by Jean Plaidy
The others agreed, and Livingstone added: “There can be no greater peril for us all than to stay in Scotland; and I doubt that the young Douglases will find such a craft as could carry us to France in safety. It may be that this plan to visit England is the best after all.”
The others were silent. The position was full of dangers. They distrusted Elizabeth; in her realm they might lose their liberty; but if the Moray faction captured any of them it would be their heads that would go.
“Then,” said Herries, “I will write to Sir Richard Lowther who is the Deputy-Governor of Carlisle and I will ask him for a safe conduct for the Queen and her party.”
“Do so without delay,” said Livingstone. “I shall feel much happier when we receive it.”
So Herries wrote at once and dispatched a messenger to England.
AWAITING the return of George Douglas, Mary found it difficult to rest. She had in her possession a ring which Elizabeth of England had once sent her. This she had lost for a time but Melville had restored it to her with other possessions, and she took it out now and examined it.
It was delicately made and had two joints which, when put together, formed two right hands supporting a heart made of two diamonds which were held in place by a spring. When this was opened the ring could be divided into two halves.
Mary had been delighted to receive such a ring from her cousin of England. The symbolism implied by the ornament pleased her; believing Elizabeth to be of a nature similar to her own—warm, generous, forgiving, tolerant—she had thought that such a gift must mean the desire for her friendship.
Therefore merely to look at the ring comforted her.
She decided to write to her and send half of the ring, which she was sure would touch a tender chord in Elizabeth’s heart, as it did in hers.
She sat down at a table and wrote:
My dearest sister,
You are not ignorant of my misfortunes but these which induce me to write at present have happened too recently yet to have reached your ear. I must therefore acquaint you as briefly as I can, that some of my subjects whom I most confided in and raised to the highest pitch of honour have taken up arms against me and treated me with the utmost indignity. By unexpected means the Almighty Disposer of all things delivered me from the cruel imprisonment I underwent; but I have since lost a battle in which most of those who preserved their loyal integrity fell before my eyes. I am now forced out of my kingdom, and driven to such straits that, next to God, I have no hope but in your goodness. I beseech you therefore, my dearest sister, that I may be conducted to your presence, that I may acquaint you with all my affairs. In the meantime I beseech God to grant you all heavenly benedictions, and to me patience and consolation, which last I hope and pray to obtain by your means. To remind you of the reasons I have to depend on England, I send back to its Queen this token of her promised friendship and assistance.
Your affectionate sister, Mary R.
From Dundrennan.
She put half the ring with the letter and sealed it; and as she was doing this Lady Livingstone came to tell her that her husband wished to speak to the Queen.
Mary received him immediately, when he told her that in case the rebel army should have received word that she was at Dundrennan Abbey and attack during the night he, with Herries and the rest had thought it best for her to leave the Abbey and spend the night in a mansion close by. This was Hazlefield, the home of a family named Maxwell who were kinsfolk of Herries and eager to help her.
Mary agreed to this. “With good luck, it may be for one night only,” she added, “for if George Douglas succeeds in finding a vessel we shall leave for England tomorrow.”
“We cannot hope yet, Your Majesty, to receive a safe conduct from the Deputy-Governor of Carlisle. Herries’ request can scarcely have reached him.”
Mary laughed. “Rest assured we do not need such a safe conduct. We shall set out as soon as the vessel is found.”
Livingstone was less sure, but Mary added that delay was dangerous. She would not sleep easily until she had left Scottish soil.
Shortly afterward she left Dundrennan in the company of a few of her female attendants and went to Hazlefield, there to await news of what vessel George had been able to find to convey them to England.
THE MAXWELLS greeted her with respectful enthusiasm and had already prepared their best suite of rooms for her use.
Jane Kennedy suggested that she should retire early and sleep while she could, for at any moment she might hear that the journey must continue.
Jane and Lady Livingstone were helping her to retire when the door of the chamber was silently pushed open. All three turned somewhat startled. There was no one at the door; but while they stared at it, it was gently opened further and a child came into the room. He was little more than a baby, and he was chuckling as though he were enjoying himself. He stopped a short distance from the group at the mirror and then, with a gurgle of laughter, darted at the Queen and threw himself against her.
Mary picked him up and sat him on her lap.
“And who are you?” she asked.
He stared at her wonderingly.
“So you have come to see me?” she asked.
He nodded and caught at one of the rings on her fingers which completely absorbed his attention.
He was beautiful and, as she looked at the plump wrists with their creases of soft flesh, Mary was overcome with emotion. This child was about the same age as her little James. In that moment she forgot all ambitions, all desires but one—to have her baby with her again. She caught at the boy and held him against her so tightly that he wriggled in protest while she kissed the soft hair and the rounded cheek. He submitted, not without some displeasure, and when she loosened her embrace he seized her fingers again and returned to his examination of the ring.
There were sounds of consternation outside the apartment, and when Jane Kennedy went to the door she found the child’s nurse there.
“He is safe,” Jane told the woman. “He is now on the Queen’s lap examining her jewels. Come in. The Queen will wish to speak to you.”
