The Captive Queen of Scots

II Lochleven

IN THE CASTLE OF LOCHLEVEN which was built on an island in the middle of the loch an exciting expectancy prevailed.

All through the day, the serving men and maids had been aware that they must prepare for an important visitor, and rumor had seeped through to them that this was none other than the captive Queen. Ears were strained for the sounds of arrival; eyes continually turned to the strip of water which separated the island from the mainland on which could be seen the roofs of the houses of Kinross. She would embark there and the boat was ready, waiting for her.

The castellan of the castle, Sir William Douglas, was uneasy; he did not relish the responsibility which had been given him; he foresaw trouble. Yet it was a commission which he dared not refuse; he should, he supposed, have been grateful because his half-brother, James Stuart, Earl of Moray, would wish him to be the Queen’s jailor. Yet he knew that a tense and stormy period lay before him. Wherever Mary Stuart was, there was trouble; it was hardly likely that Lochleven would escape it.

Now he was waiting for her arrival which surely could not long be delayed; and he decided that once more he must impress upon his mother the importance of the task which had been given them; and for this reason he made his way to her apartments.

He found her seated at a window; like most people in the castle she was gazing out across the lake, and with her was William’s younger brother George.

Margaret Douglas looked eagerly at her elder son as he entered. He noticed with a twinge of jealousy that she looked younger than she had before they had received the news. He knew the reason; it was because, by keeping the Queen a prisoner at Lochleven, she would be serving Moray. Why had he felt the need to warn her of the importance of this duty when all that she did for Moray she would do well?

“Is there news?” she asked, and the animation on her beautiful, though aging face, was startling.

William shook his head.

“I trust all will be well. Jamie will expect us to do our duty.”

“We shall do it, have no fear of that,” William replied. He might have reminded her that Moray—now that the Queen was a captive—was the most influential man in Scotland, that before long he would be the ruler of Scotland, which was what he had always intended to be. If one hoped to live in peace in Scotland, one must obey Moray; he, William Douglas, castellan of Lochleven since the death of his father, Sir Robert Douglas, would have been prepared to do that even if Moray had not been his half-brother, and his mother’s bastard.

“Jamie will expect us to do this duty well,” went on Margaret Douglas complacently.

Young George clenched his hands in disgust; he was eighteen, romantic, and chivalrous and could not bear to contemplate his mother’s dishonor.

As for Margaret she was unaware of any dishonor, for in her opinion there was nothing but honor in bearing the bastard of a King. Often she delighted in Jamie’s resemblance to his father. She had not been the only woman to catch the roving eye of James V of Scotland and to offer the world living proof of what had passed between them. To her he had been faithful for a while and she would never forget that. She had been jealous of the others. How she had hated Euphemia Elphinstone when he had borne the King her son Robert; not that Robert was the only one. James was a King who could be gay and melancholy, and when he was gay he was very gay; there had been numerous known bastards, and even James did not know how many unknown ones. Yet, she thought wistfully, all the Stuart charm was his and to have known it was to have drunk deep of pleasure. There were no regrets. And when she looked at her Jamie—James Stuart who had been Earl of Mar and was now Earl of Moray—how could she refrain from thinking what a cruel fate it was that had made him the bastard, and that giddy girl, Mary Stuart, the King’s only legitimate heir? Jamie resented it—oh how bitterly. But perhaps now the bitterness was less acute.

She smiled. It was ironical that Mary should now be in the hands of one who had been her father’s mistress and who would do everything in her power to further the aims of her own son. It was rough justice of a sort. Sometimes she believed that her clever fox of a Jamie had all along intended that something like this should happen.

“And the silly giddy girl deserves her fate,” she said aloud. “Something like this was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“She is a brave woman. She was not afraid to venture onto the battlefield with her army at Carberry Hill.” That was young George, and as he spoke his face flushed. He wondered why he had spoken; he should have known better and kept his thoughts to himself. He did not share the opinions of the others. The Queen was a beautiful woman in distress. His half-brother, the bastard, who should surely shame his mother every time she thought of him, was a ruthless man. George knew whose side he himself was on. But it was foolish of course to say so before his brother and mother.

Fortunately they did not appear to have heard him. I am too young for my opinions to be of any importance to them, thought George resentfully.

His mother was speaking to his brother William. “I hope you have increased the guard about the castle.”

“Naturally,” replied Sir William.

“Is it wise to keep her on the ground floor? Escape would be easier from there.”

“She will be well guarded there for the time being. Perhaps later I shall make other plans.”

Sir William was suddenly alert. He had thought he had seen movement on the mainland. But it was not that band of riders who were escorting the captured Queen.

Margaret said: “She will not be here for some time. They would not set out from Holyrood until nightfall. It would be too dangerous. The mob would tear her into pieces.”

William did not answer, but George could not restrain himself. “Might that not be what they wish?”

“No, no, Geordie,” said his mother soothingly. “You are too vehement. The last thing Jamie wishes is for any harm to befall his half-sister. Don’t forget that she is his own flesh and blood.”

“Bearing a similar relationship as that between him and myself,” murmured George with a hint of cynicism in his voice which was lost on his mother. If she could only know, thought George, how I hate these casual relationships which can bring about such havoc in families.

“Perhaps,” William put in, “we should go to sup. It is foolish to wait, when she may not be here until morning.”

“Then let us go,” said Margaret.

In the dining hall the company had eagerly been awaiting the appearance of the castellan and his mother and, as they came in, the tension relaxed. The daughters of the family, who were seated near the dais, whispered together that this could only mean that the Queen was not expected that night.

As Sir William took his place on the dais with his mother, there came to stand behind his chair a boy of about fourteen who was wearing a jerkin which had once belonged to George. He was a bold-eyed boy, with hair of a carroty tinge, and a freckled face; and the position he held in the household was unique, because he was not quite a servant nor yet a member of the family. George could not remember exactly when this boy had come to the castle; he had heard it said that as a baby the boy was left at the castle gates, and that one of the servants had found him there, but George had never received confirmation of this, as his elders were evasive on the matter. He was cheeky, that boy, sensing his specially privileged position; one of his duties was to wait on Sir William at table. No one asked questions as to who he was and why he should be different from the rest of the servants. Perhaps it was because there was a look of a Douglas about him; he was in fact always known as Willie Douglas.

George had had an affection for the boy which dated from the day when he was about ten and Willie six. That was before George had discovered how much he hated the casual relationships of grown-up people which led to unorthodox results. He suspected now that Willie was the result of one of his brother William’s indiscretions; but that could not change his affection for the boy once it had been firmly founded.

As he seated himself at table Willie whispered to him: “Great days in store for Lochleven, eh, Geordie?” And he gave George a wink that made his pert, freckled face slightly more comical than it had been before, so that George could not help smiling.

The meal progressed; and when the night had fallen there came with it a return of that brooding tension.

DISMOUNTING, Mary could scarcely stand. The noise of those raucous voices was still echoing in her ears. Lord Lindsay, who was at her side, said in a tone which had an edge of roughness in it and was devoid of the respect due to a Queen: “The boat is waiting.”

“Boat! Then where are you taking me?”

“You will know in time.”

How dared they! She turned to Lindsay, and goaded out of her exhaustion, cried: “I’ll have your head for this, my lord.”

Lindsay did not reply.

Lord Ruthven who had come to stand beside her said gently: “It is only a short distance across the lake, Your Majesty.”

Mary turned to him eagerly for she fancied she heard a note of compassion in his voice. So desperately alone did she feel that any sign of friendship lifted her spirits.

Ruthven did not meet her eye; he was ashamed of his mission. She thought: He is so young. He is not yet grown cruel like so many of my Scottish lords.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said.

Young Ruthven looked uncomfortable, fearing, Mary suspected, that Lindsay would have heard his remark and accuse him of softness toward their victim.

It was young Ruthven who helped her into the boat, where she sat listening to the rhythmic suck of the water as the oars displaced it.

“My lord Ruthven,” she whispered at length, “where are they taking me?”

“To Lochleven, Your Majesty.”

“Lochleven! To the Douglases! Ah, I see. To Sir William—the half-brother of my half-brother, Moray. He will doubtless make a good jailor. And conducted there by Lindsay—his brother-in-law.”

“Your Majesty . . . ” The young man did not continue; he was turning his face away that she might not see his emotion.

She said softly: “Do not be ashamed, my lord Ruthven, to show pity for a poor woman who is surrounded by her enemies. She will not forget that you alone showed her compassion on this fearful night.”

Ruthven did not answer, perhaps because Lindsay, hearing the murmur of voices, had edged nearer to them.

There was silence now, broken only by the dipping of the oars.

Mary, dazed and exhausted, felt the years slipping away from her; the only way in which she could endure the present was to return to the past. Once before, long long ago, she had been in flight from her enemies; and then, as now, she had sat in a boat and been rowed to an island in a lake.

“Inchmahome!” she whispered; and found comfort in the name. Inchmahome . . . where she had lived for a short period of her childhood when it had been necessary to find a refuge from her enemies; and how pleasantly she had lived in that monastic community. Inchmahome . . . Lochleven. Oh, but there was a difference. Then her enemies had been the English, who had crossed the Border and inflicted defeats on the Scots, culminating in the disaster of Pinkie Cleugh. How much more tragic when there was strife among Scotsmen; when she was a prisoner of her own subjects!

“Inchmahome . . . .” she whispered. “If I could but go once more to Inchmahome!”

The monks she had known would be long since dead. But there would be others, gentle monks, who tended their gardens, who worked together in peace, away from the world of intrigue and ambition.

Ruthven whispered: “We are there, Your Majesty.”

She saw the dark shapes of people, and in the light of torches the gray shape of the castle loomed up before her. A fortress! she thought; my prison.

Sir William had come forward. He was bowing over her hand. So there were some who remembered that she was their Queen.

“I and my household will do our best to make Your Majesty’s stay at Lochleven comfortable,” he told her.

And there was she who had been Margaret Erskine, who was now Margaret Douglas—the beauty who had been her father’s mistress and was her brother James’s mother.

Margaret curtsied.

“Welcome to Lochleven, Your Majesty.”

Mary answered: “I am so tired. Take me to my bed.”

“Your Majesty would like to rest before taking a little food?”

“The thought of food sickens me. I want only to rest.”

“Then come this way.”

So Mary entered the castle of Lochleven, knowing that she entered a prison. But she was too weary to care. There was only one thing she craved now. Rest. Quiet, that she might shut out the memory of those cruel faces which had leered at her, that she could for a while forget the words which had been shouted at her. Oblivion. That was what at this moment she needed more than anything in the world. She was aware of faces as she passed on her way through the quadrangle to the southeast tower. They looked almost ghostly in the lights of the cressets on the castle walls.

There was one which held her attention for a few seconds; it was the face of a young man with a gentle mouth and eyes which betrayed his sympathy as he looked at her. Perhaps she half smiled at him; she was not sure. But the face did have the power—exhausted as she was—to hold her attention for that short moment.

There was one other, she noticed—a young boy with a mischievous expression; his alert eyes were fixed on her and she could not read what thoughts were going on behind them.

These faces became mingled with the hazy impressions of that grim and fearful night.

She had entered the room which had been made ready for her and, without waiting for her servants to prepare her, she threw herself upon the bed and in a few seconds had lost all consciousness of where she was.

The Queen was sleeping the sleep of complete exhaustion.

WHEN SHE awoke it was daylight and for some moments she could not remember where she was. As she looked at the lofty yet gloomy chamber, she was aware of a certain odor; it was not unpleasant and she wondered where she had smelled it before. It was faint yet haunting; and it was when she realized what it was, that memory came flooding back. It was the dank smell of lake water which could take her back in time to that period of her childhood which she had spent at Inchmahome. She remembered then that she was a prisoner in Lochleven.

She raised herself on her elbow and, looking about her, saw that the room was sparsely furnished in the Scottish manner. She would never grow accustomed to it. Yet in this castle, in this very tower were those rooms which she herself had furnished, for in the past she had lodged here when on hawking or hunting expeditions, and because her visits were so frequent she had hung her own tapestries on the walls and had her own bed installed. Why then was she brought to this dismal room? It must be to impress on her that she was no longer an honored Queen, but a prisoner.

The sound of tramping feet was audible, and glancing through the window she saw the sentinel pacing up and down. So they had determined to guard her well. She could trust Lindsay for that. At the thought of that dark bearded face her anger began to rise; and the hideous memories came back. If she did not restrain her thoughts she would be living it all again—the absolute hell of that night in the Provost’s House, that walk to Holyrood House and the ride through the darkness to Lochleven. Nothing could be worse, and she hoped never to be called upon to live through the like again.

She thought of Bothwell then and she was sick with longing for him. It was a wild sensual yearning, a mad desire for the man who had first awakened sexual knowledge in her and taught her that she was a voluptuous woman. He would come for her surely. But he must be reasonable. Bothwell had never loved her as she had loved him. It was her crown he had wanted; many of his mistresses had beautiful bodies to offer him; but she was the only one who had a crown. He had not denied this when she had taunted him with it; he was too sure of himself to lie. Yet at the end he had been tender.

He will come for me, she told herself. He must come. Then he will take that black Lindsay by the beard and throw him into the lake.

A woman rose from a chair not far from the bed. Mary had not noticed her until that moment.

This was Jane Kennedy, one of her maids of honor.

“So they have allowed you to remain with me,” she said.

“Yes, Your Majesty. And Marie Courcelles is with us. We shall do our best to serve you. Your French apothecary is here also. So if there is anything you need . . . ”

“There is only one thing I need, Jane: my freedom. And that is something they have determined to take from me.”

