The Captive Queen of Scots

by Виктория Холт

  “I am not sure that I shall go,” retorted Mary. “Here I am not far from home. Unless I receive an invitation to visit the Queen of England I do not feel inclined to leave Carlisle.”

  Knollys sighed. He knew that it was not for her to decide. He also knew that the Queen had refused Fleming a safe conduct to France, that she had kept Herries in London because she was anxious to move Mary while he was away; Knollys believed that the cause of the Queen of Scots was a hopeless one; and he was deeply sorry for her.

  DURING THE NEXT few days Mary thought constantly of George Douglas, and she longed to reward him for his devotion to her, for she knew that he was in love with her and that it was the love born of chivalry.

  “Poor George,” she said to Seton in whom she confided most of her thoughts. “He is wasting his life with me.”

  Seton who was dressing the Queen’s hair, paused, the comb in her hand and said:

  “When the time comes for you to fight your way back to the throne and he is with you, he will not consider he has wasted his time.”

  “If ever I return to the Scottish throne there shall be honors for George . . . and for Willie. Never, never shall I forget what they have done for me. Willie is but a boy and his lot here is no more uncomfortable than it was at Lochleven . . . but George is different. He is a young man who should be making his way in the world. He should find a beautiful wife and live happily with her, not spend his days in semi-captivity, sighing for a queen who can never be aught else to him. Seton, I wish there was something I could do for George.”

  “You do all that he asks, simply by existing,” replied Seton with a smile.

  “It is not enough. I want him to go from here, Seton.”

  “George . . . leave you! He would never obey that command.”

  “He would if I made it . . . in a certain way. Do you know that he was betrothed to a French heiress? Christian told me, and I have seen a portrait of her. She is very beautiful. I am sure George will love her.”

  “George is faithful to one and one only.”

  “Do not smile, Seton. I will not allow him to waste his manhood here in Carlisle . . . or Bolton . . . and perhaps other castles to which one day I shall be taken—for I begin to fear I shall never be allowed to visit Elizabeth.”

  “Your Majesty is sad today.”

  “Yes, because I know that soon I must say goodbye to George. There is something else, Seton. The men of my suite are no longer allowed to have their quarters in the castle. Since I read John Wood’s letters and have some idea of the correspondence which passes between the Regent and Elizabeth’s ministers, I suspect that ere long some of my faithful friends will be sent back to Scotland. What do you think their fate would be? If George were sent back, all that he has done for me would most certainly cost him his head. I am determined to prevent that. And there is only one way in which this can be done. I shall try to send George to France.”

  “Lord Fleming, it seems, cannot obtain a safe conduct. Would George?”

  “I think he might succeed where Lord Fleming has failed. His more humble status would make him seem less important in their eyes. And I should not make the mistake of sending letters with George.”

  “Are you determined on this? You would miss him sadly.”

  “I have thought of that. The parting will be a sad one for us both, but I am so fond of that young man, Seton, that I cannot let him waste his life for me. He is so young. He will in time outgrow his love for me. I shall be his Queen, and he will always be my faithful subject. But he would be happier with a wife . . . . with children and some hope of making his way in the world.”

  “But when Your Majesty regains the throne?”

  “The first thing I shall do will be to send for George Douglas and offer him honors which are his due.”

  “So you are determined to see George. When will you do so?”

  “There seems little point in delaying further. Let it be now, Seton. Send him to me.”

  GEORGE STOOD before her, and when she saw the desolation in his eyes, she wavered.

  Let him stay with her. It was what he wished; it was what she wished. Let the future take care of itself.

  “Oh George,” she said, stretching out a hand to him which he took and covered with kisses, “do not think that I want you to go. I shall miss you very much. Do not think that I shall ever forget what you have done for me.”

  “I ask only to be allowed to stay near you, to defend Your Majesty if need be, to be at your side . . . to serve you in victory or defeat.”

  “I know, George. No Queen ever had more faithful subject; no woman more loving friend. But you have seen what has happened since our coming into England. It is very necessary that my friends in France should know what is happening to me. George, I begin to feel that is the only direction in which I can look for help. You will be on my service. I want you to go to France. I do not think the Queen of England will deny you a safe conduct as she has Lord Fleming. I want you to see the King, who is my very good friend. My uncles, the Duke of Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine will be your friends and take you to the Court. There you can do more for me than you can here in England.”

  An eager look had come into George’s face. He believed her; and if he could serve her best by being denied the joy of her presence he was willing enough to accept the sacrifice.

  “I shall give you no letters to take to them, but I am writing through the French ambassador to tell them of your coming. So they will be expecting you; and when you are there, George, I know that you will plead my cause as few others could, because all you do for me is done for love of me and not hope of any honors I might one day be in a position to give you. Willie shall remain with me. Have no fear that I shall not reward him when the opportunity arises. Never, never shall I forget those days in Lochleven and all I owe you two.”

  George knelt before her to hide his emotion. He wanted to tell her how he adored her, to repeat again and again that he longed to give his life for her.

  She understood and, making him rise, kissed him tenderly.

