The Captive Queen of Scots

by Jean Plaidy

  There was no time to discuss such matters now, but he knew that Livingstone and Fleming agreed with him. Their objective was the coast. If they could have crossed the Clyde and arrived at Dumbarton the flight to France would have been comparatively easy, for there ships worthy to cross the seas would have been in readiness for them. As it was they would strike the coast farther south, and who could tell what vessels would be at their disposal?

  But there was no time for regrets; they must move quickly because Terregles would be one of the first places in which Moray would expect to find the Queen sheltering, since it belonged to Herries.

  So the journey began again with Herries leading the way through the lonely passes of the Glenkens until they at length came to the banks of the River Ken.

  Mary was almost asleep in her saddle when Herries announced that they had arrived at the Castle of Earlston.

  Earlston! As Mary stared at the castle she forgot her exhaustion, for memory had brought vividly to her mind the picture of a burly man, crude and brutal, who shouted: “I will take you to my castle of Earlston . . . and there in that lonely spot far from your courtiers you shall learn who is the master.”

  Had he need to take her there, to show her what he had proved in her Court when she had been surrounded by her courtiers?

  She began to shiver. “No, my lord Herries,” she said, “I will not stay at Earlston.”

  “Your Majesty, there is no other refuge for miles, and you are exhausted.”

  Mary shook her head. “No,” she repeated coldly.

  She turned her horse and as she did so she seemed to throw off her exhaustion. “Come,” she said, “we can ride on a few more miles.”

  And as they rode the memories of Bothwell came flooding back. In this wild country he would have hunted and made sport. It was as though his spirit rode beside her, as though he mocked, as though he said: So even now, when I am miles away across the sea, you are afraid to enter a place which was once a home of mine. Why, Mary?

  Why? she asked herself. He was far away. He could do no harm to her. Did she believe that the presence of one so vital could never be completely eradicated and must linger on in spirit when the man himself had departed?

  Why was it that she could not endure to enter a place which must be full of reminders of him, where she would be afraid of encountering something which would bring back memories that were too bitter to be borne? Did it mean that she longed for him still?

  She was not sure. But she believed that her abhorrence of Earlston meant that she no longer cared to be reminded; that memories brought back too much that was shameful; that there was a superstition in her mind that he it was who had brought her to disaster, and that some evil force within him could harm her still.

  No, she could not be entirely sure. She only knew that, exhausted as she was, she would rather ride on than enter a house in which he had once lived.

  So on they rode until at length they came to Kenmure, an estate belonging to the Laird of Lochinvar.

  THE LAIRD of Lochinvar had bad news for her. Her pursuers had discovered the direction in which she was traveling, and were not many miles away. It could be fatal if she tarried; so, pausing just long enough to take refreshment, she and her faithful band were on their way again. On they rode through miles of wild and beautiful country; and eventually they came to a bridge which crossed the River Dee.

  Here Herries, calling a halt, said they would cross the bridge and then break it down so that when their pursuers reached this spot they would be delayed in their crossing of the river.

  Lord Livingstone looked with compassion at the Queen. “Your Majesty,” he said, “rest here while we demolish the bridge. At least it will be a small respite.”

  So Mary dismounted and Willie Douglas tied her horse to a tree and she stretched herself out on the grass and closed her eyes. She was thirsty and, realizing how hungry she was, she called Willie to her.

  “I would give a great deal for some food and wine,” she said.

  Willie grinned and laid his hand on the sword, which he would not give up although it impeded him considerably. Willie felt that he was no longer a boy since he had left Lochleven; he was ready to work like a man and fight like a man for his sovereign.

  “I’ll go and forage,” he told her.

  George, who was busy at work on the bridge, called after Willie: “Where are you going? If you’re not here when we’re ready to go, you’ll be left behind.”

  Willie answered: “Dinna fach yourself, Geordie Douglas.” He drew out his word and brandished it as though to show what he would do to any who stood in his way.

  Mary could not help smiling, and when the men’s attention was on the bridge she rose and followed Willie.

  “Willie,” she called.

  He stopped and she came up beside him.

  “Why dinna you rest?” he demanded, “you’re weary.”

  “So are we all,” she said. “Where are you going?”

  “There’s smoke in yon trees,” said Willie. “It means there’s a cottage there. I’m going to ask for food for you.”

  “I shall come with you.”

  Willie looked dubious, but she smiled and said: “I wish it, Willie; and I am your Queen, remember, although I sometimes think you forget it.”

  “Oh ay,” said Willie, “Your Majesty’s such a bonny lassie that it slips the mind ye’re a Queen as well.”

  It was impossible not to be amused by Willie. He was so loyal and so frank. She trusted him to work for her as she could never trust some who overwhelmed her with their flattery.

  So she and Willie came to the cottage, and when Willie knocked on the door a woman opened it.

  “What is it you want?” she asked.

  “We’re travelers in sore need of food,” Willie told her. “This lady needs to rest and eat if we are to continue our journey.”

  The woman peered at the Queen.

