“How dare you?” the queen spat, still struggling to maintain her composure. “And you come here to taunt me. Again. Just as you did after your mother’s death.”
“My mother’s murder, you mean!”
The queen’s face nearly burst as the blood rushed to her cheeks, colouring them as bright a red as her hair had once been. After several moments, and a few deep, soothing breaths, she pursed her lips and folded her hands staunchly in front of her. “What do you want? Why did you come here? To gloat? Another one of your predictions come true?”
“I come to offer my condolences. That is all.” The princess returned to the pillars from whence she had come.
“Wait!” the queen called out, but she was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Three
BOTHWELL CASTLE, OCTOBER, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1587
The progress north was taking far too long. Oh, how the princess dreamed of the conveniences of her past in the future. She loved horses, but day after day all day in the saddle was hard on the back, the legs, and many other parts of the body as well, not to mention the mind. It didn’t help much that it had rained heavily for the past week, making everyone and everything totally drenched and miserable. And, with the temperatures dropping, the rain was turning into sleet, the terrain becoming slick and treacherous.
At her insistence, the group stopped briefly at Bothwell Castle. Not knowing who or what dangers might lurk within its walls, they had camped well away from the edifice, across the River Clyde overlooking the grand ramparts of the medieval castle that had witnessed so much combat over the centuries. The marvellous thirteenth-century donjon, the circular keep tower, proudly stood guard and, after dark, sent deep, thick shadows across the expanse between the castle and the waters of the Clyde.
Jamie did his own sleuthing and was satisfied that all was clear except for minimal staff, so he agreed to escort the princess. She wanted to search for her father’s hidden cache, but she wasn’t sure if it was here or at one of the other castles he had mentioned on her now frequent visits to his prison, her night jumps in time when no one else could monitor her comings and goings. Or so she believed.
A small group of soldiers accompanied Jamie and the princess as they splashed through the waters of the Clyde at a point in the river Jamie deemed safe. They made their way casually to the gates as if on a Royal Progress.
“Who goes?” The call came out from beyond the enclosure once they were within hearing range.
“Princess Mary Elizabeth of Scotland,” Jamie called in response. “Daughter of the late Queen Mary of Scotland and her husband, James Hepburn, fourth Earl of Bothwell and first Duke of Orkney. She is on tour of Scotland, visiting her late father’s estates.”
Some mumbling and grumbles could be heard from beyond the walls separating them. The voice called out again. “We have received no word from the current Lord Bothwell. We are not expecting any visitors at this time. On whose authority do I allow you admittance?”
“On the authority of the Princess Mary Elizabeth of Scotland and her loyal followers,” Jamie responded without hesitation.
More mumblings, and finally the gates swung open. A soldier, well-armed, stepped into the archway to block admittance. “You may enter for a brief visit, but you may not stay.” Looking at the princess, he gave a bow. “You must understand, Princess, that these are difficult times and one can never be too sure who to trust. In another time and place, I would instantly offer you my allegiance, but if the current king, your brother, ever heard, I would probably lose my head.”
“I understand, sir.” The princess nudged Queenie forward. “It is kind of you to allow us inside for a brief visit, as you say. We shall not be staying long. I just want to take a look so I can get a feel of the father I never had the opportunity to meet. Did you know my father, sir?” She flashed him a warm smile, knowing that her interest in the castle’s history would attract some respect. She was right.
“Aye, I did, Princess.” The soldier greeted Mary Elizabeth at the open archway and, taking Queenie’s reigns, led her into the courtyard. “I was but a lad at the time, but I did have the honor of knowing your father. I was a page boy to him here at Bothwell Castle just before he was marked as a traitor. He was kind to me, kind to all his people. A good man.”
He helped Mary Elizabeth dismount. “Come inside out of the cold. I shall have the cook bring something warm from the kitchen to take away the chill. You may sit in his private study, if you like, and look at some of his books and other treasures which have been left untouched by the new Lord. In fact, no one has been here in quite some time. It is as if this castle has been forgotten.”