“It will not always be so. Shall I see about food for Your Majesty?”

“I am not hungry and the thought of food nauseates me. What hour is it?”

“It is well after noon.”

“Then I have slept long.”

“Your Majesty was quite exhausted. And still is, I’ll swear.”

Mary put her hands to her face. “Oh, Jane, how do I look? I am filthy. There is the grime of Carberry Hill on me . . . and the Provost’s house . . . .”

“I will fetch water.”

“Help me up first.”

Jane did so but when Mary stood she felt sick and dizzy.

“You should rest, Your Majesty. I pray you, lie still while I bring the water.”

Mary lay back obediently; but when Jane returned she found her mistress had become listless.

“Your Majesty, when you have washed and eaten you might be allowed to explore the castle. I do not see how they can prevent your doing that. This state of affairs will not last. Your faithful subjects will soon come to rescue you from your enemies.”

Mary said quietly: “My faithful subjects? Those who deserted from my army? Those who called out that I should be burned as a murderess . . . as an adulteress?”

“Come, allow me to wash your face. Then I will comb your hair and bring a mirror that you may see the result. It is all that is needed to make you the most beautiful woman in Scotland.”

But Mary could not rouse herself from her melancholy.

Marie Courcelles came in and when she saw that the Queen was awake she expressed her pleasure.

“Your Majesty will soon be well again. You will make a Little France in this dreary old Lochleven.”

But Mary turned her face away and began to weep silently.

“It will pass,” whispered Jane to Marie. “She has yet to recover from the shock.”

“If only my lord Bothwell were here all would be well. He would make her gay again.”

Mary turned and looked at them. Her voice seemed devoid of all hope as she said: “Bothwell has fled. I have a feeling that I shall never again see his face. And what is happening to my son? How will my little Jamie fare without me to care for him?”

“All will be well, Your Majesty. Do you think Lord Bothwell would leave you to your enemies! I have heard it said that he has gone North to take refuge with Huntley. They will come to release you.”

She shook her head. How she wished she could have believed that! And why could she not? Why was she so certain that she could never see Bothwell again?

And if I do not, she asked herself, what reason have I for living? He was my life. At times I hated him; he was harsh to me—always cruel, determined to dominate me, to go on as he had begun when in Buchanan’s House he stole in on me unawares and took his will of me. I tried to resist him then and yet I knew—as he did it—from that moment I was in his power.

It is not because I have lost Scotland that I mourn. It is because I have lost the two I love more than any in the world—my lover Bothwell, and James my baby son.

She lay down and listened to the sound of her women whispering anxiously together; she heard the tramp of the sentinel outside her window. That was like the tramp of doom. They were determined that she should never escape from Lochleven. And in that moment, so deep was her despair, she believed she never would.

She was sunk in melancholy and would do nothing to rouse herself.

Now the night and days began to merge one into another and she lost count of them. Her French apothecary came to her bedside with potions for her to drink, but she would not touch them.

“Madame,” he declared, “you will die if you will not try to save yourself from death.”

“Let me die,” she answered. “I should be happier dead than a prisoner in Lochleven Castle.”

She lay in a haze of memories; she was happiest when she could not remember where she was, and that was often the case. She thought she was in France, the petted idol of the Court there, beloved of Henri Deux and his mistress the dazzling Diane de Poitiers; the adored wife of young François Deux; the hope of all her Guise relations. Through that dream the figure of Catherine de’ Medici moved like a menacing ghost, sending her back to Scotland when those who loved her were dead, sending her to unhappy marriage with Darnley, to the nightmare of his death—but to Bothwell. She must always remember that when she came back to Scotland she came to Bothwell. And then to Carberry Hill and Lochleven.

Lady Douglas came to her bed and tried to coax her to eat. But she had no desire to speak with Lady Douglas. Sir William came in the company of Lindsay and Ruthven; she turned her head away and would not even look at them.

Once a young man, whose looks proclaimed him to be a Douglas, came to her bedside and stood looking down at her.

He whispered: “Your Majesty, if there is some commission with which you would entrust me, gladly would I perform it.”

But she could not answer him because the expression on his face brought a lump to her throat; so she had closed her eyes, and when she opened them he had gone.

On another occasion a boy had stood at the end of her bed watching her . . . a strange boy, with a pert, freckled face. He had said with a broad accent: “Hello, Queen.” And she believed he must have been part of a dream, for suddenly he winked at her and was gone.

So the days passed in a melancholy haze.

Jane remonstrated with her. “Your Majesty, it is fourteen days since we came to Lochleven and you have scarcely eaten or drunk in all that time. You must rouse yourself. What if my lord Bothwell were to come for you? How could you escape with him, weak as you are?”

“I could not stand, could I, Jane,” she said. “There is no strength left in my limbs.”

“Your Majesty,” implored Jane, “before it is too late save yourself . . . for Scotland and your son who needs you.”

Those words kept repeating themselves in Mary’s mind. Save yourself . . . Save yourself for Scotland and your son who needs you.

The next day she ate a little; and the following day a little more.

Word went through the castle: “The Queen is beginning to take an interest in her surroundings. After all, she has decided to live.”

George Douglas lay on the grass, his eyes never straying long from those windows which were hers. He had thought of her continually ever since he had heard that they were bringing her to his home. He had pictured her as he had so often heard her described—beautiful beyond imagining; gowned in rich cloth of gold, velvet and silver, a crown on her head. He had remembered all he had heard about her romantic life; her early flight to France where she had become Queen; her three marriages, all ending in tragedy. He had heard the scandals which had been whispered about her when Darnley had been murdered. They called her adulteress, murderess, but he did not believe them. He had always believed her to be a deeply wronged woman, and since she was also beautiful she had become the center of his dreams of chivalry.

He was misunderstood in this rough country where men such as Bothwell were looked up to, where cold passionless men like his half-brother Moray were those whom others were ready to call their leaders.

When he had seen the Queen disheveled after her ordeal, almost demented, her gown tattered, her lovely features spattered with mud, his feeling had been more intense than he had imagined they ever could be. He loved the sick and lonely woman more than he ever could the Queen in her crown and royal robes. He was excited almost beyond endurance, because she was here in his brother’s castle, within his reach, and because she was a friendless prisoner and it might be in his power to help her.

During the last weeks he had sought excuses to go into her apartment. She had been unaware of him, lying listless in her bed, her eyes closed; and he had been afraid that, since she clearly no longer wished to live, she would die.

Once she had opened her eye and seen him and he had looked at her with such yearning that he believed he aroused some response in her. He had been begging her not to die, for if she died he wished to die also. He was young and of little account in the castle where his mother and brother ruled, and where Moray was considered to be the most important person in Scotland, but he was fierce in his desire to help her; he wanted to give his life for her. Willingly would he do so and count himself blessed. That was what he had tried to tell her.

Did she understand? Was it coincidence that a few days later he had heard that the Queen was taking a little nourishment?

“Hi, watchdog!”

George turned quickly and glared at young Willie, who had crept up silently and flung himself down on the grass beside him.

“Where did you come from?” demanded George, embarrassed to have been caught by this alert boy gazing at the Queen’s windows. “And your doublet is filthy.”

Willie grimaced, and wriggled his bare toes as though in ecstasy.

“She does not notice my filthy doublet, Geordie watchdog. Why should she look at me when handsome Geordie’s near?”

George leaped up to cuff the boy but Willie was even quicker on his feet. He stood some little distance away and, placing his hands as though he held a lute, rolled his eyes like a lovesick troubadour in the direction of the Queen’s windows.

“You go to the kitchens. There’ll be work for you there, Willie Douglas.”

“Doubtless, doubtless,” cried Willie. “But there’s other than scullion’s work for me in the castle when we’ve a Queen living with us.”

George did not answer; he lay down on the grass once more and leaning on his elbows propped his face in his hands, this time making sure that he was looking, not toward the castle, but over the lake.

Willie watched him for a while; then he said: “There’s always fishing boats on the lake, Geordie.”

“And what if there are?”

“Nobody takes much notice of ’em, Geordie. They come and go between the island and the mainland.”

“Be silent,” said George fearfully and he rose to his feet again.

Willie hopped back a few paces assuming the posture of a troubadour.

George went after him, and Willie sped away, laughing over his shoulder. Down the slope he went to the shores of the lake, George in pursuit; but before George could catch him Willie was running into the lake where George, for fear of spoiling his sturtop boots, could not follow.

Willie stood, the water about his knees, still playing the troubadour.

Watching him in exasperation George’s eye was caught by a boat which was setting out from the mainland. As his keen eyes picked out the figures in the boat, he saw that they were not fishermen nor ferrymen, but strangers—grand personages with a look of the Court about them.

“Visitors for the Queen,” he said; and Willie turned to look.

Willie came out of the water to stand beside George; and forgetful of all else they stood side by side watching the approaching boat.

SIR ROBERT Melville, Scottish ambassador to the Court of Elizabeth of England, stepped ashore and looked at the castle of Lochleven.

A strong fortress, he thought. As impregnable as could be found in Scotland. She would not find it easy to break out of this place.

Melville’s feeling were mixed. He would have been far more sorry for the Queen if she had not acted so foolishly over Bothwell. It was natural that a suave diplomatist should hate the fellow—rough, vulgar Borderer that he was; and the fact that Mary could have become so besotted about him lowered her in her ambassador’s estimation. From the moment he had heard of the marriage, Melville had been ready to ally himself with her enemies.

She had been good to him, he was ready enough to admit. Because he had strongly opposed her marriage to Darnley it had been necessary at one time to take refuge in England; but Mary was not a woman to bear grudges; she had pardoned him and, because of his knowledge of the English had agreed that he should become her ambassador to Elizabeth.

He had been revolted by the murder of Darnley and had planned then to retire from politics, but Mary had insisted that he return to the English Court in the role of her ambassador; and as an escape from Scotland, Melville had done so.

Now he came to her with a mission—a most unpleasant one which he did not relish but which he was reluctantly obliged to admit was a just one.

Sir William Douglas was waiting to greet him as he alighted. With him were Lindsay and Ruthven; Lady Douglas came forward and her son George whom Melville had seen on the bank as the boat ran ashore, hovered in the background.

“Welcome to Lochleven,” said Lady Douglas. “I have had apartments made ready for you.”

“My lady is gracious,” murmured Melville.

As they walked toward the castle, Sir William said: “I believe you will agree that it would be well for us, with my lords Lindsay and Ruthven, to talk in private for a while before you visit the Queen’s apartments.”

Melville said he thought this would be desirable. So Sir William turned to his mother and asked that wine should be sent to his small private chamber, and there he would confer with the visitor.

While Lady Douglas summoned one of her daughters and bade her give orders in the kitchen, Sir William went into the castle with Lindsay, Ruthven and Melville.

Left there in the sunshine, George felt shut out. Something important was about to happen and he knew that it threatened the Queen.

He felt angry with his powerlessness, with his youth and lack of experience. Why could he not enter the castle in the company of those men? Why could he not know what was said between them?

Someone was tugging his coat, and he turned to find Willie beside him.

“Do ye think they’re planning to murder her in her bed?” he whispered.

“Be off with you.”

“There’s murder in their minds, depend upon it,” whispered Willie. “What are you going to do about that, eh, Geordie Douglas?”

George was silent. What could he do? There must be something.

THE QUEEN was lying on her bed when Melville entered. Jane was seated by the bed reading to her mistress while Marie sat at the window looking over the lake. She had seen the arrival of Melville, so the Queen was not surprised when he came in.

“Your Majesty.” Melville knelt by the bed and kissed the delicate hand.

“You see me indisposed,” Mary told him.

“Which grieves me sorely.”

“It is comforting that someone is moved by my plight. You have been in the castle for more than an hour, my lord. Did it take you so long to find me.”

Melville spread his hands. “I had to make sure that you were well enough to receive me.”

“And confer with your friends. I fear they are your friends, Melville. In which case you can be no friend to me.”

“Your Majesty, forgive me, but that is not so. Your welfare is my greatest concern.”

“You should tell me why you have come. I have been through such miseries that I tire easily.”

Melville looked at Jane and Marie significantly.

“What you have to say is for my ears alone?” said Mary quickly. “Very well. Jane and Marie, you may leave us.”

When they had gone, Melville said: “I would have Your Majesty know that I merely bring you a message from the Confederate Lords. That which I have to say to you is none of my doing. I am merely the messenger.”

“I see that you bring me evil tidings, and I pray you do not keep me in suspense. I have suffered so much that I can doubtless endure a little more.”

“Your Majesty, it is the wish of the Confederate Lords that you sign a formal abdication in favor of your son James.”

“Abdicate!” She had visualized so much that was evil, but not this. “James,” she whispered. “He is but a baby, being little more than a year old.”

“Your Majesty, the Confederate Lords would acclaim him King of Scotland.”

“And appoint a Regency!” she said bitterly. “A baby could do little to stand in their way, could he?”

“Your Majesty . . . ”

She turned her head away wearily. “I am too ill for such matters,” she said. “How cruel of them to confront me with this . . . now. Could they not let me live in peace for a few more weeks that I might recover my strength?”

Melville was silent. He was moved by her plight. It was difficult for any man not to be touched by Mary. Her beauty was indestructible, but it was not merely her beauty which was appealing; it was a certain helplessness; a certain fragility; she was completely feminine, possessed of all that was most appealing to men.

