Maitland countered crisply: “And there would have been a throne vacant for you, so what would it have mattered?”
“I am ready to take the throne if occasion arise, but I would not have it done like that. Why could not the fellow have been taken from his lodgings?”
“They would have had it so. Even fanatics like Patrick Ruthven would not have had it in the Queen’s presence, but it was the King, he willed it. He wanted her shamed.”
“But it could have been so easily done without involving her at all,” said Moray. “I’d like to punish him for that. I’ll never forgive him for that.”
“Indeed, I am not sure of him. He drinks very heavilv and his father encourages his arrogance. Plainly, he is a fool.”
“To-night,” said Moray, “in an hour or so, when we can go quietly, we will wait upon him in his chamber and tell him our mind, our terms.”
*
The King was alone in his room that night with John Taylor, his chamber-boy, with whom he played cards to distract himself. The relief he had felt at the removal of David had gradually changed into apprehension for the future. He did not like the instant appearance of Moray, although it had been part of the bargain that he should call him and his friends from banishment. The presence of the dark, silent man directing him and his fortunes, disturbed the young man.
Then, he had been greatly moved by the Queen’s tears and protestations and half-induced to believe that after all there had been nothing but a flirtation with David. Then again, his slowly moving mind would remember all the things found in the Italian’s room.
Where had he got all those furs and rich cloths? Where had he obtained two thousand pounds in gold while he, the King, was straitened in his revenues and often had not enough to pay his servants? The Queen would not make him any allowance; she had had an iron stamp prepared so that his signature could be put on papers without his reading them. She had taken his name off the coinage, she had ignored, insulted, and humiliated him in every way, meanwhile David the servant had lived like a king himself.
Henry Stewart threw down the cards, stuck his thumbs in his belt and leant back in his chair while his chamber-boy waited expectantly to snuff the tall, scented candles.
Well, David was finished. The young King tried to still his jealousies, his doubts with that: and the Queen had humbled herself to him! She had been meek and gentle as that night at Stirling, she had sent him the little red ring, she had vowed that she would be an honest and faithful wife, she had sworn that the child was his …
“Sir,” whispered John Taylor, leaning across the table, “There is a tapping at the privy door.”
“Spies?” Henry Darnley moved suddenly and listened. “I think it is only a mouse or a rat.” He put his hand on the weapon at his waist, for he lived in continual fear.
John Taylor went to the door of the newel stair up which last night the murderers had ascended, and drew the bolts. The King rose and stood on guard.
“Madame,” whispered John Taylor, and opened the door wide.
It was the Queen who entered. She wore a horseman’s cloak that came to her feet and her hair was gathered into a round cap without a feather.
“You said I never came to you, sir,” she murmured, “well, I have come to you to-night. See, here I am.” She smiled faintly. “I cannot now wear a page’s dress, but I am well disguised.”
He set a chair for her and stared at her. She seemed so strange, different from any aspect of her he had known before as she loosened the cloak about her neck and looked up at him with appealing eyes.
“You and I must understand each other, my husband. We are in great peril.”
“I?” he asked stupidly, “I?”
“Moray is master,” she reminded him, “you have been nothing but his tool. Henry, you are only the marionette, my brother pulls one string and Maitland the other, and you jerk your legs and arms.”
“It is not true,” he cried. “You would set me down and shame me. What I did I did.”
“Did you do it?” she asked, “No, I think not. You are a gentleman and you love me a little — or did once, and I do not think that you ordered those men to murder that poor wretch in front of me who am expecting your child.”
He stood silent, ashamed, wishing now he had not done the thing or done it in another way, and full of mistrust of Moray and Maitland whom he had always hated.
“Do you think,” she asked softly, “that my brother would ever be your friend? It was because of my marriage with you that I quarrelled with him, and Maitland followed him, and Morton is his right-hand man and he is hand-in-glove with Patrick Ruthven, and Lindsay is his brother-in-law. All this is his design and you have but been his cat’s-paw if you did this.”
“It is not true,” he replied. “I have not done their will.”
“Then you are not guilty of this cruel murder?”
“No!” he said, wishing to shine in her eyes. “No! Although certainly I know the rascals who—”
“Know them no more,” she said, “for David is dead. Gone, like a puffed-out candle. But I am left to be saved, I and the child.” As he stared at her she added: “We are prisoners, you and I, Harry. It is only because they are so sure of you that I was able to come down to your room. Every other way is guarded.”
“Hush!” said the chamber-boy. “Oh, madame and my lord, there is someone talking at the entrance to the audience chamber where the Antony Standens keep watch.” The Queen, quick and soft, said instantly:
“It is someone from Moray. Be careful, for I can guess all they want to say to you. They come to warn you, perhaps to threaten. Go to them now, then return to me, return here, my love. Say nothing. Remember, I am concealed.”
He stared at her, bewildered by her swiftness, alarmed by what she said, which he had an inkling was true. He sent the chamber-boy to find out who was this late visitor, and when John Taylor returned he said that Moray and Sir William Maitland begged a few words with the King’s Grace.