  “You do not have to speak, George,” she said. “I understand. And it is friendship such as yours that makes it possible for me to endure my misfortunes with a good heart.”

  George said: “Once Your Majesty gave me an earring, I treasure it always. Shall it still be a symbol, should the need arise to send it?”

  He took the earring from a small pouch which hung on a chain under his doublet and showed it to her.

  “Ah yes, I remember it well. I have its fellow, and think of all you have done for me every time I see it.”

  She wanted to give him the other earring—a present for his bride. But no, that would be to tell him the real reason why she was sending him away. He must not be allowed to guess that. Later, perhaps, she thought, when he is betrothed, when he realizes that a man needs more from life than the love between us two.

  “I will give you something else, George, to set beside that earring. A memento of me.” She went into the ante-chamber and came out with a portrait of herself. It was a charming picture, a good likeness in which she looked serene and beautiful; diaphanous material falling from her coif draped her shoulders; her ruff was of finest lace and the delicate white fingers of her right hand fingered the jewel which hung about her neck.

  George was so moved that he could not speak; as for Mary, she was finding it difficult to control her emotions. Impulsive as she knew herself to be she believed that if he did not go she would throw herself into his arms and beg him to stay, to say to him: Why should we think of the future . . . either of us? What has the future for us? You are young and I am not much older.

  She turned away from him and as she looked toward the Scottish hills, she thought of the guards about this castle and the plans to move her to a stronger fortress. She thought too of other men who had loved her—of her three husbands, whom tragedy had overtaken. To only one had she brought happiness—to little François, delicate, clinging François to who
m she had been nurse and playmate. But that had been a childhood friendship rather than marriage. Then Darnley who, after their brief and stormy union, had been the victim of murder. Had he not married Mary Stuart he would certainly not have met violent death in Kirk o’ Field. And Bothwell . . . what fate could be more unendurable to him than that of a prisoner! And this had befallen him because he had married Mary Stuart.

  I bring ill luck to those who love me, she thought. But it shall not be so with George. George was innocent as none of the others had been—except perhaps François. No, she knew she was an impulsive woman, governed by her emotions rather than sound common sense. But she could learn some lessons; and she had learned this one.

  I could only bring suffering to him if I kept him with me to become my lover. I will not do it. You must fly away, George . . . to freedom and a life that is not too closely entwined with that of ill-fated Mary Stuart.

  “Take this picture of me, George,” she said steadily, “and go now. Make preparations for your departure. I shall see you before you leave.”

  He bowed, and she did not look at him as he went from the room.

  SIR FRANCIS KNOLLYS came to her apartment and asked for an audience.

  He looked harassed and she guessed that he had bad news.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “I regret that I have orders here. You are to prepare to leave at once for Bolton Castle.”

  “Whence come these orders?” she asked.

  “From the Queen’s ministers, Your Majesty.”

  “May I see them?”

  Knollys handed them to her.

  “I do not see the signature of the Queen of England.”

  “Secretary Cecil signs for her.”

  “I will not be commanded by the Queen’s ministers,” retorted Mary. “Without your Queen’s express warrant I shall not stir from Carlisle.”

  Knollys sighed and went to consult with Scrope, while Mary sat down and wrote one of her passionate letters to Elizabeth, explaining that she was sure Elizabeth would not order her to go where she did not wish, and imploring her to remember that, as Queen of Scotland, she was an equal of the Queen of England.

  BUT MARY KNEW that she was in Elizabeth’s power when word came from her that the Queen of England was sending her own litter and horses to convey the Queen of Scots from Carlisle to Bolton.

  There was also a letter from Elizabeth for Mary, which the latter seized on with eagerness.

  My lord Herries has told me two things which seem to me very strange. One, that you would not answer before anyone but myself; the other, that without force you would not stir from the place where you are, unless you had license to come to me! Your innocence being such as I hope it is, you have no need to refuse to answer to some noble personage, whom I shall send to you, not to answer judicially, but only to assure me upon it by your answers; not making them to your subjects which would not be considered proper, but sending to lay before me your defense, that I might publish it to the world, after having satisfied myself, which is my principal desire. Then as to the place I have ordained for your honor and safekeeping, I beg you not to give me cause to think all the promises you have made were but as wind, when you sent word to me that you would do whatsoever might seem best to me . . . .

  The letter dropped from Mary’s hand. She knew, without reading further, that she would be obliged to obey the wishes of Elizabeth.

  “It is my intention,” continued Elizabeth, “to keep Lord Herries here till I shall receive an answer on both these points . . . .”

  SO UNTIL SHE LEFT Carlisle she would be deprived of the services of one of her most faithful friends.

  Mary put aside the letter and covered her face with her hands.

  It was two months since she had fled from the battlefield of Langside, so full of hope, certain that she could rely on Elizabeth’s help.

  Now had come that Queen’s orders. From Carlisle to Bolton—from that refuge, whose windows looked on the bonny hills of Scotland, to Bolton to which she had heard Sir Francis Knollys refer as “the highest walled castle I ever did see.”

  Why? What did the future hold for the captive Queen?