He had to steel himself not to turn from his principles and offer her his help. He might have told her that certain of the nobles were planning to liberate her. That Huntley, the Cock o’ the North, and the leading Catholic, was ready to bring his Highlanders to her support. That Fleming, Argyle, Herries and others were with him. But to do so would merely serve to stiffen her resistance and he had not been sent to Lochleven to do that.

Mary said mournfully: “Sir Robert Melville, have I not always dealt fairly with you? Why do you place yourself beside my enemies?”

“Your Majesty, if it were in my power to help you . . . ”

She turned back to him and stretched out a white hand, perfectly shaped but very fragile.

“You can help me,” she said. “You can take a message to my friends. Surely I have some friends. The Flemings . . . the Setons. I can always rely on them. Mary Fleming and Mary Seton were as my sisters. Where is my brother? Why cannot I see him? I do not believe he would act against me.”

“I can take no message from you to anyone outside Lochleven,” Melville told her. “I came here but to advise you to take this course which is the only one left to you.”

“Abdication!” she repeated.

Melville took a step closer to the bed and looked furtively over his shoulder.

“Your Majesty, if you signed a formal Abdication now, and later escaped from this place . . . you could always repudiate that signature with the plea that you had signed under compulsion.”

She looked at him sharply. “And that is your advice?”

He did not answer, but lowered his eyes.

“How can I know whom to trust?” she demanded.

Melville seemed to come to a sudden decision. “Your Majesty, may I speak frankly?”

“I should be pleased if you would.”

“I believe Scotland would be happy to see you on the throne if you would but repudiate Bothwell.”

“Repudiate my husband!”

“Scotland will never accept him, Madam . . . nor you while you remain his wife.”

“I am his wife. Nothing can alter that.”

“That unholy marriage must be repudiated. Only if you are ready to mount the throne without him at your side will you be allowed to do so.”

Mary was silent. To speak of him was to make his image rise vividly before her eyes; she could almost hear his rough laugh, feel his rough hands on her. Bothwell, she thought, where are you now? And she was sick with longing for the touch of his flesh against hers.

“It is the only way, Madam. I implore you to realize this before it is too late.”

“Where is Bothwell?” she asked, and she sounded breathless.

“I heard that he is in the North with Huntley.”

“Then he is collecting troops. He will come to rescue me from my enemies. Then it will be their turn to despair.”

Melville shook his head. “The whole country is against him. Scotland finished with him on the night Darnley was murdered.”

“There is much you do not understand.”

“Come, Your Majesty, give me your promise that you will sign the deed of Abdication. Give me your promise that you will repudiate Bothwell.”

Mary crossed her hands over her breasts and suddenly cried: “You are asking me to repudiate the father of the child I am carrying. I will never do that.”

“So . . . you are carrying a child?”

Mary lowered her head. “I long for its birth,” she said. “I long to have a living being to remind me of him.”

Melville looked at her sadly.

Was there ever such an unfortunate woman? Turned from the throne! Loyal to a murderer whose child she now carried!

Indeed she must be persuaded to sign her Abdication.

“Please leave me,” said Mary. “I am too weak as yet to deal with state matters.”

Sorrowfully Melville left her apartments.

He would have to report his failure to Lindsay and Ruthven.

THAT NIGHT Mary awoke in pain. She called in alarm for Jane Kennedy who came hurrying to her bedside.

“Bring me my apothecary,” she cried. “I feel sick unto death.”

The apothecary came with Marie Courcelles in his wake.

The man took one look at his royal mistress and, turning to the two women, he wrung his hands and cried: “The Queen is grievously sick.”

Then he recovered himself and began to give orders. He wanted to call a physician but Mary heard this and forbade him to do so.

“You three are the only ones in this castle whom I have reason to trust. Do what you can for me and we will leave the rest to God.”

The apothecary mixed a hot brew for her and when Mary had taken it, he whispered to Jane: “What can be expected! She has suffered so much. It is bound to affect the child she carried.”

“She is in danger?” whispered Marie Courcelles.

“Birth is always dangerous; but an unnatural birth doubly so.”

Tossing on her bed Mary was calling for Bothwell and little James, then murmuring in French, her mind obviously wandering, while Jane and Marie knelt and prayed that their mistress might emerge from this new trial as she had from all others. Their prayers were answered, for before morning Mary had been delivered of stillborn twins. “With care she will recover,” the apothecary assured them.

Marie and Jane exchanged glances. Bothwell’s twins! they were thinking. And they hoped, for the sake of the Queen, that the loss of his children would be the end of his connection with Mary.

MARY had not left her bed since her miscarriage. She felt physically weak, but strangely enough she could contemplate the future in a different light.

She mourned the loss of her twins and thought of them continually. His twins. She could not help wondering how like him they would have been. It had been too early to determine their sex, and she was almost glad of this; she had enough sorrow, and it seemed easy to forget them if she did not know them as belonging to either sex.

She shuddered to contemplate what their future would have been.

But her listlessness was less defined. Pregnancy had had its effect on her mentally as well as physically; and now that she was no longer pregnant, her thoughts turned more and more to the prospects of escape; and the desire to win back her crown was stronger than it had been since she had turned her back on Carberry Hill.

She lay in bed watching the wild geese flying across the lake, listening to the tramp of the sentinel outside her window, wondering now and then whether that fresh-faced boy, who had given her looks which long experience, both in the French and Scottish Courts, had taught her to interpret, was still in the castle.

As she lay there Jane Kennedy came into the room to tell her that Melville was back at Lochleven and that he, with Lindsay and Ruthven, were now demanding to be brought to the Queen without delay.

“I will receive them,” said Mary; and within a few minutes they were at her bedside.

Melville began by expressing his sorrow to find her still indisposed and his hopes that she would soon recover.

She nodded in acknowledgment of his good wishes, but her eyes went to the scroll he carried and which she guessed to be the documents relative to the Abdication. Her hazel eye hardened as she looked up to find Lindsay’s baleful black ones fixed upon her.

“I think I know to what I owe the honor of your coming, my lords,” she said with a trace of sarcasm in her voice.

“Sir Robert Melville has acquainted you already with the wishes of the Confederate Lords,” began Lindsay.

“They are not my wishes,” retorted the Queen.

“You will realize, Madam, that on account of your present position, your wishes are of no great moment.”

The man was insolent; and this depressed her. Lindsay must believe that her hopes of escape were poor, since he treated her with such a lack of respect. How she hated him!

She addressed herself to Melville. “I gave you my answer when you visited me on a previous occasion. Need you inflict this on me again?”

“I fear so, Your Majesty,” replied Melville soothingly. “I would like to advise you that I believe it to be in your interest to sign this deed of Abdication.”

“To sign away my throne? I cannot see how that would benefit me.”

“Your son would take the throne, as you would expect him to do one day.”

“That day is far distant,” she retorted hotly and was surprised at her vehemence, when but a short time ago she had been longing for death.

Melville came closer to her; it was as though he wished to tell her something which was not for the ears of the others.

“Madam,” he said, “it would be to your advantage to sign. This is the view of your friends.”

“Who are my friends?” she asked bitterly. “Where are they?”

Melville drew his sword and laid it on her bed. Then from the scabbard he took a letter. He held it out to her and whispered: “It is from Sir Nicholas Throckmorton who Your Majesty knows is the ambassador of the Queen of England. He is now in Edinburgh and tells me that his mistress is deeply shocked at the insult offered to royalty by your imprisonment in this fortalice.”

“I rejoice to hear it,” answered Mary. “It is what I expect.”

“Sir Nicholas Throckmorton has written this on behalf of your royal cousin. I pray you read it.”

Mary read the document which warned her that she would be in danger if she did not sign the deed of Abdication. She must ensure her personal safety, and the Queen of England doubted not that ere long she would be free of her enemies. Then she could justly repudiate what she had been forced to sign in prison.

She raised her eyes to Melville who was watching her expectantly.

“You think that the Queen of England is my friend?” she asked.

“I think that the Queen of England is deeply disturbed by any insult to royalty.”

“Then she must be deeply disturbed at this moment,” retorted Mary bitterly.

“Her advice is sound, Your Majesty. I can assure you that, if you will repudiate Bothwell, there are many nobles in this land who will be ready to fight at your side until all that you have lost is restored to you. Atholl gave me this turquoise. He says you once gave it to him and he has treasured it. He sends it to you now as a sign of his devotion to you.”

She took the turquoise and looked at it. “Such a gesture could have little meaning,” she murmured.

“Maitland of Lethington once received an ornament from you. He also sends it as a like token.”

Melville laid in her hand an oval piece of gold enamel. Engraved on it was Æsop’s mouse liberating the lion.

She smiled, remembering the occasion when she had given the trinket to Maitland. He had recently married her dear Mary Fleming, and she had been delighted to see Mary’s happiness.

Now she thought of Maitland who, such a short time ago, had passed by on the other side of the road.

“I am not impressed by these gestures,” she said. “They could mean nothing.”

Lindsay had come over to the bed, arrogant and impatient.

“Come,” he said, “it is time that your signature was put to this document.”

“I have not agreed to sign it,” Mary reminded him.

“Read the document!” Lindsay commanded.

“I refuse to look at it,” retorted Mary.

Lindsay’s eyes blazed in his dark face. “Madam,” he said quietly, but in tones which indicated that he meant every word, “you will rise from your bed without delay. You will be seated at yon table. There you will sign the deed of Abdication in favor of your son.”

“And if I refuse?”

Lindsay unsheathed his sword. The gesture was significant.

“You would murder me in cold blood!” demanded Mary.

“Madam, my blood grows hot with this delay. Come, rise from your bed.”

His sword was close to her throat and she saw the purpose in his eyes. She looked at Melville and Ruthven, but they would not return her gaze.

He means it! she thought. He has come here to say: Sign or die.

She looked about her helplessly; she was here on an island, far from any friends she might have had. The cry of wild fowl suddenly came to her ears. They would murder her as many had been murdered before. Perhaps they would bury her body under some stone slab in the courtyard, or under a stair that was little used.

Now that death was so near she longed to live; a greater desire than she had felt for Bothwell was with her now; she wanted to escape, to regain her throne, to punish these men who had dared degrade her royalty.

She reached for a robe. They had expelled Jane Kennedy and Marie Courcelles from the room, so there was no one to help her. Ruthven took the robe and put it around her shoulders; as he did so she detected a burning gleam in his eyes; he was sending her a message of some sort; she was not entirely sure what. Perhaps it was merely desire for her body. But somehow it gave her a small comfort.

She was out of bed and, because she was still weak, Melville gave her his arm. She felt his fingers on her wrist and she believed there was something reassuring in the touch.

It was Lindsay who was her enemy, Lindsay with his black flashing eyes and his ready sword.

The quill was put into her hand; she sat down and read the document. Once she had put her name to it she would no longer be the reigning Queen. Scotland would have a King—James Stuart, son of Mary Stuart and Darnley.

She wanted to shout her refusal but Lindsay was standing over her, his sword still drawn.

She signed the Abdication and threw down the pen. Then she was on her feet, facing Lindsay who with a slow smile of triumph was putting away his sword.

She felt hysteria overcoming her. She shouted: “I was forced to it. You held a sword at my throat and forced me to sign. Is that justice? Rest assured, my lord, that when I am free the first pleasure I shall allow myself will be to see your head severed from your body. And I tell you this: These documents to which, under duress, I have put my name, have no meaning. I signed under compulsion, and I do not consider my signature valid. Do not think that I am entirely friendless. I shall not always be your prisoner. And then . . . my lord . . . beware.”

Lindsay continued to smile as he murmured: “So you do not think you will long remain our prisoner? Lest there should be some meaning behind those words we must make sure that your jailors double their precautions. As one of those jailors, Madam, you may rest assured that I shall do my duty to Scotland.”

Ruthven said: “The Queen is ill. I will help her to her bed.”

He put an arm about Mary and held her firmly. His face was close to hers. He was undoubtedly trying to convey some message to her. Had she not felt so ill she would have understood, she was sure. Was he telling her that he was her friend?

She stumbled onto the bed; she felt sick and dizzy.

Vaguely she heard voices from afar—Ruthven’s and Melville’s.

“The Queen is fainting. Her maids should be sent to her.” And when she opened her eyes again she found that Lindsay, Ruthven and Melville had gone, and that Jane and Marie were at her bedside with her French apothecary.

MARY QUICKLY RECOVERED with the help of her maids and her apothecary. Her anger against those lords who had forced her to sign away her right was so intense that it was like a crutch to her weakness.

“The impudence!” she raved. “How dared they! Jane, Marie . . . Lindsay held the sword at my throat. Let him be sure that he shall not escape my fury.”

The maids exchanged glances. They were delighted to see their mistress’s animation. Anything was better than the listlessness she had displayed since her arrival at Lochleven, no matter what was the cause of it.

“I shall not be here forever,” Mary continued. “I have friends . . . .”

“Your Majesty must keep up your strength,” Jane warned her. “When the time comes to leave this dismal place you will have to be well.”

“You are right, Jane,” answered the Queen. “This is an end of my lethargy.”

They brought her food and she ate it. She called for a mirror and studied her face with more attention than she had bestowed on it since the beginning of her incarceration. She had lost her pallor and her delicately tinted complexion was regaining its beauty; her lovely mouth was no longer melancholy; slightly parted it disclosed her perfect white teeth; there was a sparkle, left by recent anger mingling with new-born hope, in the long, deeply-set hazel eyes; her chestnut hair, hanging over her shoulders, was regaining its luster.

She rose from her bed and walked a little, leaning on Jane’s arm. Then she stood at the window looking out over the lake. She could see the mainland, and caught glimpses of distant mountains and forests. It was such a small stretch of water which separated her from freedom that she wondered why she had felt so hopeless.

