on blithely. Mary could not escape from Lochleven until Moray was ready to let her go, but that was no reason why she should not enjoy her pleasant game of make-believe with Lady Douglas’s bonny son Geordie.
Mary Seton played the lute and there was dancing. Trust the Queen, thought Lady Douglas, to bring gaiety even into her prison. There she was, her chestnut hair escaping most becomingly from her coif, dressed in a gown of blue velvet trimmed with miniver, which Melville had sent to her, looking at young George as they danced together. She is making a Little France in Lochleven, thought Lady Douglas. And in the Little France of Holyrood House Mary had taken Rizzio as her favorite, had married Darnley, had loved Bothwell. Why should she not love George Douglas in the keep of Lochleven?
Mary was saying to George: “You must not look at me so devotedly, George. Others will notice.”
“They should not be surprised,” he said vehemently. “All the world must be devoted to you.”
“You should have seen your brother-in-law, Lindsay, with his sword at my throat.”
“He is a monster.”
“I agree, George. I feel my anger rising when I think of him. I tell myself that I will have his head . . . when I escape. When, George, when?”
“It shall be soon, Your Majesty.”
“If all men loved me as you do, George, I should have nothing to fear.”
“My plan is almost complete, Your Majesty.”
She moved nearer to him in the dance. “Can you tell me . . . without seeming to? Speak low; your mother watches us.”
“Your Majesty, when you are free, you will not hold it against my mother and brother that you were held in their fortalice?”
“Nay, George. It seems that I shall be so grateful to one Douglas that I shall love the whole family.”
“When you say such things I am filled with such happiness that I forget aught else.”
“Oh George, you must not love me so devotedly that you cannot help me to escape. There is one thing I long for beyond all others. Only when one has lost freedom does one realize how precious it is. I shall never forget you, George. For if I never leave Lochleven I shall remember that in my darkest hour you gave me hope.”
“Then I have not lived in vain. If they discovered that I had tried to help you, doubtless they would kill me. If that should come to pass, do not grieve for me. Remember that I should be the happiest man on Earth on the day I died for you.”
“Do not speak of dying for me. Rather live for me.”
George looked melancholy. “I am aware, Your Majesty, of the gulf that lies between us. You are a Queen. My only hope is to serve you.”
“You are too modest, George. I shall never forget that you are my very dear friend.”
Her long eyes were soft and full of affection. She wanted to take his head in her hands and kiss him. She was young and passionate; she was also very lonely, and the image of Bothwell was growing dimmer each day. Perhaps she had had enough of brutality; what she craved now was gentleness, this adoration, this loving homage which the charming boy was laying at her feet.
“My very dear friend,” he repeated.
Had he been more calculating he might have read an invitation in her words. Any other might have given her a passionate look of understanding and, when the castle was sleeping, she would have opened her eyes to find him beside her. But not George. He had no thought beyond service; he did not think, as Ruthven did: I will help the Queen escape and in exchange she may take me for her lover. George only asked to serve.
It would have been easy to divert to George Douglas that passionate desire which had once overwhelmed her for a different kind of man.
He was too young to understand. He did not know how he might so easily have become her lover.
He was whispering: “Have you noticed the large boat moored at the lakeside? It is not securely moored. Be ready when I give the warning. It may be very soon.”
“You would take me to the mainland in this boat?” she asked. “How should we elude the guards?”
“You have many supporters on the mainland. I have suggested to them that they come in force to attack and force their way into the castle. While you and I take the boat and go to the mainland, they will engage the guards until we have made our escape.”
“It sounds simple,” she said. “But are there enough men to prevent our being caught before we reach the mainland?”
“I will arrange it,” said George.
She smiled; but she thought: Is it possible?
George had no doubt; she could see by the happy smile on his lips.
Seton had stopped playing the lute and the dance was over. Lady Douglas watched benignly while George escorted the Queen to her chair.
IT WAS DUSK and George bent over the chains by which the boat was fastened.
A simple matter, he thought. He wished they could have a rehearsal. He would make his way straight to the keep, where she would be waiting in her cloak. Then they would hurry out of the castle while the invaders held off the guards. On the mainland Lord Seton and others would be waiting for them with fast horses.
“Is aught wrong with the boat, sir?”
George started on seeing Will Drysdale, the garrison commander, looking down at him. George flushed, annoyed because he could never cover his embarrassment. “Oh . . . no . . . It seems secure enough.”
Drysdale bent over the chains to examine them. “H’m,” was all he said. Then he straightened himself and stared beyond George to the mainland. “I believe this boat causes you some anxiety, sir. I saw you examining it the other day.”
“I think it’s secure enough,” said George turning away.
Drysdale looked after him and scratched the side of his face. He watched George until he was out of sight; then he went to find Sir William.
Sir William was in his apartments and Drysdale asked: “Could I have a word with you alone, sir?”