  “Oh you poor creatures!” she said. “Come you in and you shall have some of that that’s in my cupboard.”

  Into the small room stepped the Queen with Willie, and the woman bade them sit at her table.

  “Have ye come far?” she asked, turning to the cupboard.

  “Very far,” answered Mary.

  “Ah . . . these are troublous times.”

  “You live alone?” Mary asked.

  “Nay, there’s my good man who works up at Culdoach Farm.”

  “Is that far?”

  “Oh no. We’re on the farm land now.”

  The woman had brought oatmeal and sour milk from her cupboard. She had scarcely enough for herself but her heart was touched by the plight of the travelers and she was willing to share with them all she had. At any other time Mary would have been unable to eat such fare, but so great was her hunger that it tasted good.

  The woman was looking at the Queen’s hands and had noticed the dainty way in which she ate.

  “If I had more and better fare,” she said, “you should have it.”

  “What you have given us was good indeed,” said the Queen. “I shall always remember you with gratitude.”

  The woman started up. She had heard the sound of galloping horses and, running to her window, she saw that her cottage was surrounded.

  “Mercy on us!” she cried. “What does this mean?”

  The Queen went to the window, Willie beside her, his sword drawn. Then he laughed suddenly because he had seen that those who surrounded the cottage were Herries, Fleming, and Livingstone and the rest.

  “All is well,” he said. “You have nothing to fear, good woman. These are our friends.”

  “Your friends!” she cried. “Then who are you?”

  Mary said: “I am the Queen.”

  The woman stared at her disbelievingly and then her eyes went to the table on which the empty bowl now stood.

  “The Queen!” said the woman. “Sitting at my table . . . eating my oats!”

  Mary laid her hand on her shoulder. Then she turned to Wi
llie: “Go out and tell our friends that all is well, and ask Lord Herries to come here.”

  “Lord Herries!” cried the woman, for in her eyes he was as grand a personage as the Queen, more to be feared perhaps because he was the laird of the land on which her cottage stood—whereas the Queen was merely a name to her.

  “If you could ask for something,” said Mary, “what would it be?”

  “Ask for something?” stammered the woman.

  “Some gift. Tell me what you would rather have than anything in the world.”

  The woman looked about the walls of her cottage; lovingly she raised her eyes to the ceiling. “I’d ask that this cottage was my very own,” she said.

  Mary was about to say, It is yours, when she remembered that she was a Queen flying for her life, that she had been robbed of most of her possessions, including her crown. Was she in a position to say: This is yours?

  She felt disconsolate. It was characteristic that she was more hurt now by the loss of her power to grant this woman her small wish than she had been by the confiscation of her precious jewels.

  Lord Herries was at the door and the woman made a deep curtsy.

  “I have enjoyed hospitality under this roof,” said Mary, “and I should like to show my gratitude. I should like to give this woman the cottage in which she lives and for which she now pays rent. It is on your land, Lord Herries.”

  “The cottage is hers, Your Majesty.”

  The woman stared from one to the other and in the emotion of the moment tears gushed from her eyes.

  “My lord Herries . . . ” she began.

  “Your thanks are due to Her Majesty,” Herries told her.

  The woman cried: “But I only gave her that which I would give any hungry traveler. Oatmeal and sour milk . . . and for that . . . this cottage is mine.”

  “Not for the oatmeal,” answered Mary gently, “but for your kindness to a weary traveler. Kindness is not always easy to come by and I value it highly.”

  Herries said: “What is the name of your cottage, that I may know which one it is?”

  “It is Dunn’s Wa’s, my lord.”

  “Dunn’s Wa’s,” Herries repeated. “Now tell me where I can find fresh horses.”

  “Up at the farm of Culdoach, my lord. They have horses there.”

  So the Queen departed and in the cottage its new owner sat by her table and covered her face with her apron, rocking herself to and fro, because in that moment she could not bear to look at those beloved walls which would henceforth be her own. And all because she had given a stranger a share of her sparse supper! There’d be a little less to eat at her next meal—but she could not have enjoyed it if she had denied a weary, hungry stranger a share.

  And for this . . . Dunn’s Wa’s was hers.

  THE FUGITIVES had put fifty miles between them and the battlefield of Langside and had now come to Dundrennan Abbey.

  Here they halted, for on the other side of the Solway Firth was England. Looking across the water Mary could see the mountains of Elizabeth’s country and she felt a great longing to be there. In Scotland she must remain a fugitive until she could raise a large enough army to win back all she had lost; and she could not do that while she was flying before the enemy. She needed respite which only refuge in a foreign country could give her.

  So at the Abbey of Dundrennan she called together her faithful band, and with Gordon of Lochinvar who had joined them, they sat around a council table to discuss further plans.

  Among those who talked with her were Lord Herries, Lord Fleming and the Laird of Lochinvar, Lord Livingstone, Lord Boyd and George Douglas.

  Herries began by saying that he believed the Queen could stay in Dundrennan and there hold out against the enemy. The place would make a good fortress and would not be difficult to defend. There was no doubt that Huntley was on the march and would join them shortly. When he arrived with his Highlanders they would be ready for battle again, and this time they would defeat the enemy.

