Queen Mary's Daughter

by Emily-Jane Hills Orford

  “But what about my brother, King James?”

  “Our Lady of Questions.” Jamie chuckled, a deep robust, throaty sound. “Or should I say Princess of Questions?”

  “And you are not the regent, are you?” Mary Elizabeth stared at him, stunned, the revelation blatantly staring her in the face. “What I do not know is who you are.”

  “You are right, princess.” Jamie studied the young woman fondly, sending warm blush marks up her cheeks. “I am not the regent, James Stuart, Earl of Moray. I am his nephew, James Stuart, Earl of Moray, partially by inheritance, but also for my devoted service to your half-brother the king. A service I have decided to sever in the future, but will remain in active duty in the past.”

  “So we are related,” Mary Elizabeth surmised. “But you are not my uncle.”

  “No, I am not your uncle, and we are not closely related,” Jamie tried to explain. “My father was your uncle, the regent’s half-brother. You will recall that your grandfather liked to play around, so to speak.”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” Mary Elizabeth waved her hand in front of her face as if to swish away an annoying insect. “I get the connection. Spare me the sordid details, please.” She placed her hands on her hips and stared bluntly at her distant cousin. “And does he know that you are fighting for me instead of for him?” Mary Elizabeth studied the man they had assumed was the former Regent of Scotland. “Does he know that you fight for his downfall?”

  “You are referring to your brother, I presume.” The princess nodded. “Well, I am not exactly fighting for his downfall.” Jamie elaborated.

  Gran took this opportunity to intervene. “We will not overturn King James VI. All we plan to do is make sure that when he accepts the crown of England, he leaves Scotland to you. That way Scotland will remain an independent country and free from the English tyranny that followed in the next century and beyond.”

  They shared a quick breakfast of leftover bread, hard from sitting uncovered on the table overnight and regrettably full of maggots. Mary Elizabeth tried not to make a face as she copied the others when they tapped their chunks on the table surface and watched the maggots drop on the table and slither away. She ate a few bits and gave up, her stomach roiling from the notion of sharing her meal with slimy bugs. She passed her share to one of the boys, who quite happily accepted another morsel.

  Jamie ushered Mr. Langley and the boys outside as the sun approached its morning summit. Mrs. Langley busied herself, stacking together some essentials to take along. Mrs. D had excused herself to prepare the bundles of clothing and other effects they had stashed in the back room. Mary Elizabeth followed her grandmother to retrieve the weapons and her mother’s treasured box before joining her outside in the bright sunshine.

  Alone as they would ever be, Mary Elizabeth shared her experiences in dreamland. “I had a dream last night,” she said.

  “I thought you might have.” Gran took the young woman’s hand in hers and led her across the snow, away from the house. “Were you with your father?”

  “Aye!” Mary Elizabeth was pleased with herself for taking up the familiar Scottish colloquial word of agreement. “I was just a little girl. Eleven.”

  “That is about right.” Gran nodded. “It was just before your father died. He rotted in that prison. So sad. But he was happy, I believe, knowing that you lived and that you would one day be the ruler he had hoped your mother would be. It is your destiny, my child.”

  They both responded to the sound of Jamie’s voice calling them back. The horses were saddled and ready to go. There was a small cart loaded with bundles of clothing, personal effects, food, and cooking implements. It would appear they were ready to leave, and it was imperative they separate themselves from this cottage as much as they could as quickly as possible.

  “How long will it take us to reach Northumberland?” the princess asked as Jamie helped her mount Queenie.

  “Depends on the weather and the conditions and how many pursuers pick up our trail,” Jamie answered. “If all goes well, perhaps just under two weeks.”

  “Two weeks!” Mary Elizabeth exclaimed. “And then I just have to turn around and make my way back south to confront my cousin. Much too long. Why can we not just go south first?”

  “Because your army awaits you in Northumberland,” Jamie explained patiently. “And you will never be safe in England without an army at your back.”