So the nurse entered and, at the sight of her, the child turned toward Mary and gripped her hand tightly, and began to chant “No—go away. He wants to stay.”
“You are his nurse and come to look for him?” said the Queen with a smile. “Do you know, I think he would prefer to stay with me.”
The nurse made an embarrassed curtsy and said: “Now that he can toddle about he’s more than one body’s work, Your Majesty.”
“I am glad he toddled into my apartment,” said the Queen. “And you, my little man, are you glad you came to see me?”
The child regarded her solemnly and chuckled. “He stay,” he announced.
“Could you leave him with me for a while?” asked the Queen.
“Why . . . yes, I suppose so, Your Majesty. It was just that . . . it’s his bedtime and . . . ”
“Leave him for a while,” said the Queen. “I will tell his parents that he is with me.”
As the nurse curtsied and went out, Mary said: “My little one must be very like this. While I hold this child in my arms I can almost believe that he is my own son.”
Then she saw that about the child were attached leading-strings, and she thought of those which little James had once worn and how, when she had visited him in Stirling Castle and knew that she had to be parted from him, she had taken his leading-strings with her and kept them as something precious. They had been lost to her after Carberry Hill, but she often thought of them with regret.
The little boy was absorbed with interest in the Queen’s fingers; he then examined her face and, as his plump fingers explored it, Mary caught them and kissed the little palms.
The boy wriggled off her lap and toddled over to a table behind which he hid himself, to emerge after a second or so almost choking with laughter. Then he hid himself again, and the Queen and her women pretended to hunt for him.
This game was in pr
ogress when the boy’s mother appeared.
“You have come for your son?” asked Mary.
“I fear he is disturbing Your Majesty.”
“He is giving me much pleasure. May I keep him awhile?”
“If it is Your Majesty’s wish.”
The child had come out and threw himself at his mother’s skirts. He pointed to the Queen, as though to draw his mother’s attention to her.
“Look” he cried. “Look!”
His mother lifted him up and he continued to cry: “Look!” turning to point at Mary.
“Come,” said his mother, “it is time you were in bed. I am sorry, Your Majesty. I know you wish to rest.”
“It was a pleasure to meet your son,” Mary answered.
The little boy, sensing that he was about to be taken away, turned in his mother’s arms and held out his own to the Queen.
“He wants to stay with that one,” he cried.
“Hush! Hush!” said his mother.
But Mary went to him and again took him in her arms. “I should like to keep him with me this night.”
“Your Majesty, he will disturb you.”
“I do not think so. If he is agreeable, it would please me to have him in my bed this night.”
The child’s mother was secretly delighted at the Queen’s pleasure in her son, so she kissed him and left him. As for the boy, he was delighted to be with Mary and her ladies; and when the Queen lay in bed, the boy was beside her.
He slept almost at once and Mary slept too, although several times during the night she awoke and remembered the child; and she wept a little out of longing for her own little James who had been taken from her.
In the morning she left Hazlefield for Dundrennan Abbey, but before she went she took a little ruby ring from her finger and gave it to the boy’s mother.
“I pray you,” she said, “give him this when he is a little older, and tell him that it is a gift from the Queen to whom his company gave such pleasure on what may well be her last night in Scotland for many a long year.”
MARY WAITED with her friends at the secluded Bay of the Abbey of Burn-foot on the Solway Firth. The vessel which George had been able to procure was nothing but a fishing-boat, and there was great misgiving among those assembled there.
Mary uttered a prayer as she stepped into the boat: A safe passage across the water, a warm welcome from the English Queen, the help she needed, and soon she would be back in Scotland.
Several of her friends were looking at her anxiously reminding her that there was still time to change her mind; but Mary had no intention of doing that. She was filled with hope on that beautiful May morning.
The surf in the Abbey Creek impeded the boat for some minutes, and then they were out on the Firth.
Scotland lay behind them—before them was England and what Mary believed to be the way back to her throne.
IV
Carlisle
THE ENGLISH COAST WAS IN SIGHT. For four hours the fishing-boat in which were the Queen and her sixteen followers, together with four sailors, had been on the Solway Firth endeavoring to battle its way against a strong breeze. There had been an occasion during the trip when Mary had thought that they would be blown out to sea; in which case she knew that her friends would have taken that as an omen that their destination should have been France.
But now they were within a few minutes of landing, and already the inhabitants of that stretch of coast had noticed the ship and were coming down to the shore to see who was descending upon them.
These simple people stared in astonishment at the strangers, and immediately all eyes were focused on the tall woman who carried herself with such dignity and whose beauty, in spite of her tattered and soiled gown and the fact that her hair was escaping from her coif, was such as to startle them.
It was Herries who spoke. “This is the Queen of Scotland. Who is the lord of these parts?”
While some of the people pointed to a mansion on an incline a little distance from the coast, one or two of the younger men began to run in that direction, and with satisfaction Herries understood that they were going to acquaint someone of importance of the arrival.