The Queen smiled in sad triumph. This served her purpose very well. She was seldom lucky, but this was a fortunate chance. She looked at the little watch which hung at her waist. There was plenty of time!
“Return to me as quickly as you can,” she said affectionately and with confidence, as if she and her husband were and always had been firm allies.
He was moved by her grace, her tired beauty, her trust in him, and encouraged, he went into the Chamber of Presence where the Antony Standens had lighted more candles and faced Lord Moray and Sir William Maitland, who greeted him in a casual and pleasant fashion.
As he told them roughly to be seated with a curtness that covered his uneasiness, his hatred and suspicion of them increased. He knew that he was slow-witted, that other men used this for their advantage. He was aware that he had no head for intrigue and was always outwitted. He hated these two who had tried from the first to prevent him from marrying the Queen. They, he was sure, were responsible for the fact that he could get no revenues settled on him, and though they had now promised him the Crown Matrimonial he did not believe that they would give it to him.
He respected, though half-consciously, his wife’s intelligence, and her warnings rang in his ears as he listened to Moray, who spoke quite directly, without troubling to use much graciousness or tact, for, to his former dislike of the youth was a revulsion added by the manner of the Italian’s death.
“Sir William Maitland and I want to know from your own lips how we stand. You have aspired to the Crown Matrimonial and it has been promised to you. One who offended the dignity of all of us has been removed, but your mind as to the future is not clear to us.”
“Why should I make it so?” demanded Henry Stewart, thrusting his hands into his belt and standing defiant and insolent before them.
“Because, sir, without us you are nothing,” replied Moray smiling, “and with us you might become King indeed.”
“Why do you come here so late and what do you demand of me?”
“We come lat
e, sire,” put in Sir William Maitland with his pleasant smile, “because recently events are hurried. We must have a settled policy.”
“Damn all your policies I—” said Henry Stewart, “I have done what I have done.”
“I have a kingdom to govern,” said Moray.
“You! That sounds to me rebel’s talk.”
“It matters little what it sounds to Your Grace. What we must know is, will you acquiesce in our policies? Will you reinstate our friends in their estates and honours? Will you protect the true Church and curb the Papists?”
“Will I, in short, be subservient to you in all you suggest?”
“That was my meaning,” said Moray. “Look you, sir, in the Italian’s room were found packets of letters addressed to foreigners, and they were sent to their destination un-looked-upon, untampered with, but that correspondence is at an end. I stand for an alliance with England. You, as the King, must support me.”
“And what of the Queen?” asked Henry Stewart pointedly.
“The Queen, sir, is your wife and you must see that she is a submissive one.”
Moray spoke in an expressionless tone which seemed to the young man who listened to be full of malice.
The Queen then was right. These men only wanted to use him, to fool him. He was not fitted for kingship and they knew it. They wished to make him a figurehead. To try them further he asked:
“And what do I get for my obedience? The name of King, a pension, and leave to play my games in peace?”
“Sir,” smiled Sir William Maitland, “that is very neatly put.”
The young man whitened with fury to think that these two did not trouble to disguise their disdain.
“If I should go my own way and defy you both?” he asked, bluntly.
Moray did not reply except by a scarcely perceptible lift of the shoulders. But Sir William Maitland said:
“Sir, what would happen could scarcely be put into words, but if Your Grace should take the headlong course, why, he who gallops in the dark will soon fall.”
“Warned and threatened!” said Henry Stewart grimly. “Well, gentlemen, no doubt I shall have the good sense to take your advice.”
He stood staring and smiling until they had taken their leave and the Antony Standens had closed the door on them. Then he went back into the bedchamber where the Queen waited.
*
During this interview in the outer room the Queen had sat with her watch in her hand, staring at the slow-moving hands. Everything depended upon him. If she could not win him over she was quite lost. She could see no hope anywhere.
When he returned to her she looked up from the watch and saw at once by his face that she had won. She drew a great breath and began, before he could speak, to go over her plans.
“So, you have got rid of them. They came to spy but they never guessed that I was here. In half an hour’s time Arthur Erskine will be with horses beyond the church and we can escape, you and I. We should be at Dunbar to-night and from there we could call up the country. I had twelve thousand men before and more now perhaps, and we’ll send them over the Border again, Harry.”
“How will you manage this?” he asked. She had so much to bear, he thought. Truly some magic about her made her impossible to resist. He felt it as strongly now in a moment of danger and distress, as he had felt it when she had leaned to him from between the curtains of the bed at Stirling.
She told him simply of her trick with the midwife and Lady Reres and a boy (she did not name David’s brother), who had taken a message to Bothwell and Huntly.
“Those two!” His quick jealousy flared up; she had favoured Bothwell far too much lately.
“Those two. There is no other beside Lord Bothwell who would dare to do this,” she said. “He has arranged all, sent me a message, he says I can rely on him. He saved my mother more than once. Well, what are you going to do — send your chamberman after Moray and betray me? Then I shall die — I and the child will die, Harry, and where will you be among these men who hate you?”
He stood hesitating, miserable.
“Do you want me to betray them all?” he asked. “What danger shall I stand in if I do?”