  V

  Bolton

  GREAT WERE MARY’S MISGIVINGS when she first saw Bolton Castle. Set in beautiful Wensleydale in the North Riding of Yorkshire, it was indeed a fortress; and she was not surprised that Knollys had remarked that it was the highest walled castle he had ever seen.

  It had been three days ago that, most reluctantly, she had left Carlisle. How happily she would have done so had she been going south to the Court of the Queen of England! But she knew the reason for this move. She was going farther away from Scotland, out of reach of those loyal lairds who were planning how to set up her standard again and bring her back to her own.

  Lord Fleming had returned to Carlisle before she left; Elizabeth had refused to grant him a safe conduct to France, but Mary had been right when she had believed that George Douglas would not be denied one. George was allowed to go, ostensibly to make his home there and to see that heiress to whom he had been affianced. Lord Fleming had now gone back to Scotland, his object being to visit Dumbarton first—that loyal stronghold—and then join forces with Argyle and Huntley.

  Before she left Carlisle Mary sent certain of her followers back to Scotland, among them the energetic Lord Claud Hamilton, for she realized that if she were to be a prisoner in England, these faithful friends could be of greater service to her cause in Scotland where she knew that men were rallying every day to Huntley’s banner.

  So it was a depleted party which set out from Carlisle. Willie Douglas rode near Mary’s litter and threatened to draw that enormous sword if any tried to shift him. Now that George had gone he whispered that he was taking over Geordie’s duties as well as his own, and she had no need to fear as the Douglases were with her.

  She was grateful to Willie, because he never failed to make her smile, and it was so much easier to reconcile herself to her fate when she could do that.

  The journey from Carlisle had taken two days and nights, the first night being spent at Lowther Castle where she had been treated with respect and sympathy—for which she was grateful—by the entire Lowther family; she had spent the next night at Wharton, and the following day reached Bolton Castle having come twenty miles south from Carlisle.

  The castle was built around a great court and, standing as it did on a hill, gave the occupants wonderful views of the surrounding country, which at this time of the year was startlingly beautiful.

  Waiting to greet Mary was Lady Scrope, and this was a great pleasure because Mary had taken a liking to her when they had met at Carlisle; moreover this lady was the sister of the Duke of Norfolk who, during his interview with Mary, had managed to convey to her, amid his gallantries, his desire to help her.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you again,” said Mary.

  Lady Scrope made a deep curtsy and expressed herself honored to have the pleasure of entertaining Her Majesty of Scotland.

  She led the way into the castle which Mary noticed was sparsely furnished; and it was clear to Mary that her hostess was a little concerned for her guest’s comfort.

  Mary tried to set her at ease by telling her how pleased she was to find a friend waiting to greet her.

  Lady Scrope gave her a look which implied that she was gratified to be called such, and Mary’s spirits rose. Friends were of more importance to her than fine tapestries.

  On their way to the apartments which had been prepared for the Queen in the southwest of the building Lady Scrope showed her the great clock, of which the family were very proud, for it not only told the time but also the movements of the sun and moon, and day of the week. She explained also how the chimneys were tunnels in the sides of the walls, thus during the cold weather the chill was taken from the apartments.

  Mary listened with interest and all the time she was thinking: Lady Scrope will be a go-between for myself and the Duke of Norfolk. How sincerely did he me
an those veiled promises to help me, when I saw him at Carlisle?

  THERE WAS MORE FREEDOM to be enjoyed at Bolton Castle; and providing she was surrounded by those whose duty it was to guard her, Mary was able to hunt in that exhilarating countryside. Her appetite increased and it was clear to all that her health had improved since she had come to Bolton.

  English manners, although less courteous than the French, were nevertheless gracious when compared with those she had experienced in Scotland. All those who were in truth her jailors seemed determined to show her that they were not, wishing her to believe that they guarded her solely for her own protection and not to prevent her escaping to Scotland or receiving enemies of their own Queen.

  Sir George Bowes, who had arrived at Carlisle in order to escort her to Bolton, accompanied by a hundred armed horsemen, expressed the greatest sympathy for her and, when he saw how inadequate was the furniture in her apartments, he immediately sent to his own house for bedding and hangings that they might be set up in Bolton for the Queen’s use. Never once did he imply that he was guarding her for the Queen of England and her ministers; and Mary, whose great misfortune was her too trusting nature, could easily forget that she must be continually on her guard against her jailors.

  It was a different matter with Lady Scrope. She was pregnant and, liking to rest often, she would sit with the Queen in her apartments overlooking those glorious hills and dales, and they would talk together; and Margaret Scrope would always seek to lead the conversation to her brother, the Duke of Norfolk.

  “He mentions you constantly when we meet or in his letters,” she told Mary. “He is so anxious that you should be well treated and delighted that you have now come to Bolton.”

  “How pleasant it is to know that I have friends in England,” answered Mary.

  Margaret would bring out the tapestry which Mary loved to work, and as their fingers were busy, so were their tongues.

  “Thomas believes that you should not put too much trust in Secretary Cecil,” Margaret told Mary.