“Somewhere on that mainland,” she mused, “are friends who will help me.”

Dusk had fallen. Outside her window the sentinels patrolled. With the coming of night two others would take their places. Lindsay was determined that she should not escape.

She was feeling so much better. She believed she would soon be free. All her life she had recovered quickly from adversity because her optimism had been one of her strongest qualities and, she guessed, always would be. Rarely—and the days and nights which followed Carberry Hill was one of these periods—had she been completely bereft of hope. But to lose a kingdom, a lover and a beloved baby son at one stroke had been too much even for her resilient nature.

Now she could look back on her despair and say: There is always hope. There always must be hope. All through her life—except that gay and romantic period at the Court of France—there had been trouble. And even in France the insidiously powerful Catherine de’ Medici had been her enemy from the moment they had set eyes on each other.

So hope came now. Somewhere in Scotland there were friends waiting to help her. She believed she would find them.

Jane had been right when she had said she must build up her strength. Lying in bed and refusing food was folly. Once she felt quite well again her natural gaiety would return. And when she had recovered her high spirits, her belief in her destiny, she would be happy again. Scotland would be hers once more. And Bothwell?

Now that she was calmer she could look back with a clearer vision at that turbulent period of her life. With him she had reached an emotional climax which she had never attained before. Through him she had known a savage joy and a savage despair. There would never be another like him, and she knew that if he came back tomorrow she would be entirely his slave. Should she say the slave of her own body’s desires? With him she had experienced sensations which she had not known existed: Erotic bliss which never seemed to be without its companions—humiliation and despair.

She had experienced enough of those two to wonder whether anything was worth the price.

Since she had made herself realize that she was a Queen with a Kingdom to fight for, Bothwell’s image had faded a little. Let that suffice. And in due course, if and when he came back to her, it might be that he would find a different woman, a clever woman, a woman of some judgment who, while she welcomed him as her husband, would ask him to remember that she was his Queen.

But Bothwell was far away—she knew not where. And she was a prisoner in Lochleven. Her first duty was to escape, and if she were to break out of this fortalice she would need all her wits to do so. She would not achieve that end by dreaming sensual dreams of Bothwell.

She rose from her bed and wrapped her robe about her. She was growing stronger and now able to walk about the room without the aid of Jane’s or Marie’s arm.

While she was wondering whether they would increase her guards now that she was able to leave her bed, she realized with a little shock that the door of her room was being slowly and cautiously opened.

Startled, she drew her robes more tightly about her and, seeing who the intruder was, she cried: “Ruthven!”

Ruthven came into the room hesitantly. He stood before her and dropped to his knees.

“Your attitude has changed, my lord, since you came here with those fellow-traitors.”

He lifted his eyes to her face and now she understood the expression in them. It angered her, yet at the same time she felt exultant. In the extremity of her grief she had forgotten the power she had always possessed to make men her slaves.

Ruthven rose to his feet.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “if you could but know how I have suffered for my part in this!”

Mary turned from him and took a seat by the window.

Ruthven said: “Your Majesty, do not show yourself to the guard. It would be well if we were not seen . . . together.”

“You have something to tell me?” she asked, rising and moving away to a part of the room which could not be seen from outside. Ruthven brought a stool and she sat down.

“I can go back and forth between the mainland and the castle, Your Majesty,” he said.

She wanted to laugh aloud. Had she not known that some way of escape would be offered her?

“And I have friends on the mainland . . . .” she murmured.

“Seton, Fleming, Herries . . . .” he said.

“Huntley,” she added. “Bothwell.”

“They are in the North, Your Majesty. There are others nearer . . . not far from this island, on the mainland across the water.”

“And you have a plan for helping me to escape from this prison?”

“Not . . . yet, Your Majesty. I wished to talk to you of such a plan.”

“Tell me one thing first. Why have you changed sides?”

Ruthven was silent. He was a connection of Darnley’s and had joined those nobles who had determined to avenge the murder. He had been against the Queen at Carberry Hill. Her adversaries had considered him sufficiently her enemy to put him in charge of her—with Lindsay—on the ride from Edinburgh to Lochleven. And now he was ready to be a traitor to his friends for her sake.

She must be cautious. But because there had been so many men ready to serve her she asked the question of Ruthven merely that he might confirm what she believed she knew.

“It has caused me much pain to see Your Majesty treated in this way.”

“You gave no sign when Lindsay had his sword at my throat.”

“Had he attempted to harm you I should have killed him. I stifled my anger because I thought I could serve you better in secret.”

“And how do you plan to serve me?”

“By obeying your orders.”

“How can I trust you?”

Ruthven took a step toward her. She was amazed when he lifted her from her stool and, putting his lips against hers, kissed her violently.

She tried to draw away in anger, but she was so weak that she found herself powerless in his arms.

“You . . . are insolent,” she panted.

“I love you,” said Ruthven. “I have fought against this without avail. I will bring you out of this prison. I will set you on the throne. They speak true when they say you are the most desirable woman in Scotland. I would say in the whole world . . . .”

“I command you to release me,” she cried.

But he laughed at her. He had heard rumors of the manner in which Bothwell had swept away her protests. She was a Queen, it was true; but she was completely feminine. It was her submission to Bothwell which had brought her to her present state. She was not meant to be a lonely monarch like Elizabeth beyond the Border. She was meant to be a woman first. It was merely by chance that she was also a Queen.

Bothwell had conquered; so would he.

His impatient hands were on her robe, and she cried in panic: “Jane! Marie! Where are you?”

But now his hand was over her mouth. It was meant to be like that scene in Buchanan’s House, when Bothwell had come to her unannounced and torn her garments from her quivering body. But it was so different. The memory of Bothwell was vivid; and this was no Bothwell.

“Mary,” he cried breathlessly, “do not bring them here. That would spoil our plans. If it were known that you and I were lovers . . . ”

With a great effort she held him off and, although he still kept his arms about her, their faces were no longer close. “You insolent fool!” she said. “Do you think that I would take you for my lover? Do you think you merely have to break into my room and insult me, to have me begging for your favors? You must be mad, Lord Ruthven. And if you do not take your arms from about me I shall shout for help. I shall tell Master Lindsay what you have done . . . what you have said to me.”

He would not release her; he had caught her against him once more, and she felt his face hard against hers. She tried to catch at his hair but he only laughed wildly.

“Is it too much to ask?” he whispered. “I will make you free. All I ask is a little affection.”

“My affection would never be yours, Lord Ruthven.”

She tore herself from his arms and ran to the door. He was there before her, barring her way.

“You act like a coy virgin,” he complained. “All Scotland knows you are not that.”

Her face was very pale and she was shaking with anger.

“I have loved men,” she said quietly, “and men have loved me. I never offered myself for profit, my lord Ruthven. You are mistaken. You have invaded the privacy of your Queen, not any man’s harlot. Go now. It would be well if I never saw your face again. Then I might find it easier to forget your conduct on this night. It would go hard with you if I, escaping from this prison, remembered it.”

She looked so regal standing there that Ruthven was overcome by dismay at what he had done.

He stammered: “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I fear my love for you was greater than my good sense.”

“Go,” she said. “And if you would please me, keep from my sight.”

He bowed and went out, and she leaned against the door; her heart was beating madly and she was still trembling. She stumbled over to her bed and lay there.

She was thinking: At any time he could come in to me. So could others. I have subdued him on this occasion, but will there be others?

Jane and Marie must in future sleep in her apartments. Otherwise she would never feel safe from the lechery of those who were supposed to be guarding her.

I must escape, she told herself. There must be some who would help me . . . without conditions such as Ruthven’s.

MARY LAY DOZING in her bed. Jane slept at the foot of it and Marie on a pallet on the floor. She had not told them the reason why she had insisted on this arrangement, but they guessed that she had been disturbed by the attention of some male member of the household, for they looked upon this as inevitable now that she was regaining her health and with it her beauty.

A sudden explosion split the silence. Jane and Marie were on their feet exclaiming with surprise because there was a reddish glow in the room.

The Queen sat up in her bed, shaking back her luxuriant hair.

“The Highlanders have come to rescue Your Majesty!” cried Jane.

“Is it so?” said Mary excitedly; and as she rose from her bed and Jane ran to help her on with her robe another explosion was heard.

Mary was at the window. In the sky was a glow and there was a smell of smoke in the air. Near the lake a great bonfire was blazing and she could see men about it—soldiers with pikes and halberds.

Then again came a shattering explosion.

“They are firing the ordnance of the castle,” she said.

“What does this mean?”

“It would seem, Your Majesty,” suggested Marie, “that they are celebrating some great event.”

“I must know what,” insisted Mary.

She went to the door of her chamber; a guard, who was standing outside her door, immediately turned to her and she asked: “It would seem some great event is being celebrated. I would know what.”

The man let his eyes wander from her head to her feet in their velvet slippers which showed beneath her loose robe. There was insolence in his manner which he scarcely troubled to hide.

“The coronation of the King of Scotland,” he answered her.

He was resentful because he was not outside, taking his part in the celebrations; he had to remain at this door and guard the prisoner. And who was she? he asked himself. Nothing but a whore if rumor was true—a whore and a murderess. And there was he, denied the pleasure his fellows were enjoying—because of her.

It was true that he had drunk rather freely of the wine which had been brought to him by one of his comrades; and since drinking it he had felt a fine fellow, which made it all the more irritating that he should have been left to guard the woman.

“Coronation of the King of Scotland!” repeated Mary, aghast.

“That’s what I said,” the soldier gruffly answered.

Mary did not hear the step on the stair; and when a voice said: “You forget you address the Queen!” she was startled. And looking up she saw the young Douglas—the one with the earnest eyes and frank, open face.

The soldier’s attitude changed slightly and the young Douglas went on: “Stand to attention when the Queen addresses you.”

The soldier obeyed.

The young man came forward and bowed. “Your Majesty, I trust you have not been subjected to a lack of respect.”

“It is something to which I have become accustomed since entering this place,” she answered.

“Then I ask forgiveness for all who have failed to treat Your Majesty with the homage due to you.”

She smiled, and the young man said to the soldier: “You may join your friends outside. I will take your place.”

“Sir,” began the soldier, “my orders were . . . ”

“I give you orders now. Go and join the revels.”

“If you’ll take responsibility . . . .”

“I will.”

The soldier saluted and went away.

Mary looked at the young man and again she smiled. He did not step nearer to her; he stood looking at her as though he were not quite sure whether he was dreaming. The authoritative manner which he had used toward the soldier had disappeared. He now looked extremely young.

“Thank you,” said Mary. “I feel less like a prisoner now.”

“Oh . . . my most gracious Queen . . . if I could only do something to help!”

“You have already done something.”

He lifted his shoulders in a gesture of frustration. “I would I could show Your Majesty . . . .”

“Please tell me what is happening.”

“They are celebrating the coronation of your son at Stirling. They are calling him James VI of Scotland.”

“It is to be expected. I signed my Abdication . . . with a sword at my throat.”

“How dared they!” he whispered.

“They dare much when they believe they have little to fear. I am friendless, alone and in their power.”

“Not friendless, Your Majesty.”

“Who are you?”

“George Douglas . . . at your service now . . . and for as long as I shall live.”

“Thank you, George Douglas. I shall sleep happier tonight knowing that I have such a friend within these walls.”

He came to her then and, kneeling before her, lifted the hem of her robe and kissed it.

“You had better rise, George Douglas,” she said. “If any knew that you were my friend they would be watchful. They do not wish me to have friends.”

“In me you have a friend who is ready to die in your cause.”

“It is strange that I can believe you on such a short acquaintance. I have lived my life among flatterers and sycophants. Men have said they would die in my cause but when my fortunes changed they have proved themselves to be anything but my friends. How old are you?”

“I am eighteen, Your Majesty.”

“I feel it is not very old. I am not yet twenty-five but I feel that to be very old indeed. It is experience which makes us old, and I have already passed through a lifetime of experience.”

“Your Majesty, ever since you were brought to the castle I have longed to serve you. If there is any commission . . . ”

“There is one thing I desire above all others: To leave this place.”

“I would willingly give my life to satisfy that desire.”

“Thank you.” And she repeated softly: “I believe you.” There was a brief silence while they looked at each other and, because of that recent scene with Ruthven, she felt more drawn toward this young man than she would otherwise have been. There had been so many to cast languishing glances in her direction, and admiration was something she had grown to take for granted. For as long as she could remember she had been eluding the passionate entreaties of men who desired her. She had learned how to assess the advance of men; and the look in this young man’s eyes reminded her of her first husband, young François, King of France, who had been her humble and adoring slave from the day when they had met and had both been about six years old. She felt a great desire then to be back in those happy days when she had been the darling of the French Court, when all—except the terrifying Catherine de’ Medici—had petted and done their best to spoil her.

Because he seemed in a daze of delight she went on: “You have put new hope in me. When I heard the revelry and learned its cause I felt a deep despair, because I knew that ambitious men had put a baby on the throne that they might rule. But you will help me. We will devise a plan . . . together . . . .”

“Together . . . .” he murmured ecstatically.

“Listen,” she said.

She had heard the sound of angry voices and hurrying footsteps.

Sir William was saying: “You fool! How dared you leave your post?”

Mary whispered: “It would be better if we were not seen talking together . . . my friend.”

She went quickly into her room, shutting her door behind her.

Sir William, his face purple with anger in which fear mingled, confronted his brother. Behind him the soldier sheepishly followed.

“What is the meaning of this?” cried Sir William.