  Settled in the saddle, Mary Elizabeth spread her skirts around her legs to cover them. She felt thankful for the quilted petticoats underneath. Not only were they warm, but they would certainly provide some protection for her legs, keeping them from rubbing too vigorously directly against the saddle leather.

  Mrs. D came over to stand beside her. She handed Mary Elizabeth a long cloak lined with fur. “This should keep you warm and appropriately covered.” Mary Elizabeth accepted it and wrapped it over her shoulders and Mrs. D helped drape the length over the horse’s flanks.

  Satisfied with the presentation, the older woman studied the princess intently. “Now you must keep the hood over your hair and the cloak wrapped around you and draped as I have done. And one last thing. You must no longer refer to me as Mrs. D. That was the name I adopted for the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. As your grandmother’s personal maid and close friend and confident, I was well revered in the sixteenth century as Lady Mary Catherine de Guise. I am your grandmother’s cousin, another of the Guise clan.”

  “And another Mary. My Lady Mary Catherine de Guise.” Mary Elizabeth tilted her head slightly in acknowledgement and the Lady Mary Catherine honored her with a swift curtsy.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  STIRLING CASTLE, SUMMER, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1587

  “Your Majesty.” The mud-splattered messenger sank to one knee and bowed his head. “A message from the borders, your Majesty.” He stood up and stepped forward, just enough to pass over the missive to George Gordon, sixth Earl of Huntley and Captain of the king’s guard. The captain then stepped up on the raised dais to give it to the king.

  “Your Majesty.” He dipped a bow and returned to his position at the bottom of the steps. He may be the king’s closest confident, and, as whispers in the court suggested, the king’s lover, but he knew it was important to keep up appearances in public.

  King James held the sealed note in his hand, pondering its importance. He still had a long list of complaints to hear from petitioners and he was already tired of sitting on his thinly cushioned throne. It was a bright, sunny day outside, one of the few nice days they had enjoyed this summer, and he was itching to take his new stallion for a run, perhaps even do some hunting. He wasn’t often at Stirling Castle, not now that he was a king in his own right and not the boy king in waiting. He had grown up in the confines of Stirling Castle and, although it had been a sheltered and guarded upbringing, he did harbor some fond memories of the place. It was home, his childhood home. He wanted to get out on the grounds and enjoy outdoor pursuits while the weather held, but duty first.

  With a deep sigh, he slid his finger under the seal and opened the missive. After a quick glance, he tossed it to the ground and, standing up, stomped on it with contempt.

  “What is it, your Majesty?” George, one of the few people that King James truly trusted, hustled forward and knelt to retrieve the crumbled note before it was totally destroyed.

  “Read it if you must,” the king snapped. “She is at the border. In Northumberland.”

  “Who, your Majesty?” The Vice-Chamberlain came to stand beside George, looking over his shoulder to get a glance at the missive in George’s hand. The Vice-Chamberlain was Alexander Lindsay, Lord Spynie, whom the king had nicknamed "Sandie". Another one of the royal favorites. He watched with concern as panic stretched across the captain’s face.

  “Who do you think, George? And you Sandie?” The king veered abruptly towards his friends, anger searing his gaze. “The one who claims to be my sister. The one who claims to be Princess Mary Elizabeth, second in
line to the throne of Scotland. The nerve!”

  “Is it possible?” George asked.

  “No! It cannot be!” The king stormed back and forth in front of his throne, the long line of petitioners forgotten. “They say the baby died at birth. But then, they also said the baby was a boy.”

  “Could there have been two?” Francis Stuart Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, a title reassigned after Queen Mary’s Lord Bothwell died in prison, was another special person. He appeared with the trio that followed the king’s pacing. “Could your mother have given birth to twins?”

  “But why was there no record?” The king continued to storm, his arms flying in all directions as he tried to punctuate his words. “And where has she been all these years? And now she reappears just as I hear the news that my mother has been beheaded at Fotheringay. It just does not make any sense. None whatsoever.”

  George studied the missive, reading it carefully. He hesitated to repeat what he read. “They say she looks like you mother.”