  It was Livingstone’s opinion that they should move to a more doughty fortress than Dundrennan. There were stronger places not very far distant and they should make one of these their headquarters without delay and prepare for a siege.

  Lord Boyd with Lochinvar considered that the Queen was in danger as long as she remained on Scottish soil. In France she had powerful relations; she could enlist the help of the King of France. They believed that without delay she should set out for France.

  Mary listened, considering each proposal as it was offered. To stay in Scotland? To risk capture and another long imprisonment such as she had suffered at Lochleven? She could not endure that.

  Go to France? She thought of her ambitious uncles and the Queen-Mother of France who had always hated her. How could she return to that country where she had once reigned as Queen, where she had been beloved—except by the Queen-Mother—where she had been so happy? How could she return, a miserable fugitive, begging for help, seeking a refuge?

  She could imagine the reception she would get from Catherine de’ Medici. She shivered and as she looked through the window at the distant mountains of England, she spoke firmly: “I am going to England. I shall throw myself on the mercy of my cousin Elizabeth.” The men about the table stared at her in dismay, but Mary went on: “She will help me. She is angry, I have been told, to hear that I am so treated. She will give me her sympathy, and more. She will help me to regain my kingdom. We are of an age—though she is a few years older than I. We are both women, both Queens. There is a bond between us.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Herries, “I implore you to reconsider your decision. You know that Elizabeth has been helping Moray to defy you?”

  “He sought her help and she gave it.”

  “It does not seem as though she feels herself to be Your Majesty’s friend.”

  “If I can go to Hampton Court, and confer with her there, I know I shall win her sympathy. We are two women; we are cousins.”

  “Your Majesty,” began Livingstone, “can you trust the Queen of England?”

  “I have never had any reason not to.”

  “The English have always been our enemies. They killed your father.”

  “I know, but that was not the present Queen.”

  “May I recall to Your Majesty’s mind how your illustrious ancestor, James I, ventured to England in a time of peace; he was made prisoner for many years.”

  “This is a woman, a Queen like myself. She is no hard-hearted man who wants to go to war and pillage and kill. The Queen of England hates war. We know that.”

  “She likes the spoils of war and prefers others to fight for them.”

  “She hates war,” said Mary firmly.

  “Your Majesty,” said Livingstone, “when your royal father was invited to York to meet Henry VIII of England he was warned by his nobles, after setting out on the journey, that he would be wise to turn back. He did.”

  “I cannot see,” said Mary, “that any good will come of my staying in Scotland or going anywhere else.”

  “To France . . . ” began Herries.

  “A perilous journey, and how can I be sure what my reception will be?”

  “But . . . to the Queen of England!”

  They were studying her in dismay. Had she forgotten that long ago, secure under the sheltering wing of the royal house of France, she had assumed the title, Queen of England? Elizabeth was not the woman to forget that.

  She was weary of being a fugitive and across the Firth the country looked beautiful and at peace. She could never rest easily on Scottish soil. Her sleep would be broken by the slightest noise. She would be continually on the alert for the coming of the enemy who would carry her away to a prison like that of Lochleven.

  She had made up her mind. She was a Queen and would insist on their obedience to her wishes.

  Calmly she faced them.

  “I am going to England,” she said.

  SHE SENT FOR George Douglas.

  “Ah, George,”
she said, holding out her hand. “It is such a short while since I walked out of Lochleven, yet it seems like a year. What will you do now that I am going to England?”

  George gulped because of the lump in his throat; his eyes were earnest as they met hers.

  “Whatever Your Majesty commands.”

  “I would not command you, George. I would have you act of your own free will.”

  “My will is to obey Your Majesty’s orders.”

  She sighed. “Oh, George,” she said, “if I were not myself . . . I could be very happy with you. But are you wise to link your fortunes to those of an exiled Queen?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, since I am only happy serving her.”

  “You cannot stay in Scotland now, George. Your life would not be worth much if you did. You should go to France. I will give you letters of commendation which you could take to my uncles. They would reward you well for all you have done for me.”

  George was silent.

  Mary continued: “Christian told me that before I came to the castle there was talk of your betrothal to a French heiress. That was true, George?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “And you are no longer eager for that match?”

  “I am eager only to serve my Queen.”

  “Then, George, there is nothing for it. I shall have to give you your orders.” She laughed and, because she could not bear to see the anguish on his face, she said quickly: “I order you to come to England with me, George Douglas.”

  The relief shone from his eyes as he said: “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “My friends do not trust the Queen of England, George. But I shall visit her, and when I talk to her I will make her understand. The sooner I am in England the easier I shall sleep. George, I wish you to go down to the Solway and arrange for a boat to carry us to England.”

  George bowed low and eagerly went to perform his task.

  WHILE GEORGE went off on his quest with Willie as his companion, Lords Herries, Fleming, Livingstone and Boyd conferred together.

  Herries said: “As we cannot persuade the Queen not to go to England, there is only one course open to us. We must go with her.”