“The fellow was eager to join the revelers. I thought to give him a little respite,” answered George.

“You young idiot!” cried Sir William. “You talk as though it is some drunken soldier we are guarding for the night. Don’t you realize who our prisoner is? Why . . . at such a time she might attempt to escape. And you send the guard out to enjoy himself!”

“While I took his place.”

“So you are the young philanthropist!” muttered Sir William. He opened the door of the Queen’s chamber and looking in saw the prisoner with her two women gazing through the barred window.

Mary said: “Good day to you, Sir William.”

Sir William returned her greeting and shut the door.

“Sentinels who desert their posts pay with their lives,” he warned the soldier. “It is well that I am in a lenient mood this night.”

The soldier did not speak but stood at attention.

“Come with me,” said William to his brother.

He took him up the stairs to a small room on the next floor. There he spoke to him very severely, reminding him of the importance of guarding the Queen, of the attempts which would very likely be made to help her escape. What George had done was folly. What did he think their half-brother Moray would do if they were so foolish as to let Mary escape? In such an event their lives might not be worth very much.

George was not really listening. He could think of nothing but the Queen as she had stood there smiling at him, her long chestnut hair rippling over her shoulders; her deep-set eyes, which were a little darker than her hair, so melancholy and sad when he had seen her talking to the soldier, and sparkling with something like pleasure when he had told her of his devotion. He thought of that exquisite face which was a perfect oval, that straight nose, the mobile mouth and the white teeth which showed when she laughed.

He was in love. A thought which made him shudder with delight. To be in love did not mean the same to him as it did to Ruthven. He longed to prove his chivalry; he wanted to lay down his life for her. She was his first love and he was certain that she would be his last.

“For the love of God do not act so foolishly again,” Sir William was saying.

“No, brother,” he answered, but he was not thinking of what he said—only of her.

“Then go away and remember it,” retorted Sir William.

George came from his brother’s room and went to his own. He threw himself down on his bed and began to go through everything that had happened. He remembered every word she had said.

For a while—a very short while—he would give himself up to this delightful reverie and then he would begin to work out a plan.

The door of his room opened very slightly; Willie came in and stood at the end of his bed.

“Your Majesty,” he mimicked, “I would willingly give my life to satisfy your desire.”

George started up to stare in dismay at the mischievous urchin. “Where were you?”

“That’s telling.” Willie made a deep bow. “Ever since they brought you to the castle I have longed to serve you.”

George was out of bed, but Willie was nimble. He was out of the room and George heard his mocking laughter floating back to him.

It was no use pursuing him. One could never be sure where Willie got to. But how much had he heard? And what would he do about it?

George went back to his bed and threw himself on it. He did not believe he had anything to fear from Willie. There had always been a bond between them. They were friends. Often he had helped Willie to escape a whipping. They never mentioned this bond—but it was there, and they both knew it.

Willie’s object was solely to tease. He would tell no one else of what he had seen and heard pass between George Douglas and the Queen.

The door opened again and Willie’s grinning face looked around it.

“Willie!” cried George without rising.

Willie was alert, ready to run. “Yes, Geordie Douglas?”

“You’ll not tell a soul what you heard?”

Willie put his finger to his lips and looked very profound.

“It’s important. I mean it.”

Willie gave one of his winks and drawled: “Ay, but she’s a bonny lass. Geordie Douglas, you’re not the only one who thinks so.”

Then he was off, whistling.

Willie was trustworthy. George went back to his dream of delight.

IT HAD BEEN one of the happiest days for Mary since her incarceration had begun. That morning a large box had arrived, which had been sent on the instructions of Sir Robert Melville.

Lady Douglas and Sir William came to her chamber to see it while it was unpacked, being suspicious as to what such a box might contain.

Mary’s spirits rose as she read the letter from Sir Robert Melville which accompanied the box, and which stated that, being sure she missed the comforts to which she was accustomed, he was therefore having a few things sent to her from Holyrood.

Smiling with pleasure, Mary called Jane Kennedy and Marie Courcelles.

“This can only mean that Melville regrets his treatment of me,” she explained. “He is anxious to let me know that he dissociates himself from that brute Lindsay. It’s a good sign.”

It was then that Lady Douglas entered; she was a bright-eyed woman in spite of her advancing years, and could not hide her curiosity as to the contents of the box. If it were not for the fact that she knew Mary’s incarceration to be of such importance to her beloved son Moray, she would have been entirely sympathetic toward the Queen.

“I pray you be seated, Lady Douglas,” said Mary. “I can see you are as curious as I am to know what the box contains.”

“I crave Your Majesty’s pardon for intruding,” whispered Lady Douglas. “But . . . ”

“I understand,” said Mary. “You, like everyone in the castle, must obey the orders of those who now govern us.”

Lady Douglas lifted her shoulders resignedly. She had enjoyed her life, and the most exciting period was when she had been mistress to Mary’s father. When after his death she had married Douglas of Lochleven, life had continued to be good. She had a large family on whom she doted; she would never be lonely and life would never lose its zest for her because there would always be some son or daughter on whom her affectionate hopes would be fixed. She had borne thirteen children—six to James V and seven to Douglas. Her favorite was James Stuart, Earl of Moray, the man of destiny; but the others, like her dear Geordie, were more comfortable to live with.

As for Mary there was a resemblance to her father in her face, which warmed Lady Douglas’s heart every time she looked at her, and brought back memories that made her feel young again.

Jane Kennedy was bending over the box, drawing out a pair of black velvet boots trimmed with marten.

Mary gave a cry of delight: “Oh, how glad I am to see them again.”

Marie Courcelles held up a cloak of red satin also trimmed with marten.

Mary snatched it and wrapped it around herself. “Now I am beginning to feel alive again!” she declared.

Sir William who had joined his mother looked on and his expression was sardonic. He would have liked to depart, but how could he know what might be hidden among all the fripperies!

Lady Douglas had gone over to the women. She looked into the box and cried: “Sir Robert Melville has made a goodly choice.”

Mary took up a gray velvet robe and held it against her. “It is long since I wore this!” she said laughing. “But I shall enjoy wearing it more than I ever did before. What else, Jane?”

Jane and Marie were plunging into the chest and there were cries of pleasure as they held up a pair of crimson sleeves edged with gold fringe.

Jane said excitedly: “They can be attached to this silk camlet . . . oh look! It is the one decorated with aglets. How grand we shall be!”

“Let me see, Marie.” Mary took the sleeves and put them on. She clapped her hands. “How can I thank Melville for his thoughtfulness?” she asked, and there were tears in her eyes.

Sir William looked on with exasperation. It was well, he believed, that a Queen who could be so moved by fripperies should be compelled to abdicate.

Lady Douglas had brought out a black velvet coat.

“Magnificent!” she cried, and slipped it around the Queen’s shoulders.

“And he does not intend us to be idle,” said Jane, her head in the trunk. “Look what I have here.” She brought up a packet of colored silks.

“We shall be able to embroider,” cried Marie.

“And here are canvases to work on and some Spanish chenille,” exclaimed Jane. “Look at the colors!”

“Oh, good Master Melville!” murmured Mary gaily.

The chest was emptied and the clothes were strewn about the floor. Sir William shrugged his shoulders and signed to his mother to remain in the apartment to keep watch and examine the clothes more closely.

Lady Douglas nodded. Mary, of course, knew why she remained, but the woman was only obeying instructions so she did not hold that against her.

“I will help your maids put the garments away, Your Majesty,” said Lady Douglas, as her deft fingers were feeling in the black velvet boots to discover whether a note was concealed there.

Mary smiled at her. “Please do,” she said. “Ah, what a difference it makes to have one’s own things about one.”

“Your Majesty finds life restricting here?”

“Inevitably, I fear.”

“I wish we might make life easier for Your Majesty.”

“You do your best, Lady Douglas, but I am a prisoner and nothing can alter that.”

“I will ask that you be allowed the freedom of the castle and the island. Now that you are so much better you must find confinement to one set of apartments tiresome.”

“All captivity is tiresome to me, Lady Douglas, but I thank you for your kindness. It is pleasant, in such circumstances, to find some who try to make my stay here more comfortable. Your son is already my friend.”

“William regrets that he must be your custodian.”

“I was not thinking of William, but your younger son.”

“My son George, Your Majesty. So you have noticed him!”

“I did, for I liked well his manners.”

Lady Douglas smiled happily. It was pleasant to hear compliments about her children. George was a handsome boy. Who knew, the Queen might not always be a prisoner. If she were ever back in power she would remember those who had pleased her during her captivity, and George might profit from the fact that he had found favor with the Queen. That would be wonderful. But alas, if the Queen were returned to power that would mean a loss of power for her dear son Moray, and that was something which must never happen.

Lady Douglas sighed, and turned her attentions to the new clothes which Melville had kindly—perhaps cunningly—sent for the Queen’s pleasure.

THAT SAME EVENING at seven o’clock Mary was seated at supper in her apartments when a boat came to the island and a most illustrious person disembarked.

Mary did not see his arrival but Jane Kennedy came in to tell her.

“Your brother is at the castle.”

“Jamie!” cried the Queen and her face lit up with pleasure. No matter what hard things she heard about James, she had always found it difficult to believe that he was anything but her friend.

“He is coming to see you,” whispered Marie.

Mary laughed. “I’m glad some of my clothes have arrived. I should have hated to greet Jamie in my rags. How does this silk camlet look?”

“Very beautiful with the aglets sparkling.”

“So I look a little more like a Queen?”

“You would always look like a Queen, Your Majesty, no matter what you wore.”

“And I still have subjects to flatter me! I can scarcely wait to see Jamie. He will come straight to me. Jane, I have a feeling that he will not allow me to remain here.”

“He is coming. I can hear him now,” said Jane.

The door opened and James Stuart, Earl of Moray, bastard brother of the Queen, stood on the threshold.

“Jamie!” cried Mary; and was about to go forward to embrace him when she saw that he was not alone. With him were the Earls of Morton and Atholl, and by the demeanor of them all she understood that this was not merely a visit of brother to sister; it was the would-be Regent calling on the dethroned Queen.

James’s face was expressionless. She had always teased him, told him that he was as cold as a fish. He took such a delight in never betraying his feelings. Now he stood, holding himself at his full height—which was not great—his tawny coloring the only real resemblance he bore to his royal father.

James Douglas, Earl of Morton, was yet another connection of the Douglas family and one of Moray’s closest friends and supporters. Mary did not like the man. She believed he had arranged the murder of Rizzio; it was between him and Atholl that she had entered Edinburgh after the debacle at Carberry Hill. It was thoughtless of James to come and see her in the company of two men who must bring with them such bitter memories.

“I heard you had come, James,” she said restrainedly. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

“I was near Lochleven and could not pass without a visit.”

“I am only a prisoner now, James.”

James looked uncomfortable. He was longing for this visit to be over but had felt it necessary to make it. He had determined not to see Mary alone, and it was for this reason that he had insisted that Morton and Atholl accompany him although they were as uneasy as he was. Neither of the three men would meet the Queen’s eye. She well understood their shame. She felt her anger rising against Morton and Atholl, but she remembered how James had played with her—in his solemn way it was true—when she was a child and had later told her that if she needed counsel she must come to him. He had often reminded her that he was her brother and that must mean that the ties between them were strong.

Others might warn her against him; she had never believed them; it had always been a fault of hers that she endowed others with the warm generosity which was her own.

“I trust you are comfortable here?” he murmured now.

“Comfortable! In prison? Do you think that possible, James?”

“You are safe here from your enemies . . . who are numerous.”

“I thought I was in the hands of my enemies,” she said a little sternly, and her eyes were scornful as she glanced from Morton to Atholl.

“William and my mother are treating you well, I trust?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “They do not starve me, nor ill-treat me physically. But, as I said, I am their prisoner. James, I wish to talk to you . . . alone.”

James hesitated. It was the very thing he was trying to avoid and yet he saw that he could not escape it without seeming churlish and he was anxious not to appear that.

“Oh . . . ” he said awkwardly, “very well.” He turned to his friends. “You hear my sister’s request. Perhaps you should leave us.”

Morton and Atholl bowed slightly and retired. When the door had shut on them Mary sighed with relief.

“I rejoice in their absence. They are no friends of mine.” She went to her brother and laid her hands on his shoulders giving him her most dazzling smile; but he was one of the few people who were not affected by it. When he looked at Mary, ambitious James did not see an attractive woman in distress; he saw the crown which had been taken from her and which—although he could not wear it—would be as good as his until her son reached his majority.

All the humiliation he had suffered could be appeased if he were ruler of Scotland. He could never be James VI, but he could be King in all but name . . . while his sister remained in captivity. He would exchange the term Bastard for Regent. It was the only balm for the wounded vanity of year. Mary was a fool to plead to him for help. She should have known that he was the last person to help her to freedom which must necessarily mean his own fall from power.

But Mary was a foolish woman—a beautiful and fascinating one, it was true, but a sentimental fool.

He had come here for one purpose—to make her implore him to take the Regency. He believed he could do this, for he had always thought him to be her friend.

He laid his hands almost gingerly on hers; his were cold, as she remembered they always had been.

“Ah, Mary,” he said, “you are in a dire state . . . a dire state.”

“But I feel happier today for two reasons, Jamie. Today Melville had a box of my clothes sent to me . . . .”

Frivolous woman! thought James. Her crown lost, and she can take pleasure in clothes!

“And,” she went on, “as though that were not enough, my dear brother comes to see me.”