  “That does not mean she is my sister,” King James roared. He waved to the guards by the door. “Send the rest of the petitioners away. I will see no one else this morning. I have more important matters to deal with.” Turning back to his three special friends, he added, “You know how I have been plagued with kidnappings all through my childhood, and even now. People want to control me. To control my country through me. This is just another plot.” He waved his hand dramatically at the missive still in George’s hand. “It has to be. She cannot be my sister, can she? And even if she is, what is it she wants from me?”

  “She wants to take your throne,” Sandie admitted. “It is obvious. She thinks she can do better than you.”

  “Better than me? The most learned monarch in all of Christendom?” James wiped away the notion as if it spun through the air. It was true. King James VI had taken great pains to insure his court was full of knowledgeable and creative people. Brilliance and talent were the calling cards to acceptance in Scotland’s royal court. He surrounded himself with wisdom and beauty and would settle for nothing less than the best. “No! There is no one better than me to rule this land. I am the King of Scotland. It is my divine right to rule.”

  “But if you were to accept her as your sister,” George pointed out. “She would be next in line to the throne. She would be your heir.”

  “I must marry. I must have children. That will block her line of succession.”

  “So you think she is your sister?” Francis asked, a note of surprise in his voice.

  “I do not know,” the king said sadly. “I do not know. As much as I would like to believe I have a loving sibling and we could be reunited? It is only wishful thinking, I am sure. I do not know what to think.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  GREENWICH CASTLE, SUMMER, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1587

  “What is it now, Robbie?” She stood at the paned window of her private chambers looking out at the long expanse of green, glistening in the rain that didn’t want to let up. Even though it was no longer winter, or even spring for that matter, the cold and rain continued unabated. It was as if she was being punished. Was she, she wondered. She had done some horrible things. She hadn’t meant for her cousin to die. One minute she understood and agreed with the necessity, and the next she felt honor-bound to respect her family. Her grandfather, and even her father, had been ruthless and brutal in their executions. She didn’t want to be remembered for that. But then she had signed a document and before she could rescind it, the deed had been done. And now she must suffer.

  Her mother had once stood at these windows, probably wondering her fate. Her father had been a volatile king with great mood changes, especially when it came to women. And this notion he nurtured about male dominance on the throne and always needing a male heir? Rubbish. She was and would always be remembered as a great queen, unlike her weakling brother, Edward, who had only lived a few years as king, and a child king at that.

  She, Elizabeth, had watched and observed and waited. She had learned how to survive and how to manipulate and now in so many ways she was her father all over again, only stronger because she never allowed her weaknesses to rule her. And that was what Robbie was, or at least had the potential to be; one of her weaknesses.

  “Robbie.” Her eyes moved away from the window and gazed at her one and only true love, the man who would do anything for her, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. He had asked her to marry him countless times. She had almost accepted on several occasions, but duty interfered. She knew her place, and it did not include a lord of the realm at her side. Either she married a foreign prince, all of whom she had rejected with disgust, or she remained single and ruled on the throne by herself. She felt stronger this way. She was stronger.

  “What is it, Robbie?” she asked again, looking at the old man that now stood just inside her private chambers. No other man was allowed in this private sanctum, but Robert was special. Robbie. He would always be Robbie to her, even though he was older than she, much older, and he hobbled around, obviously in considerable pain. Her father had suffered similarly in his later years, but, like Robbie, he never gave up his power. “You look worried.”

  “I am, Your Majesty.” He gave an awkward bow and walked toward his queen. “Bessie, my dearest.” He only used the affectionate personal names when they were alone. He wouldn’t dare call her Bessie in public. “She comes. And she comes with a mighty army at her back and vengeance in her heart.”

  “So it is true? My cousin has another child, a girl, one who we thought died at birth. What do they call her?”

  “Princess Mary Elizabeth.” Robbie handed over the missive.