“Betray!” She snatched at the word. “But if you did not organize this murder, whom have you to betray? You too have been wronged and outraged in my person. Come with me” — she took his hand boldly — “and I will make you a king indeed, not the puppet of these plotters.”
Still he hesitated. Either way he was reluctant to move. He was bewildered, confused and exhausted. He longed to be free of Moray and Maitland, to play on them a trick like this would please him. But Bothwell — the worst man in Scotland. The Queen said quickly, watching his face:
“Lord Bothwell loves his young wife whom I gave him awhile ago, and it is for her sake that he takes pity on a woman.”
This suggestion calmed the young man. Jane Gordon was twenty years old, a few weeks married. Perhaps it was stupid to be jealous of Bothwell.
“Why do you hesitate?” urged the Queen, hardly able to keep the agony out of her voice. “We cannot delay much longer, the horses will be there, it must be done now, now!”
“I am confused, I don’t know which way to turn nor what to think. If only I could trust you!”
“What would make it clear to you, Harry? What would convince you?”
“If I thought you loved me”
She rose and put her arms round his neck without hesitation, and with what seemed genuine passion, said:
“I do love you, Harry, that’s why I want to help you escape from those who hate us both. Don’t you understand?”
He put his arms around her and with a sigh caressed her.
“Well, then, I will come with you.”
She quickly disengaged herself from his embrace, but kept hold of his hand and turned to John Taylor.
“Run up the secret stairway quickly, find Mary Seaton, she is waiting for this signal. She is to come too. Remind her — the jewels, that she brings them all.”
The boy obeyed. The Queen turned to her husband.
“Take your pistols, put on something dark. We must go out this way. You will have all the keys, I suppose? Through the church and the burial-ground. There they will be waiting.”
John Taylor returned with Mary Seaton, who wore a long, dark cloak under which she half concealed a small lantern.
“Help me, Harry,” said the Queen, “for I am very tired.”
She took her husband’s arm on which she leaned heavily, while the chamber-boy found the pistols and a black riding-cloak and gave them to his master.
Cold and quiet, the ruined Abbey church of Holy Cross stood partly roofless to the sky. The Queen made her way through the deserted choir, past the empty stone window-frames and out into the burial-ground of the Kings of Scotland.
For a second she paused beside her father’s tomb and, touching her husband’s arm, asked where David was buried? He was shocked that she should speak of this and muttered that he did not know.
“Well,” said the Queen, “that’s the last time you’ll hear of him from me, and as for his grave, no doubt wherever it be, one more splendid will lie beside him before the year is out.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, holding her close, “what do you mean by that?”
“I thought of Moray,” she whispered.
They passed on in the light of the small lantern which Mary Seaton held under an outspread flap of her coat.
They would have a long start. Lady Argyll and Lady Reres and the midwife would keep the Queen’s chambers as long as possible into the next day and the Antony Standens and John Taylor would keep those of the King.
“It is only twenty-five miles to Dunbar,” said the Queen. A cold, strong wind blew on their faces and she drew it in eagerly as if it gave her strength. When they reached the postern the horses and three men, dark shapes in the shadows, waited.
The Queen looked over her shoulder — they had not been followed. Si
lent and dark the half-ruined church and the royal tombs lay behind them. The palace was in darkness, too, except for a glimmer of light in her apartments. Moray, Maitland, and all their confederates slept peacefully, thinking they had their prey safe.
She peered round for Bothwell. The first two whom she saw were Arthur Erskine and Lord Huntly, and the third man was a little apart and seemed to be keeping watch.
“Quick, sir,” Arthur Erskine whispered to the King, and “Quick, madame!” he touched Mary Seaton on the arm and took the lantern from her.
The King and Mary Seaton mounted but the Queen went up to the third man and gave him her hand.
“I have brought him,” she whispered, “even though I did not think it could be done.”
He pressed her fingers and assisted her carefully into the saddle behind Arthur Erskine.
Moray, turning in a heavy sleep, was roused by the sound of horses’ hoofs trotting beneath his window. For a second he was startled, then he remembered he had told Lindsay to patrol the palace.
*
The Queen lay in Dunbar Castle in the first room that could be made ready. It was a wet and windy morning. The room was cold and a reluctant fire spluttered on the wide stone hearth.
Though she had ridden twenty-five miles through the night she had not slept. Prone with exhaustion, she lay on a mattress and pillows in the gown she had worn beneath the horseman’s cloak in her headlong flight. As she lay there, staring into the fire, she asked for the King, and Mary Seaton replied that he had fallen into the first chair he could find and slept like a drunken man.
“He was always fond of his sleep,” said the Queen, and asked for Bothwell and Huntly.
Mary Seaton said they had been out finding men to take the place of heralds to proclaim the Queen’s will that her subjects should rally to her standard.
“I wonder if as many will come as did before,” said the Queen faintly. “Ten thousand men! Five would be sufficient. I have a good cause, have I not, Mary? — my special servant slain in my presence, my house taken, myself held captive. How shall we punish these traitors?”
She clasped her hands behind her head, then smiled.
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