“Your food grows cold,” he said, because he found it embarrassing to look into her radiant face which betrayed her love for him. She made him feel mean and shifty, which he did not believe himself to be. He was a man with a stern sense of duty. He believed that there was one man who could make Scotland strong and deliver the country from the state into which Mary, with her two disastrous marriages, had plunged it; that man would be the Regent Moray. He had never betrayed his emotions, so she did not expect him to be demonstrative now, which was a mercy, for he would have found it difficult to feign love for her at this time, when he was planning to rob her of her kingdom.

He led her to the table and sat down with her.

“You must eat with me, Jamie.”

“I am not hungry. But you should continue with your supper.”

He sat down and stared broodingly before him.

“In the old days,” she said sadly, “you thought it an honor to give me my napkin.”

He did not offer to do this service and she went on: “It is difficult serving a Queen in the fortalice of Lochleven from doing so in the Castle of Edinburgh or Holyrood House.”

He was moodily silent and she cried: “Why, I embarrass you, Jamie. Never mind. It warms my heart to see you.”

“Pray finish your supper.”

“It seems inhospitable to eat alone. I do not think I am in the mood for food. Tell me, Jamie, what news do you bring me?”

“John Knox preaches against you in Edinburgh.”

“That does not surprise me. He was ever my enemy.”

“In the streets the fishwives speak against you.”

“I heard them shouting below my window. I saw their vacuous faces alive only with evil.”

“I could not answer for your safety if you went back to Edinburgh.”

“So I must remain here, a prisoner?”

“For your own safety.”

“But I have heard that there are some lords who would be ready to rally to my side. The Flemings and the Setons were always my loyal friends.”

“Who told you this?” he asked sharply.

“I do not remember. Perhaps no one told me. Perhaps I merely know it to be true.”

Moray’s mood was thoughtful. He was going to tell his brother William that they must be more vigilant; he was not pleased with the measures of security which were being taken. He fancied he had seen a change in Ruthven. There was a certain witchery about his half-sister which—and this was beyond his understanding—seemed to have a devastating effect on men, so that they were ready to jeopardize their careers.

Mary threw aside her napkin. “No,” she said, “I shall not eat alone. Let us go for a walk in the open air. I shall be considered safe if you are my companion.”

He took a velvet robe—which had come in Melville’s box—and put it about her shoulders.

“Come then,” he said, and they left the apartments and went into the grounds.

“They allow you to walk out here, I suppose.”

“They are most vigilant. I have taken a few little walks but always surrounded by guards.”

“I do not see why you should not walk when you wish and go where you wish in the castle.” He was looking at the boats moored at the lakeside. He pondered: I shall tell William to have her more closely watched. But at the same time he wanted her to go on believing that he was her friend and that he had come to assure himself of her comfort and to give her as much freedom as he could, at the same time ensuring her safety.

“Oh, Jamie,” she cried, “I knew you would help me.”

“My dear sister, ever since the murder of Rizzio there have been murmurs against you. Your marriage with Darnley was undesirable. You know how I warned you against that.”

“Because, dear brother, you are such a stern Protestant, and you would rather have seen me make a Protestant marriage.”

“And his mysterious death . . . .” Moray shook his head. “And then, before he was cold, the marriage with Bothwell. My dear sister, how could you have allowed yourself to be led into such folly?”

“Darnley’s death was none of my doing.”

Moray’s lips were hidden by his tawny mustache but they were tight and stern.

“Rizzio murdered; Darnley murdered . . . and then that hasty and unseemly marriage!”

“What news of Bothwell, James?”

“None that is good.”

“Good for me, James, or for those who wish to destroy him?”

James said: “He fled North. He is said to be there with Huntley.”

He will come for me, she thought triumphantly, and when he comes this nightmare will be over.

Moray was thinking: My first act will be to send a squadron North to capture that traitor. There is little the people of Edinburgh would rather see than his head on a pike.

“Mary,” said James, “you must be patient during the next months. You must resign yourself to your confinement here. Willingly would I free you, were it in my power to do so, but it would not be for your good.”

“How long will it last?”

“Who knows? Until the affairs of this country are in order.”

“They have made my little baby King of Scotland. Poor innocent child, he knows nothing of this. What will he think, I wonder, when he is old enough to know that they made a prisoner of his mother in order to rule through him?”

“It is a dangerous situation.”

“So many of them struggling for power,” she agreed.

“What Scotland needs—until the people are prepared to receive you back on the throne—is a strong man who can rule.”

“If Bothwell were here . . . ”

“Bothwell is far away in the North. The people would tear him to pieces if they could lay their hands on him. They want someone who is not afraid of them to restore order. Someone who will give his life if need be . . . for our troubled country.”

“Yourself, James?” she asked gently.

He frowned and pretended to be reluctant.

“I? Our father’s bastard!”

“The people do not hold that against you.”

“’Twas truly no fault of mine. Had I been consulted I should have asked to be born in wedlock!”

“You are the man, James. Our father’s son. Sober and religious in a manner acceptable to the people, strong, firm, destined to rule.”

“You are asking me to take over the Regency until that time when you are allowed to assume the crown?”

“Why yes, James, I suppose I am . . . if I have any say in the matter.”

“You ask a great deal,” he said, and there was no hint in his voice or manner of the exultation which was his. The purpose of his visit was achieved, and he saw no reason why he should dally longer with his sister. It was true she had no power to bestow the Regency, but being the man he was he preferred to have her approval.

They were silent for a while, looking over the lake. It would soon be dark and Mary gazed longingly at the mainland. The biggest of the boats, which brought household articles from the mainland, creaked on its chains. Suppose he were to take me away in that boat, she thought; who would be waiting on the mainland to help me? Some of my friends, surely.

Moray was thinking how gullible she was. How fortunate for him that she had committed folly after folly which had brought her to Lochleven. Here must she remain. There was so much he might have told her. Many of her cherished possessions had been given away as bribes by the Protestant lords; he had helped himself to horses from her stables. He might have told her a very interesting piece of news which could have caused her serious alarm. But not yet. He and Morton had not yet decided what use they would make of the silver casket which was in Morton’s possession. Morton declared that George Dalgleish, a servant of Bothwell’s, had discovered this after Bothwell had fled; and in this casket were letters and poems which left no doubt of Mary’s guilt as murderess and adulteress.

No, as yet that little matter was a secret to be brought to light when it could be most useful.

Mary had turned to him questioningly. In the dusk she seemed to see him more clearly than she ever had before.

James, who was never on the spot when there was trouble. Was it accident or design? What calculation went on behind those cold passionless eyes?

Standing there by the lakeside Mary was suddenly aware that Moray’s purpose in coming to Lochleven had not been to soothe her, not to assure himself of her comfort, but to persuade her to persuade him to accept the Regency.

The Regency! It was what he had always set his heart on.

She wanted to laugh loudly and bitterly. But James was saying: “The air grows chill. Let me conduct you to your chamber. Then I must say farewell.”

“Ah yes, James, there is no longer need for you to stay, is there?”

He appeared not to have heard as silently he conducted her into the castle which struck her as chill and forbidding; it seemed to her now as much a prison as it had in those first days.

He is no friend to me, she thought. Once I am free the Regency would pass from his hands.

How alone she felt! How deserted!

As she went toward her apartments escorted by James she saw George Douglas. His eyes went to her at once and became alight with the longing to serve her.

Not entirely alone! she thought as she went into her apartment. Not entirely deserted.

SIR WILLIAM VISITED Mary the next day and said: “My lord Moray is disturbed on your behalf, for he is eager that you should have as much freedom as is possible in the circumstances. He says your apartments are dark and possibly damp. He thinks that you should be given the apartment you occupied on previous visits to Lochleven.”

Mary was delighted for since she had furnished those apartments herself they were the most elegant in the castle.

“I shall be delighted to move into them immediately,” she told Sir William; and smiling he conducted her to them.

They were in a more modern part of the castle which was known as the New House, and situated in the southeastern tower. Mary gave a cry of pleasure as she saw the presence chamber which was a circular room with a low ceiling; and from the windows she had a magnificent view of the surrounding country. First she went to a window and looked out across the loch to the mountains.

From the presence room she went into the bedroom and it was comforting to notice that the beautiful pieces of tapestry with their hawking and hunting scenes were still hanging there. There was the bed which she had had brought here; it was shaped like a chapel and made of green velvet; the counterpane was of green taffety. There was the regal canopy and her sofa and chairs of crimson satin fringed with gold.

As she looked from her bedroom window, she could see the other three islets of the loch; and she could almost imagine that she was staying here after a hawking expedition, as she gazed at the ruins of the priory on that islet known as St. Serf’s Inch.

Then she saw the town of Kinross on the mainland and immediately began to wonder how many of her friends were nearby, in the hope that they might come to her aid.

Lady Douglas came into the apartments and Mary expressed to her the pleasure she felt.

“And,” went on Lady Douglas, “my lord Moray fancies you did not look as healthy as he would have wished you to look.”

“Was he surprised?” Mary asked with faint sarcasm.

“He was indeed,” replied Lady Douglas, “and he has said that you should take more exercise. He does not see why you should not ride about the island if you wish.”

“He is most thoughtful,” murmured Mary.

Lady Douglas bore the look of a proud mother; she knew that very shortly she would be hearing that her son was the ruler of Scotland. It was something to make a mother proud. Ruler he would remain for as long as this woman was in captivity. She would see that there were no means of escape.

Sir William was thinking of his half-brother’s words: “Give her more freedom within the limits of the island, but double the guard, particularly at night, and make sure that the boats are securely moored when not in use.”

So under the semblance of greater freedom Mary’s imprisonment was in fact to become more rigorous.

Moray had added: “Watch Ruthven. I fancied I saw a certain fondness in his eyes when they rested on my sister.”

Sir William was therefore far from easy in his mind.

IN HER NEW APARTMENTS, Mary set to work on her tapestry, using the canvases, wools and silks which Melville had provided. It was a great pleasure and relaxation to be doing such delicate work again, and both Jane and Marie Courcelles shared her enthusiasm. Mary could forget her irritation with her imprisonment as she planned the design, which was a series of pictures of ladies and gentlemen richly dressed in brightly colored costumes and jewels. With the glazed flax thread which Melville had had the foresight to send she worked the jewels in satin stitch using white dots for the pearls. So as she worked out her schemes with these elaborately dressed men and women in their backgrounds of castles, bowers, terraces and country scenes, she was able to imagine herself free of her prison.

Melville could not realize how he had served her; he had in fact, on receiving her thanks, sent her another box containing more of her clothes and her working materials.

There was yet another joy. Now that he had achieved his end Moray, anxious to appear her friend and to make her believe he had no wish that her term of confinement should be one of rigorous imprisonment, ordered that she should have more servants. She should have her own cook in her suite of rooms and two domestic servants whose duties should be to wait on her alone.

The greatest delight of all was when Jane arrived in Mary’s apartments, to tell her that a visitor had called at the castle to see her and was asking permission to present herself.

“Herself!” cried Mary. “Then it is a woman!”

“See for yourself, Your Majesty!” said Jane; and the newcomer was ushered into the apartment.

Mary gave a cry of great joy when she recognized her dearest friend, Mary Seton, the only unmarried one of the four Marys who had shared their childhood with her, and the one who had been most dear to her.

For some moments they could do nothing but cling to each other. Mary was laughing and crying at the same time and Mary Seton, who had always been the most restrained of the four Marys, was near to tears.

“Oh how happy I am to see you, dear Seton!” cried Mary, using the name by which she had called this friend of her childhood, for as there had been four Marys as well as herself it had been impracticable to call them all by their common Christian name. “I can bear my trials so much more easily with you as my companion.”

“I have been imploring the Confederate Lords to let me come, ever since they brought you here.”

“My dear, dear Seton!”

“They were very suspicious of my intentions. I had to assure them that I was quite incapable of arranging your escape. They would not believe that I only wished to share your imprisonment.”

“They would never understand friendship such as ours,” murmured Mary.

So there was the joy of showing Seton the castle, of hearing news of the other Marys, of Seton’s family’s devotion to their Queen, of recalling other days when they had been together.

The happiest thing which had happened to the Queen since she had come to Lochleven was reunion with Mary Seton.

THERE WERE TIMES when Mary longed to escape from watching eyes; she knew she never did. Although she was allowed to wander at her will about the island, she was aware that, from the windows and turrets of the castle, vigilant eyes were fixed upon her. There was no escape.

One day as she sat alone by the lake she saw a boat being rowed across from the mainland, and as it came nearer she realized that its occupant was George Douglas.

He saw her and to her astonishment gave no sign of recognition and as he brought the boat near to that spot where she was he shipped his oars and said in a voice which was scarcely audible: “Your Majesty, please forgive my remaining seated. It is the best way. If I come ashore it will be seen that we are speaking together. I shall pretend to be occupied with the boat while I talk to you.”

“Yes, George,” she answered.

“I have sought an opportunity to speak to Your Majesty for some days. It has not been possible. I have met Lord Seton who is not far away from Lochleven. He is trying to find a means of releasing you. He is enlisting the help of the Hamiltons. John Beaton is with him. They hope to bring in Huntley and Argyle.”

“Your words fill me with hope.”

“Your Majesty, you may entrust me with any message you wish to be sent to them. It will give me the utmost pleasure if you will look upon me as your messenger to take your orders to your subjects and to bring their plans to your notice.”

“This is the best news I have heard for a long time,” she told him.

“I must pass on now. It must not be noticed that we converse together.”

“Thank you. Thank you, George.”