  Queen Elizabeth I, not always liked, though sometimes fondly called Queen Bess, slid her finger under the seal and opened the document. She read it quickly and tossed it on the floor, trampling it with her foot as she stomped toward the warm hearth and back to the grey back-lit windows. She waved at her lover. “Sit before you fall down. How did you get to be so old?”

  She only talked with that sharp edge of cruelty when she was distressed and angry. Although she was angry now, she knew Robbie understood because he always did. It was painful to watch him move, to watch him, as she did now, as he walked over to the hearth and lowered himself into a cushioned chair, raising one leg and resting it on a footstool, allowing the warmth to seep into his bones. She had to admit that he was getting old. They both were, but Robbie, more than she, demonstrated every one of his years and then some.

  He didn’t answer the queen’s question. He didn’t have to. She was on a rampage and all he could do was sit by and hear her out.

  “She wants to meet with me,” the queen screamed at Robbie as if it were all his doing. “No! She demands to meet with me! How dare she? How dare this little mite claiming to be Queen Mary’s daughter demand to meet with the mightiest ruler of all time? I do not have to bow to her whims. I do not have to meet her demands. I do not have to meet her. Did I ever agree to meet her mother? If that was her mother. No! And I shall not meet her either. Nor her older brother, the King of Scotland. WHO DOES SHE THINK SHE IS?”

  The storm of words continued for some time, reiterating the same anger over and over again. “I will not, Robbie. I will not. She is nothing and I will give her nothing!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  NORTHERN ENGLAND, SUMMER, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1587

  “I can hear them all in my head, in my dreams and when I am awake.” Mary Elizabeth allowed her horse to keep pace with Gran’s. “They are not happy, and they are stunned into disbelief and even anger.”

  “Who?” Gran asked, though she must have known.

  “My brother and my cousin, the King of Scotland and the Queen of England.” Mary Elizabeth let out an exasperated sigh. “I feel like I am a fly on the wall in their private chambers, in their throne rooms. Any time they discuss me, I am there. I do not understand it.”

  “But you are better prepared by the experience.” Gran pointed out the obvious. “Y
ou know what to expect. That is more than some people can say when they finally meet a ruling monarch.”

  The group had plunged through the wintery wonderland into Northumberland, snow falling daily to cover their tracks. An army had been standing by, ready to march, growing in numbers by the day. And now, refreshed from a few hot baths and some new clothes, Mary Elizabeth was content to finally go south. She had a task to do. She insisted on meeting with her cousin face to face. If an audience wasn’t granted, then Mary Elizabeth knew of a few ways to catch the queen by surprise and unannounced. If the princess thought about it more thoroughly, she had to admit that the element of surprise had a spark of justice, especially considering the special gift she carried for her cousin.

  There had been missives waiting for her at Alnwick Castle, not from her brother and certainly not from her cousin. Missives from all across the north of England and well into the Scottish Highlands. The lords of the land were pledging their allegiance to her as heir to the Scottish throne. She smiled at the thought. Her, a princess. It didn’t feel that long ago that she was a mere book editor in a big publishing house in Toronto, plunging daily through the dredges of poor writing to find that one true treasure. Now she was searching for another kind of treasure, one that would make her a person to be reckoned with, a person of interest in the history of Scotland, as well as England and the world. A little mind boggling.

  She had asked her grandmother how she would finance her campaign, how she would pay her soldiers, and there were a lot of them. At least a thousand or more, all highly trained and fully armed, some mounted, some on foot. Only a hundred of the mounted soldiers had followed them on their journey south. The rest had stayed to guard the northern borders and await further orders. Her campaign was massive in proportions but she was not easily fooled into thinking it wouldn’t come at a price. Mary Elizabeth couldn’t bear the thought of starting out her reign with a huge debt, only to have to tax her loyal subjects to pay for it later. They would pay, she was sure of that. Begrudgingly though, and they would probably hate her forever for taking away the basics they needed just to survive. She would not, she had declared to herself countless times, be a ruler who took advantage of her people. That was not the purpose of her claim to the Scottish throne. She wished to rule with integrity and genuine concern for the good of her people, not the good of her personal coffers.