Livingstone came to stand beside the Queen. “Perhaps we might walk toward the house,” he said. “It is not seemly for Your Majesty to remain here among these staring people.”
The others agreed and Herries announced: “We will go to your master’s house. Lead us thither.”
The people continued to stare at the Queen, but some of their number were ready to lead the way and the little party set off.
A strange manner, thought Mary, for a Queen to travel. And she thought of other journeys with the pomp and richness of royalty all about her.
Before they had arrived at Workington Hall, its owner, Sir Henry Curwen, now having been warned of her approach, came out to meet the party.
When he reached the Queen he bowed and bade her welcome to Workington. Then he led the way into a wooded park, and Mary felt a great relief as the gracious mansion with its castellated towers and turrets loomed before her. As she passed through the embattled gateway Sir Henry’s wife and mother were waiting to greet them.
When the younger Lady Curwen had made her curtsy she told the Queen that Workington Hall was at her disposal for as long as she wished and that, having heard of Her Majesty’s arrival, he had immediately ordered that the finest apartments in the house should be made ready for her.
“We are sixteen,” said Mary with an apologetic smile; “and we come unannounced. But I know you will feel pity for us when you hear of our misfortunes.”
“Let me conduct you to my own rooms while yours are being prepared,” said Lady Curwen. “There perhaps I can help you with a change of linen and a clean gown while food is made ready.”
“You are very kind.”
“We count it an honor to have the Queen of Scotland under our roof,” said Sir Henry.
“I am sure,” put in the Dowager Lady Curwen, “that our good Queen would be most displeased if we showed aught but warm hospitality to her kinswoman.”
“I hope soon to be with her,” Mary answered. “Then I shall tell her how happy I was to be so warmly received as soon as I stepped on her soil.”
Lady Curwen led the way to her own rooms, and, while water was brought and Mary and her ladies washed the stains of the journey from their persons, clothes were sent in for them.
For Mary there was a gown of crimson brocade slashed with white satin; it was fortunately loose, which helped to hide the fact that the fit was not perfect. Jane Kennedy combed the long chestnut hair back from the high forehead and a small round cap was placed at the back of Mary’s head, over which was a veil, edged with gold; this draped gracefully over her shoulders.
When she was dressed in these garments Mary felt almost gay. The worst was over, she told herself; the next step would be the meeting place Elizabeth suggested—and then, with England’s help, would begin the regaining of her throne.
There were clean clothes for her female attendants and, when they had changed, they felt their spirits rising. It was only three days since the defeat at Langside, but those had been spent in almost continual travel, frequently by night, and it was a great relief to put on clean garments.
When Mary went to the apartments which had been prepared for her she found food and wine waiting for her there because, explained Lady Curwen, her servants were endeavoring to prepare a repast which would, they hoped, be more worthy of their royal guest.
Mary’s warm-hearted thanks immediately won the friendship of the Curwens, and when they had made sure that the Queen had everything she needed and was resting in her apartments they left her to concern themselves with arrangements for her entertainment.
It was a few hours after the Queen’s arrival at Workington Hall and while she was still resting, when a messenger came riding into the courtyard demanding to be taken with all speed to Sir Henry Curwen.
When Sir Henry received the messenger
he was informed that the man came from the Earl of Northumberland, the lord of the district.
Northumberland had heard that the Queen of Scots had arrived in England; he was not as surprised by this as Sir Henry Curwen had been, because he had heard from Sir Richard Lowther that Lord Herries had written to him asking for Mary’s safe conduct. He was therefore on the alert; and he knew his duty. He did not wish the Queen to know that she was again a prisoner, but this was what she must be until instructions were received, in the name of Elizabeth, as to what was to be done with her. Northumberland’s commands were that on the following day Curwen’s royal guest was to be conducted from Workington Hall to Cockermouth Hall. Northumberland, not being in residence at his Castle, could not entertain her there, and it was for this reason that she was to be lodged at Cockermouth Hall, the home of Henry Fletcher, a rich merchant of the district. He was sending guards who, the Queen must be made to believe, were to protect her on the short journey and to conduct her thither; actually they would be there to make sure she did not escape.
Curwen, listening to these instructions, was indignant, but he dared not disobey Northumberland; and when the Queen appeared for supper he told her that the Earl of Northumberland had heard of her arrival and wished to entertain her in his castle. Unfortunately he was not in residence, but invited her to go to Cockermouth, where she would be entertained until he could reach her.
Mary was not displeased and without suspicion. She knew that Northumberland was a Catholic, and therefore she believed he would be an ally.
“But,” she said, “I shall be very sorry to say goodbye so soon to you and your family, Sir Henry. You have made me so welcome and I shall never forget that you were my first friends in England.”
It was a merry supper which was eaten in the dining hall at Workington. Mary looked very beautiful in her crimson brocade; and when Lady Curwen brought her a lute, she played and sang a little.
She was full of hope and high spirits when she retired to her apartments. She slept long and deep. The nightmare of Langside and the three days of exhausting travel seemed to have happened a long time ago.