She sat watching the boat skim lightly over the water. She felt elated by the adoration of this earnest young man. Ruthven’s burning gaze met hers from time to time. He was contrite, and was trying to convey that he was deeply ashamed of his outburst and was now ready to serve her . . . and hope.

She began to feel that her situation was not without advantages.

THE SUMMER was passing and the damp of autumn was in the air. Each day the memories of that terrible June seemed a little fainter. Mary was glad of the passing time but she was saddened by the arrival of autumn; summer was the time for escape. Mist rose from the lake and penetrated the castle; the cry of wild fowl sounded melancholy during the dull days, which all seemed so much alike. The Queen walked a little, dined, supped, prayed for her deliverance, sat at her tapestry, gazed longingly across to the mainland and wondered when her friends would come to deliver her.

She invited members of the Douglas family to her apartment, sometimes to supper, sometimes after the meal. Lindsay was not staying on the island although he paid periodical visits to the castle; Ruthven was often present at the gatherings, when his smoldering gaze would fix itself upon her and he would seek to converse with her. She avoided him; he might appear more docile but she was aware of the burning passion behind his eyes. He would be ready to help her but he would expect to be paid for his services. He might be curbing his tongue, but his motives were the same as they had been on that night when he had come unbidden to her apartment.

What a pleasure it was to turn to George Douglas. Dear George, being so young and earnest, was quite unable to hide his devotion, which was a pity; and yet she was moved by it, knowing that there was no motive behind George’s actions but to serve her.

So she would single George out for her attention, and he often sat beside her while his mother watched them, as did others present.

Ought she to warn George? wondered Lady Douglas. Ought she to tell Moray that George was so much in love with the Queen that he was clearly prepared to do something foolish for her?

Lady Douglas studied her young son. He was such a charming boy. Not like his half-brother Moray of course—not even like William. George was gentle; he would need someone to help him if he were to make his way in the world.

She would ask Moray to take him into his service . . . not yet . . . later. Lady Douglas liked to keep the members of her family about her as long as possible. But suppose the crown was restored to the Queen; dear Moray would perhaps not be so influential then. And the Queen would not forget George, her devoted admirer in adversity.

How an ambitious mother’s thoughts would run on! Mary was an impetuous woman. She had married Bothwell, who was no royal Prince. As she had married Bothwell, why should she not marry a Douglas?

So dreams ran on, sweeping aside all obstacles. Bothwell could either be killed or divorced from the Queen to make way for Lady Douglas’s handsome son.

Therefore if those two did talk dangerously, Lady Douglas could look on blithely. Mary could not escape from Lochleven until Moray was ready to let her go, but that was no reason why she should not enjoy her pleasant game of make-believe with Lady Douglas’s bonny son Geordie.

Mary Seton played the lute and there was dancing. Trust the Queen, thought Lady Douglas, to bring gaiety even into her prison. There she was, her chestnut hair escaping most becomingly from her coif, dressed in a gown of blue velvet trimmed with miniver, which Melville had sent to her, looking at young George as they danced together. She is making a Little France in Lochleven, thought Lady Douglas. And in the Little France of Holyrood House Mary had taken Rizzio as her favorite, had married Darnley, had loved Bothwell. Why should she not love George Douglas in the keep of Lochleven?

Mary was saying to George: “You must not look at me so devotedly, George. Others will notice.”

“They should not be surprised,” he said vehemently. “All the world must be devoted to you.”

“You should have seen your brother-in-law, Lindsay, with his sword at my throat.”

“He is a monster.”

“I agree, George. I feel my anger rising when I think of him. I tell myself that I will have his head . . . when I escape. When, George, when?”

“It shall be soon, Your Majesty.”

“If all men loved me as you do, George, I should have nothing to fear.”

“My plan is almost complete, Your Majesty.”

She moved nearer to him in the dance. “Can you tell me . . . without seeming to? Speak low; your mother watches us.”

“Your Majesty, when you are free, you will not hold it against my mother and brother that you were held in their fortalice?”

“Nay, George. It seems that I shall be so grateful to one Douglas that I shall love the whole family.”

“When you say such things I am filled with such happiness that I forget aught else.”

“Oh George, you must not love me so devotedly that you cannot help me to escape. There is one thing I long for beyond all others. Only when one has lost freedom does one realize how precious it is. I shall never forget you, George. For if I never leave Lochleven I shall remember that in my darkest hour you gave me hope.”

“Then I have not lived in vain. If they discovered that I had tried to help you, doubtless they would kill me. If that should come to pass, do not grieve for me. Remember that I should be the happiest man on Earth on the day I died for you.”

“Do not speak of dying for me. Rather live for me.”

George looked melancholy. “I am aware, Your Majesty, of the gulf that lies between us. You are a Queen. My only hope is to serve you.”

“You are too modest, George. I shall never forget that you are my very dear friend.”

Her long eyes were soft and full of affection. She wanted to take his head in her hands and kiss him. She was young and passionate; she was also very lonely, and the image of Bothwell was growing dimmer each day. Perhaps she had had enough of brutality; what she craved now was gentleness, this adoration, this loving homage which the charming boy was laying at her feet.

“My very dear friend,” he repeated.

Had he been more calculating he might have read an invitation in her words. Any other might have given her a passionate look of understanding and, when the castle was sleeping, she would have opened her eyes to find him beside her. But not George. He had no thought beyond service; he did not think, as Ruthven did: I will help the Queen escape and in exchange she may take me for her lover. George only asked to serve.

It would have been easy to divert to George Douglas that passionate desire which had once overwhelmed her for a different kind of man.

He was too young to understand. He did not know how he might so easily have become her lover.

He was whispering: “Have you noticed the large boat moored at the lakeside? It is not securely moored. Be ready when I give the warning. It may be very soon.”

“You would take me to the mainland in this boat?” she asked. “How should we elude the guards?”

“You have many supporters on the mainland. I have suggested to them that they come in force to attack and force their way into the castle. While you and I take the boat and go to the mainland, they will engage the guards until we have made our escape.”

“It sounds simple,” she said. “But are there enough men to prevent our being caught before we reach the mainland?”

“I will arrange it,” said George.

She smiled; but she thought: Is it possible?

George had no doubt; she could see by the happy smile on his lips.

Seton had stopped playing the lute and the dance was over. Lady Douglas watched benignly while George escorted the Queen to her chair.

IT WAS DUSK and George bent over the chains by which the boat was fastened.

A simple matter, he thought. He wished they could have a rehearsal. He would make his way straight to the keep, where she would be waiting in her cloak. Then they would hurry out of the castle while the invaders held off the guards. On the mainland Lord Seton and others would be waiting for them with fast horses.

“Is aught wrong with the boat, sir?”

George started on seeing Will Drysdale, the garrison commander, looking down at him. George flushed, annoyed because he could never cover his embarrassment. “Oh . . . no . . . It seems secure enough.”

Drysdale bent over the chains to examine them. “H’m,” was all he said. Then he straightened himself and stared beyond George to the mainland. “I believe this boat causes you some anxiety, sir. I saw you examining it the other day.”

“I think it’s secure enough,” said George turning away.

Drysdale looked after him and scratched the side of his face. He watched George until he was out of sight; then he went to find Sir William.

Sir William was in his apartments and Drysdale asked: “Could I have a word with you alone, sir?”

“Anything wrong?” asked Sir William when they were alone.

“The big boat is not very securely moored, Sir William. It would not be difficult for anyone to release it. I suggest that we make it very secure. If we do not . . . ”

“You have discovered something, Drysdale?”

“Well, Sir William, I hardly know. It was just that I wanted to make sure.”

Sir William eyed him quizzically. “You’d better tell me, Drysdale.”

“It may be conjecture on my part, Sir William, but Master George seemed uncommonly interested in that boat, and anyone can see with half an eye that . . . ”

“The Queen is a very desirable woman,” sighed Sir William, “and my brother is a chivalrous young man . . . . That’s what you mean, is it?”

Drysdale nodded.

“I should not like the young fool to run into trouble,” said Sir William.

“Where the Queen is, trouble will soon follow, Sir William. What shall I do?”

“Make the boat doubly secure, strengthen the guard, and keep your eye on my young brother. And so will I. For the time being let that suffice. And . . . say nothing. He is young and inexperienced. I would not like this to reach the ears of my lord Moray. He would not understand the emotions of a young boy in love. My lord Moray could never have been that. Such as we are, Drysdale, are more lenient, eh. This could cost the boy his life.”

“Very well, Sir William.”

“But remember, we have been warned.”

GEORGE LAY STRETCHED out on the grass moodily staring up at the keep. She was seated in her window, her tapestry in her hand.

He had failed! George was telling himself what an ineffectual fool she would think him. The plan had had a chance of success but he had had to raise their suspicions by his too careful examinations of the boat. Now that they suspected him, he would have to think of something very ingenious if he were going to give her her freedom.

But he would succeed; he was determined to. In his imagination he saw himself at her side, defending her for the rest of their lives, his sword drawn ready for all who came against her. All that he asked was to be her slave. When she rode away from Lochleven he would go with her, no matter in what guise; he would not care. He would be her page, her scullion . . . anything—all he asked was that he might be with her.

A low chuckle at his side brought him out of his dream of chivalry. He frowned; he was in no mood for young Willie so he ignored the boy stretched out beside him until Willie began to whistle untunefully. Then George cried: “For the love of God, be silent!”

Willie, resting his elbows on the grass, propped his face in his hands. “You were a daftie, Geordie Douglas,” he said. “It was a poor plan, did ye know?”

“What do you mean?”

“To think to go off in the boat and then let old Drysdale know it by looking over the old vessel every few hours to make sure it was worthy to carry your Queen.”

“So you knew . . . ”

“Hey, Geordie Douglas, what have I got this pair of peepers for, did ye think? Now if I was going to rescue my Queen I’d go a different way about it, that I would!”

“You rescue the Queen!”

“And why not, Geordie Douglas? I may wear your cast-off breeks but I am a man for all that . . . and she’s a bonny lass though a Queen.”

George sprang to his feet but Willie was quicker. George lifted his arm to cuff the boy but Willie dodged away; he stood some distance off, poised to run, grinning insolently.

I have indeed been a fool, thought George. Even Willie would have done better.

DECEMBER HAD COME and as Mary sat with Seton over their tapestry she said: “I shall have to wait for the spring before I can hope to escape from this place. How long that seems.”

“The next three months will pass quickly,” Seton comforted her.

“It is the monotony of the days which is so hard to bear; to look out from my window every hour of the day and see the same stretch of lake. Oh, I am happy that you are with me. I am fond of George, and Lady Douglas seems to be a good friend as far as her fondness for our Regent will allow her. But there are times when I feel very melancholy.”

She did not mention Bothwell, but she was thinking of him. During the last weeks she had had a premonition that she would never see him again. Through George news was brought to her from the mainland; no one had been able to stop that, and she knew that Moray had sent Kirkcaldy of Grange to capture her husband.

Bothwell, learning of the plan to capture him, had left Huntley and taken temporary refuge at Spynie with his great-uncle and old tutor and guardian, Patrick Hepburn the Bishop of Moray. He had attempted a feat which was typical of him when he had tried to enlist the help of pirates in order to raise a naval force with himself as its commander. Indeed, it seemed that he had not hesitated to turn pirate himself. He would have brought many an uneasy moment to Moray and his friends, for Bothwell was the man they feared more than any in Scotland. How often had Mary wept for the strength he could have given her as well as that erotic satisfaction which, having tasted, she often craved for. But there was no substitute for Bothwell; there never would be. She was aware of this and that was why the fear that she would never see him again was as acute as a physical pain.

But even Bothwell had not been sufficiently prepared to make a stand against Moray’s might, and he had gone to the Orkneys and Shetlands where he had narrowly escaped capture; but Kirkcaldy in hot pursuit had been wrecked on the rocks, while Bothwell escaped across the North Sea to be captured off the Norwegian coast by a Danish commander and taken to Bergen. There he was allowed to take up residence, but a certain Anna Thorssen was, to Bothwell’s misfortune, residing in Bergen, and when she heard that he was in that town, determined to settle an old score. The buccaneering Bothwell had gone through a form of marriage with her some years before, taken possession of her considerable fortune and then deserted her. His sins were catching up with him. She brought a suit against him and, only by promising her an annuity when he returned to Scotland, did he manage to elude the law. He had been expelled from Bergen and was now in Copenhagen.

While he was free there was hope, and yet with the passing of each day the bold Borderer seemed to become more like a figure in a dream than in reality. There were times when she could not bear to think of him, when looking back on her life she knew that it would have been different if she had never surrendered to Bothwell, if she had never allowed him to make herself the slave of her senses.

That had brought her to Lochleven . . . here in the castle surrounded by the lake, where only the companionship of her women, the unswerving devotion of a chivalrous young man could in some measure compensate her for all she had lost.

“Before this,” she told Seton, “I never had the time to look back on my life, and consequently never learned the art of contemplation. Life passed too quickly; it was like playing a part in one pageant after another. It is different now.”

“Very different, Your Majesty.”

“I begin to see events in the right perspective. I see people for what they are. Do you know, Seton, before this I believed Moray was my friend. What a stupid woman I must have been! Moray could free me tomorrow if he wished. Of course he does not wish to do so because once I am free he loses his power. All his life brother Jamie has longed for the power which his illegitimacy denied him; always he has been saying to himself: ‘Where Mary is, there might I have been had I been born in wedlock.’”

“He is a very ambitious man.”