They entered a large hall, garnered with various displays of armor. Many were quite old, obviously having witnessed some battles, given the dents and scratches barely hidden by the minor repairs done before they were put on display. It was a somewhat daunting entryway, masculine and rather unnerving. The soldier led Mary Elizabeth through the hall and down a corridor to a large, elaborately carved panel door that led into a spacious room, covered wall-to-wall with bookshelves full of books and other memorabilia. There was a fire in the hearth, surprisingly since the house was currently vacant except for some staff.
Noticing the princess’s surprise at the fire, the soldier quickly explained. “It is the nicest room in the castle. I have to admit I like to sit here whenever I am not required elsewhere. I keep the hearth warm for that purpose. And a good thing I did today, since you are now here.”
Mary Elizabeth nodded reassuringly in response. Jamie came up behind her, having followed her from a distance after he had seen to the care of the horses. “Perhaps the princess could have some time alone while she studies her father’s treasures?” He used the word treasures reluctantly, not knowing what other word would sum up their current interest in the castle. The soldier nodded, gave the princess a short bow, and left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar to monitor them. Or spy. Whichever way one perceived his action.
“Do you think it is in this room?” the princess asked. She did a pirouette, circling around slowly, her feet remaining rooted in one spot. There was so much to take in. For a sixteenth century Scottish Lord, her father certainly had a large collection of books, presumably all hand printed, perhaps some even hand coloured. It was truly remarkable, considering the printing press had only been developed in the last century or so and books were still, at this point in time, considered something of a rarity. And to see a room full of books? This was truly amazing.
She walked over to the shelf closest to her and studied the spines. “Pure leather,” she noted, her voice little more than a whisper. She continued to note her observations out loud. “There are also some embroidered canvas bindings, finely stitched, others bound in velvet, the pile worn in some places more than in others. And in pristine condition. The elitist presentations of the gospels in treasure binding, absolutely exquisite!” Many of the titles were in Latin, some in French, and a few in old English.
“Shakespeare’s Macbeth.” Mary Elizabeth gingerly fingered the slim collection of papers sewn together. She cautiously opened the top cover page and let out a slight gasp. “It’s autographed by the Bard himself! My father must have met him. But how? It cannot be.” She glanced over her shoulder, noticing Jamie standing by the grand desk in the corner, pulling open cubbyholes and looking for a secret latch, if there was one.
He stopped and gazed up at the princess. “What do you mean it cannot be? Why not?”
“Because, Jamie.” The princess shook her head and returned to study the papers that lay on the shelf before her. As she flipped through the pages of the play she had studied at great length in high school, she noticed notations here and there, highlighting certain passages. “Because, Jamie,” she repeated before continuing, “this is 1587. Macbeth was first performed in 1606, and Shakespeare’s plays were not published until after his death.”
Jamie merely shrugged. “Perhaps our noble Bard was a time traveller?”
He shrugged again. “Not worth considering at the moment. We have limited time to search this room before our host returns. Keep it, if you must. Was it personally autographed to your father?”
“Yes,” she replied. “It reads: To James Hepburn, an honorable Lord of the north, whose assistance on this production I greatly appreciate. Shakespeare must have consulted with my father while he was writing this play. I had not realised my father was a passionate Scottish historian. This is amazing.”
“Slip it into the pouch you always carry, along with your mother’s treasure box,” Jamie insisted, “before our brief solitude in this space is interrupted.”
Mary Elizabeth nodded and did as he suggested. It was not stealing, considering by rights it should be hers anyway. It was interesting, though, and demanded further study. In the meantime, they had to search as much as they could to determine if the treasure was here or if there were any clues.
“In here, my Lords,” the soldier’s voice boomed from the grand entry hall beyond the doors.
The princess gasped. “Someone comes.”
“Behind the desk.” Jamie motioned quickly. “Crouch down and keep quiet. Let us stay just long enough to see what threat these Lords present.”