“Anything wrong?” asked Sir William when they were alone.
“The big boat is not very securely moored, Sir William. It would not be difficult for anyone to release it. I suggest that we make it very secure. If we do not . . . ”
“You have discovered something, Drysdale?”
“Well, Sir William, I hardly know. It was just that I wanted to make sure.”
Sir William eyed him quizzically. “You’d better tell me, Drysdale.”
“It may be conjecture on my part, Sir William, but Master George seemed uncommonly interested in that boat, and anyone can see with half an eye that . . . ”
“The Queen is a very desirable woman,” sighed Sir William, “and my brother is a chivalrous young man . . . . That’s what you mean, is it?”
Drysdale nodded.
“I should not like the young fool to run into trouble,” said Sir William.
“Where the Queen is, trouble will soon follow, Sir William. What shall I do?”
“Make the boat doubly secure, strengthen the guard, and keep your eye on my young brother. And so will I. For the time being let that suffice. And . . . sa
y nothing. He is young and inexperienced. I would not like this to reach the ears of my lord Moray. He would not understand the emotions of a young boy in love. My lord Moray could never have been that. Such as we are, Drysdale, are more lenient, eh. This could cost the boy his life.”
“Very well, Sir William.”
“But remember, we have been warned.”
GEORGE LAY STRETCHED out on the grass moodily staring up at the keep. She was seated in her window, her tapestry in her hand.
He had failed! George was telling himself what an ineffectual fool she would think him. The plan had had a chance of success but he had had to raise their suspicions by his too careful examinations of the boat. Now that they suspected him, he would have to think of something very ingenious if he were going to give her her freedom.
But he would succeed; he was determined to. In his imagination he saw himself at her side, defending her for the rest of their lives, his sword drawn ready for all who came against her. All that he asked was to be her slave. When she rode away from Lochleven he would go with her, no matter in what guise; he would not care. He would be her page, her scullion . . . anything—all he asked was that he might be with her.
A low chuckle at his side brought him out of his dream of chivalry. He frowned; he was in no mood for young Willie so he ignored the boy stretched out beside him until Willie began to whistle untunefully. Then George cried: “For the love of God, be silent!”
Willie, resting his elbows on the grass, propped his face in his hands. “You were a daftie, Geordie Douglas,” he said. “It was a poor plan, did ye know?”
“What do you mean?”
“To think to go off in the boat and then let old Drysdale know it by looking over the old vessel every few hours to make sure it was worthy to carry your Queen.”
“So you knew . . . ”
“Hey, Geordie Douglas, what have I got this pair of peepers for, did ye think? Now if I was going to rescue my Queen I’d go a different way about it, that I would!”
“You rescue the Queen!”
“And why not, Geordie Douglas? I may wear your cast-off breeks but I am a man for all that . . . and she’s a bonny lass though a Queen.”
George sprang to his feet but Willie was quicker. George lifted his arm to cuff the boy but Willie dodged away; he stood some distance off, poised to run, grinning insolently.
I have indeed been a fool, thought George. Even Willie would have done better.
DECEMBER HAD COME and as Mary sat with Seton over their tapestry she said: “I shall have to wait for the spring before I can hope to escape from this place. How long that seems.”
“The next three months will pass quickly,” Seton comforted her.
“It is the monotony of the days which is so hard to bear; to look out from my window every hour of the day and see the same stretch of lake. Oh, I am happy that you are with me. I am fond of George, and Lady Douglas seems to be a good friend as far as her fondness for our Regent will allow her. But there are times when I feel very melancholy.”
She did not mention Bothwell, but she was thinking of him. During the last weeks she had had a premonition that she would never see him again. Through George news was brought to her from the mainland; no one had been able to stop that, and she knew that Moray had sent Kirkcaldy of Grange to capture her husband.
Bothwell, learning of the plan to capture him, had left Huntley and taken temporary refuge at Spynie with his great-uncle and old tutor and guardian, Patrick Hepburn the Bishop of Moray. He had attempted a feat which was typical of him when he had tried to enlist the help of pirates in order to raise a naval force with himself as its commander. Indeed, it seemed that he had not hesitated to turn pirate himself. He would have brought many an uneasy moment to Moray and his friends, for Bothwell was the man they feared more than any in Scotland. How often had Mary wept for the strength he could have given her as well as that erotic satisfaction which, having tasted, she often craved for. But there was no substitute for Bothwell; there never would be. She was aware of this and that was why the fear that she would never see him again was as acute as a physical pain.