“You mean if they are Lords.” Mary Elizabeth scurried behind the desk and crouched down with Jamie just as the door banged open and they heard heavy footsteps marching forward.
“Where are they?” The voice was English, almost too English, too American English, to be from this era. “You said they were here. What have you done with them? Where have you hidden them?”
“They were here just moments ago.” The soldier gasped as if something had tightened around his throat, constricting his airway. “I swear.” The final words were barely sputtered, followed by intense gasps and then a thud as something heavy hit the floor.
“Search the castle.” That was the English voice again. “They could not have gone far.”
“Unless they jumped time again.” Another proper English voice.
“If they have, we shall be right behind them. We have to capture the prize before she makes further contact with the people of this era and totally disrupts the timeline. Now go. I shall look here.”
Footsteps came closer. “I know you are in here, Princess, if that is what you wish to be called. Time to come out and face reality. The future needs you back in your appropriate space and time. Come along, Princess. Do not make this difficult.”
Jamie squeezed her hand. She nodded in understanding. As the footsteps stopped just on the other side of the desk, the two made their jump into the future, finding themselves in Gran’s house just before the escape that had left the house, and its occupants, in a rubble of exploded bricks and mortar. They barely heard the, “I’m right behind you,” when they jumped again, back in time, as the house exploded with their pursuant inside.
They found themselves outside the gates of Bothwell Castle. Jamie whistled and the sound of horses galloping toward them brought a sigh of relief when Mary Elizabeth recognised Queenie and Jamie’s horse.
“We must ride hard, Princess,” Jamie ordered, helping Mary Elizabeth mount Queenie before jumping onto his horse. “The others will catch up at the next safe house. Come.” He nudged his horse forward, to the north. “Let us ride and ride hard.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
RICHMOND PALACE, MARCH TWENTY-FOURTH, YEAR OF OUR LORD, 1603
“What do you want?” The voice was little more than a croak, emitted by the prone figure lying recumbent, almost lifeless, in the canopied bed. The figure’s head, which was all that showed above the long stretch of coverings, was bald, what little hair remained blanched white. The skin stretched a wrinkled line across the brow. It appeared brittle, thin, fragile, as did the figure who lay there, the chest barely rising periodically to indicate there was some life left, but not much.
Mary Elizabeth was startled by the voice. She hadn’t expected to converse with her cousin, not in this state, not so near the end of her life, and certainly not without some other person present, a priest or one of her ladies. The queen was dying and she was all alone. It was a tragic way to go, isolated and frightened by what lay on the other side.
The princess knelt beside the bed and gently took the queen’s nearest hand in her own. It felt so cold, so delicate. These were not the hands of the all-powerful Queen of England, the woman who only had to raise her hand to have others bow in homage or quiver with fear. She had pointed the hand the princess now held accusingly, calling Mary Elizabeth a witch. And she had accepted the gift with the same hand, the gift the princess had presented her in front of the entire court, her mother’s rosary beads and the bloodied gloves that Queen Mary of Scotland had worn to her execution. Strong hands, now weakened by age and disease. Perhaps it was better to die young and become a legend, than to wither away like this into nothing.
“Where is everyone?” Mary Elizabeth had to ask. “Where are your ladies? Your priest? Your members of the council? Should they not be here?”
“To do what? Watch me die?” The queen let out a small cough, ragged and crusty. “I am dying, you know. It is my time. I would rather be alone. We are all alone, after all. We come into this world alone and we leave it alone.”
The princess shook her head, wanting to disbelieve what she knew was a fact. She had known this would be the day the Queen of England died. Mary Elizabeth remembered well her studies in history, studies done in the twentieth and twenty-first century, studies that provided these important dates throughout all time. She also remembered something she had read back in the future, about how the queen had worn lead-infested cosmetics which had ultimately made her ill for a long period of time before they killed her. She glanced at her cousin. “It must be the powder you have used for so many years,” the princess whispered ever so softly. “It has poisoned your body.”
A glimmer of a smile appeared on the tired face, the eyes lifting ever so slightly to take in the kneeling figure beside her bed. “But oh! That powder made me look so young and pure and beautiful. I was a beautiful queen, was I not?”
“Aye!” Mary Elizabeth met her cousin’s gaze. She flashed a smile, trying to look compassionate for a woman who had stolen so much from her. The Queen of England had stolen her mother and her birthright, and now she was the one who lay helpless, her humanity bared for all to see. But there was no one here but herself: the Queen of England and the Princess of Scotland, accused of being witch and hunted for years, all by this sad figure lying on the bed.
Mary Elizabeth knew that the last few years had been difficult. In fact, the queen’s problems could well be traced back to that fateful day when her orders were carried out and the Queen of Scotland was executed for a treason she did not commit. Then there had been the Spanish Armada which led to her beloved Robbie’s death, and the years of famine that followed hadn't helped much. The people blamed Queen Elizabeth for all their troubles. She was no longer their beloved Queen Bess.
Sensing the direction of the princess’s thoughts, the queen gave a slight nod. “They will soon forget me and rejoice with the new king, your brother.” Noticing the startled light in the younger woman’s eyes, she quickly added, “Yes, I am beginning to accept your claim. You are your mother’s daughter in so many ways. You are a princess of Scotland and a cousin of mine.”
“If only you had accepted me sooner,” the princess expressed her regret. “And when James comes to accept his crown, what then? What will happen to Scotland?”
The queen gave a gentle squeeze with the hand Mary Elizabeth held. “I am sure you will manage somehow. You must make things right for your country. I know you are a resourceful woman and I am sure you will think of something. I leave my crown to your brother and your fate to you. I am sure you will make a great queen, as I did once. I have ruled my country well for forty-five of my seventy years and I know you will as well. After all, we are cousins. It is in our blood.”
&n
bsp; The room was dark and the embers in the hearth were fading, giving off little light and even less warmth. Mary Elizabeth stayed with the queen until she drew her last breath. She would not leave her alone. No one should die alone.
When the hand she held went limp and the chest stopped rising she stood up and reached across the bed to gently close her cousin’s eyes.
“You ruled well, dear cousin. You were a great queen, and that is how history will remember you.” Standing up straight, she marched to the door of the queen’s private chambers. Opening it, she stood in the passageway and roused those who slumbered in the adjoining room, speaking in a clear, strong voice. “The Queen of England, Elizabeth, last of the Tudor line, is dead. Long live King James VI of Scotland, soon to be King James I of England and Ireland. And long live Queen Mary Elizabeth of Scotland. Long live the King and the Queen!”
As the reclining figures jumped to attention and repeated Mary Elizabeth’s accolades, the soon-to-be queen vanished.
Chapter Thirty-Five
KIRKWALL CASTLE, ORKNEY ISLANDS, MAY, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1603
She was feeling particularly lonely, restless. The visit with her cousin the previous night hadn’t helped her mood. It was rather sad to see such a great queen die alone and not as well loved as she had been earlier in her reign. And, of course, the weather didn’t help. Rain, rain, and more rain. And if it wasn’t raining, it was snowing, or worse, the wet sleet they called freezing rain back in her childhood years in Toronto. It didn’t bode well for travel and there would definitely be no boats venturing out from the mainland in this weather.
Jamie had insisted they use the Orkney Islands as a place of refuge until Queen Elizabeth died and passed on her crown to King James VI of Scotland. The Orkney’s were far enough north and inaccessible enough to serve as a safe haven until such time as she could raise her army and venture south again. Gran had chosen to wait out the time in Toronto, in the future of course, assuring Mary Elizabeth that she would return in time to accompany her to claim the throne. Lady Mary Catherine had gone with Gran. Neither one had wanted to age too quickly in the Orkney’s while they waited. Even Jamie had left her periodically, arguing it would be wise for him to check out the political climate in the south in order to ensure her safety.
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