But even Bothwell had not been sufficiently prepared to make a stand against Moray’s might, and he had gone to the Orkneys and Shetlands where he had narrowly escaped capture; but Kirkcaldy in hot pursuit had been wrecked on the rocks, while Bothwell escaped across the North Sea to be captured off the Norwegian coast by a Danish commander and taken to Bergen. There he was allowed to take up residence, but a certain Anna Thorssen was, to Bothwell’s misfortune, residing in Bergen, and when she heard that he was in that town, determined to settle an old score. The buccaneering Bothwell had gone through a form of marriage with her some years before, taken possession of her considerable fortune and then deserted her. His sins were catching up with him. She brought a suit against him and, only by promising her an annuity when he returned to Scotland, did he manage to elude the law. He had been expelled from Bergen and was now in Copenhagen.
While he was free there was hope, and yet with the passing of each day the bold Borderer seemed to become more like a figure in a dream than in reality. There were times when she could not bear to think of him, when looking back on her life she knew that it would have been different if she had never surrendered to Bothwell, if she had never allowed him to make herself the slave of her senses.
That had brought her to Lochleven . . . here in the castle surrounded by the lake, where only the companionship of her women, the unswerving devotion of a chivalrous young man could in some measure compensate her for all she had lost.
“Before this,” she told Seton, “I never had the time to look back on my life, and consequently never learned the art of contemplation. Life passed too quickly; it was like playing a part in one pageant after another. It is different now.”
“Very different, Your Majesty.”
“I begin to see events in the right perspective. I see people for what they are. Do you know, Seton, before this I believed Moray was my friend. What a stupid woman I must have been! Moray could free me tomorrow if he wished. Of course he does not wish to do so because once I am free he loses his power. All his life brother Jamie has longed for the power which his illegitimacy denied him; always he has been saying to himself: ‘Where Mary is, there might I have been had I been born in wedlock.’”
“He is a very ambitious man.”
Mary laughed. “For the first time I see my brother Jamie clearly, and I know that almost everything he has ever done has been a step toward the Regency. It is the most he can attain. How he would love to be James VI; but my little son bears that title. Still, Regent Moray has all the power that would have been his even if he had been James VI. My half-brother was always shrewd, Seton. What does a name matter? That is what he will be asking himself now.”
“Shall I bring out the tapestry, Your Majesty?”
“Ah, yes, Seton. Working those beautiful scenes soothes me, as you know. I can almost feel I am there . . . with our ladies and gentlemen. But perhaps it is not wise to be so soothed. Perhaps I should be making plans.”
“Plans are being made, Your Majesty. When the spring comes . . . ”
“Meanwhile there is the whole of the winter before us, Seton. How shall we endure it in this gloomy prison?”
“We shall endure it, Your Majesty.”
Yes, thought Mary with a grim smile, because we have our tapestry and our music, because we have our hopes, because of the devotion of young George Douglas.
THE WINDS OF LATE DECEMBER swept across the island when Moray came again to visit his half-sister.
This time he came with the Earl of Morton and Sir James Balfour—two men whose actions had certainly not endeared them to Mary, and when they entered her room she found it difficult to restrain her anger.
The wind howling about the castle made it at times almost impossible to hear each other speak. She looked straight at Sir James Balfour and immediately remembered that it was he who had provided that ho
use in Kirk o’ Field which had been destined to be the scene of Darnley’s murder. He had been the lawyer who had arranged Bothwell’s divorce from his wife in order that he might marry Mary; and in exchange for these services had been made governor of Edinburgh Castle. But there was not a more vile traitor in Scotland; Balfour’s lawyer’s mind was alert for disaster and he was determined not to be on the losing side. So, as soon as he knew that the defeat of Mary and Bothwell was imminent he had surrendered the castle to their enemies, asking, as his reward, for the priory of Pittenweem, an annuity for his son and, should there be a trial of those involved in Darnley’s murder, a free pardon for himself.
And this was one traitor whom Moray brought with him to Lochleven.
As for Morton, in his treacherous hands was a certain casket of which Mary had heard rumors. It was said to contain letters and poems written by her to Bothwell, and to be one of the most important pieces of evidence in the Darnley case.
And James himself—her half-brother, Jamie, as she used to call him in the days of her childhood—what of him? There he stood, his cold fish-like eyes upon her. He may be Regent, she thought, but I am the Queen.
“How the wind howls,” she said coolly. “Such a noise must of necessity be for some arch-traitor.”
Her scornful gaze rested on Balfour who had the grace not to meet her eyes.
Moray went forward and would have taken her hands, but she drew away from him.
“Pray do not tell me of your concern for my well-being,” she cried. “I know your concern to be non-existent. My health has improved since we last met and I am sure that is a matter of deep regret to you.”
“Your Majesty!” began Moray who had stepped ahead of Morton and Balfour, but she cut him short.
“I will not listen to your soft words. I think of your actions. If you are my friend, my lord Moray, how can I remain your prisoner? Do you know how long I have been in this place? Six months! You have achieved your purpose. You have forced me to abdicate. You have set a baby on the throne. And you are Regent.”