Mary laughed. “For the first time I see my brother Jamie clearly, and I know that almost everything he has ever done has been a step toward the Regency. It is the most he can attain. How he would love to be James VI; but my little son bears that title. Still, Regent Moray has all the power that would have been his even if he had been James VI. My half-brother was always shrewd, Seton. What does a name matter? That is what he will be asking himself now.”

“Shall I bring out the tapestry, Your Majesty?”

“Ah, yes, Seton. Working those beautiful scenes soothes me, as you know. I can almost feel I am there . . . with our ladies and gentlemen. But perhaps it is not wise to be so soothed. Perhaps I should be making plans.”

“Plans are being made, Your Majesty. When the spring comes . . . ”

“Meanwhile there is the whole of the winter before us, Seton. How shall we endure it in this gloomy prison?”

“We shall endure it, Your Majesty.”

Yes, thought Mary with a grim smile, because we have our tapestry and our music, because we have our hopes, because of the devotion of young George Douglas.

THE WINDS OF LATE DECEMBER swept across the island when Moray came again to visit his half-sister.

This time he came with the Earl of Morton and Sir James Balfour—two men whose actions had certainly not endeared them to Mary, and when they entered her room she found it difficult to restrain her anger.

The wind howling about the castle made it at times almost impossible to hear each other speak. She looked straight at Sir James Balfour and immediately remembered that it was he who had provided that house in Kirk o’ Field which had been destined to be the scene of Darnley’s murder. He had been the lawyer who had arranged Bothwell’s divorce from his wife in order that he might marry Mary; and in exchange for these services had been made governor of Edinburgh Castle. But there was not a more vile traitor in Scotland; Balfour’s lawyer’s mind was alert for disaster and he was determined not to be on the losing side. So, as soon as he knew that the defeat of Mary and Bothwell was imminent he had surrendered the castle to their enemies, asking, as his reward, for the priory of Pittenweem, an annuity for his son and, should there be a trial of those involved in Darnley’s murder, a free pardon for himself.

And this was one traitor whom Moray brought with him to Lochleven.

As for Morton, in his treacherous hands was a certain casket of which Mary had heard rumors. It was said to contain letters and poems written by her to Bothwell, and to be one of the most important pieces of evidence in the Darnley case.

And James himself—her half-brother, Jamie, as she used to call him in the days of her childhood—what of him? There he stood, his cold fish-like eyes upon her. He may be Regent, she thought, but I am the Queen.

“How the wind howls,” she said coolly. “Such a noise must of necessity be for some arch-traitor.”

Her scornful gaze rested on Balfour who had the grace not to meet her eyes.

Moray went forward and would have taken her hands, but she drew away from him.

“Pray do not tell me of your concern for my well-being,” she cried. “I know your concern to be non-existent. My health has improved since we last met and I am sure that is a matter of deep regret to you.”

“Your Majesty!” began Moray who had stepped ahead of Morton and Balfour, but she cut him short.

“I will not listen to your soft words. I think of your actions. If you are my friend, my lord Moray, how can I remain your prisoner? Do you know how long I have been in this place? Six months! You have achieved your purpose. You have forced me to abdicate. You have set a baby on the throne. And you are Regent.”

“My dear sister,” Moray replied coldly, “what has happened to change you? When we last met you were loving and prepared to trust me.”

“Because I did not know you then, my lord Moray. While I have been in captivity my eyes have been opened. I have been thinking of the past . . . and the present . . . and the future. James Stuart, how many times have I given you my sisterly affection? How many times have you been disloyal to me, and have I accepted your excuses? When I had power I did not forget you. You were my bastard brother, but I could not have given you more honors if you had been a brother without the stain of bastardy upon him.”

“My dear, dear Mary, my sister, my Queen,” said Moray, “you have been listening to idle gossip. I am your friend now as I always have been. I come to discuss with you the possibility of your freedom. I come to lay certain conditions before you.”

“Conditions!” she cried. “You would offer me conditions! Let me tell you this: I would rather remain in this prison for the rest of my life than accept any conditions you might lay before me, for I know full well that those conditions could only be for the good of Bastard James and not for Queen Mary. I know that you have hunted Bothwell from this land because you feared him. I know that all those who are friends of mine are no friends of yours. Do not imagine that, because I am your prisoner, because you hate me and seek my destruction, all are of your mind. I have friends, James Stuart, and one day they will free me from this castle and then . . . there will be no conditions . . . .”

She walked past them to her own private apartments.

James Balfour, his color heightened, his lips tight, spoke the thoughts which were in all their minds: “It is clear that she has a friend within the castle . . . someone who is in touch with her friends outside and brings her news.”

Moray and Morton looked at each other.

“Have no fear,” said Moray angrily, “we shall soon discover the traitor.”

MORAY, ALONE WITH Sir William, expressed his displeasure. “Not everyone in this castle is with us,” he snapped. “Someone here brings information to the Queen.” Sir William flinched. “Why brother,” he said, “it is the wish of us all to please you.”

“Yet the Queen has information which could only have been given to her by traitors in our midst. Someone is talking too freely, and, it would seem, is more eager to serve her than me.”

“I have noticed that Ruthven is casting languishing glances in her direction,” said Sir William.

“I too was aware of that. Ruthven is to leave at once for Edinburgh.”

Sir William did not mention the matter of the boat. He had no wish to incense Moray against George, particularly as he himself was inclined to shrug aside George’s devotion to the Queen. Calf love, he thought. It happens in the very young and George often seems to be young for his years.

Later when they were at supper—the Queen supped in her own room and refused to join the family and their visitors—Moray was aware of the expression in his young half-brother’s face when Mary was mentioned.

Lady Douglas, alert where her sons were concerned, realizing that the very manner in which George spoke the Queen’s name betrayed his feelings, was very uneasy. Moray was the son of whom she was most proud of course—son of a King, Regent of Scotland—what more could a mother ask! But she loved wee Geordie too, and fervently hoped the lad was not going to fall into trouble.

Her hopes were vain. Moray left the supper table quickly and summoned his young brother George, with his mother and Sir William, to a private chamber.

He came straight to the point and, looking into George’s face, he accused: “I believe you are concocting some foolish plot to rescue the Queen.”

“There is no such plot,” answered George; which was true, for try as he would he had found nothing satisfactory.

“But if you saw your opportunity you would be ready to serve the woman?”

“Do not speak of the Queen so disrespectfully in my hearing,” retorted George.

An oath escaped Moray, which was rare with him. He was really shaken.

“You lovesick fool!” he muttered. “So it is you, is it? It is because of you that I find her so changed. You have fed her with news and promises of help. You fool! And you call yourself a half-brother of mine!”

Lady Douglas, distressed to witness conflict between her loved ones, said: “Geordie meant no harm, Jamie.”

“No harm!” cried Moray, turning on his mother. “This is not a boy’s game. Remember that. This Geordie of yours could plunge Scotland into civil war.”

“’Twas nothing but a little flirtation, Jamie. What can you expect of young people?”

“Young people! That woman is old in sin, Madam.”

“Geordie would never go against your interest any more than I or William would.”

Moray was impervious to her distress. He glared at his half-brother through narrowed eyes. “You will get out of Lochleven,” he said. “When next I call here I shall expect to find you gone.”

“This is my home,” insisted George.

“It was. It is no longer.”

“Mother . . . ” said George, turning to Lady Douglas; but what could she do? Moray had spoken.

George strode out of the room and Moray, who disliked scenes of this sort, signed to his mother and brother that he wished no further reference to the matter.

That night Moray left the castle.

LADY DOUGLAS watching him go was sad. Where would Geordie go? she was asking herself. It had been a favorite dream of hers that Moray would find some place of honor for George. Families should stand together. And now they had quarreled. Oh, how distressing!

Sir William understood her feelings: he laid his hand on her arm. “James is right,” he said. “Young George is playing with fire.”

“He has been so happy since she came. Oh, William, he has become a man through his devotion to her. He is different from the rest of you. He was always so gentle and affectionate. And where will he go? We cannot drive him from his home.”

“You heard what James said.”

She sighed. “But James will not be back for some time. Let George stay awhile . . . until he has made plans. I’m sure James did not mean him to go away at once . . . just like that. It is monstrous.”

Sir William gave her a look of affection. It was so like her to try to please all her sons. How distressing for her when they ranged themselves on opposite sides! As for Sir William himself, he did not see what harm George could do. It was hard on the boy to be banished from his home merely because he had done the most natural thing in the world—fallen in love with a beautiful woman.

James had gone. So there was no hurry for George to leave.

GEORGE WENT TO his own chamber and began to pace up and down there. He was angry. How dared James order him from his home! He was shocked to realize how much he hated James. All his life he had been taught to admire his half-brother. James Stuart had been as a god to the Douglases. Lady Douglas had made sure of that; and George had never been envious of his mother’s preference for her bastard son, because it was not in George’s nature to be envious. He had no great opinion of himself, and it was only since he had become obsessed by his love for the Queen that he had rebelled. Now his pride made him long to leave the castle; but any personal feelings would be swamped by his desire to do what was best for the Queen.

If he could stay in Lochleven for a week . . . two weeks . . . he might be able to perfect some plan of escape. What a pity that the weather was so bad. If he were exiled from the island, how could he keep in touch with the Queen?

His door opened slowly and a mischievous face appeared to grin at him.

“Oh, Willie, go away.”

Willie’s response was to come into the room.

“I heard you get your marching orders,” he said.

“You hear too much.”

“Dinna be a daftie, Geordie. No one can hear too much.”

“I don’t want to talk to you now, Willie.”

“Which shows how soft you are, Geordie. For if you’re out there . . . ” he pointed through the window “ . . . and if you mustna’ set foot on the island, how’ll she know when you’re ready for her to leave . . . without Willie Douglas tells her?”

George stared at Willie who grinned almost bashfully.

“Ye’ll be over there, Geordie Douglas,” he said, “but Willie’ll be here . . . and he can do all ye did . . . and better.”

George strode across the room and gripped the boy’s shoulder. “You’d be in this, Willie? You’d help?”

“Oh ay . . . I’d do it.” He grinned. “She’s a bonnie lassie!”

George was excited. He made his way to the Queen’s apartments, which was rash, but for all he knew there might be little time to lose.

Seton was with the Queen who received him at once and asked Seton to leave.

George’s heart beat fast when he found himself alone with the Queen. He could scarcely speak, so deep was his emotion. Then the words came tumbling out. Moray had discovered his devotion to her and as a result he was to be exiled from the castle.

The Queen turned pale and put one of her exquisite hands to her throat. “Oh no . . . George,” she whispered, “that would be more than I could bear.”

He stared at her as though he could not believe his ears.

“It’s true,” she went on. “Nothing has given me so much courage to live through these dreary months as your presence.”

“Your Majesty . . . .”

“Oh George, how I hate Moray. This is his doing.”

“It seems, Your Majesty, that he discovered my love for you.”

“When you are older, George, you will more easily hide your emotions.”

“I could never hide an emotion so great that it is my whole being.”

“I have had sonnets written to me, George, but nothing has ever pleased me quite as much as those words of yours. Have you come to say goodbye?”

“I trust not. Moray has gone and I may have a few days left to me. I would like to see some of your friends on the mainland and tell them what has happened, and myself tell you what they plan to do.”

“We shall have to wait for the spring for my rescue, George.”

“It will give us three months in which to perfect our plans, Your Majesty.”

“And this may mean that any day . . . perhaps tomorrow, I shall look for you in vain and be told that you have gone away.”

“That could well be.”

She took a pearl drop earring from her ear.

“Take this, George,” she said. “You shall have one and I the other. If you send a messenger to me with that earring I shall know that the messenger truly comes from you.”

He took the earring and held it reverently in the palm of his hand. For some seconds he seemed bemused; then he said: “Your Majesty, I believe that young Willie Douglas yearns to be made use of in your service.”

“The little freckled-faced boy? I often find him watching me.”

“He is a strange boy, Your Majesty, but is a friend of mine . . . and of yours.”

“I need all the friends I can muster . . . and more so when the most trustworthy of them all is taken from me. Then I could send Willie Douglas with a message to you . . . if the need should arise?”

“I know he would bring it to me, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, George,” she cried, “I am going to miss you so much.”

He knelt and kissed her right hand while she laid her left on his head; stooping suddenly, she kissed it, and when he raised his wondering face to hers impulsively she bent and kissed his lips.

He looked dazed, and then his face was illuminated. “I never thought . . . ” he began. “I never hoped . . . ” And then he went on hurriedly: “Your Majesty, have I your leave to retire?”

For one moment she thought to detain him, then she nodded and turned her head so that she could not see his perplexed face.

It was the moment for him to go. If he had stayed she might have been tempted to change the relationship between them. It must not be so. A short while ago she might have kept him with her; but she had changed since Carberry Hill. She was a wiser woman; never again would she allow her emotions to lead her to disaster. At least she would make some attempt to curb her sensual longings that they might never again control her destiny.

Perhaps, she thought when she was alone, I was never loved before, as George Douglas loves me.

She would remember that through the dreary months which lay ahead.

WILLIE DOUGLAS HAD always freely roamed about the castle and its grounds; when the boat went from the castle to the mainland he often went with them. He performed his duties now and then and if he were missing for several hours no one took much notice. Willie had always been in a specially privileged position and, although Sir William appeared not to notice the boy, instinctively the servants knew that he would not welcome complaints against the urchin.

So Willie went his own way. When the Queen took her walks in the castle grounds he was often seen with her. She seemed to be amused by his mischievous ways. As for Willie he showed no awe of her and behaved as though there was little difference between queens and scullions in his opinion.

George had left Lochleven, for even Lady Douglas could not arrange that he should stay. Moray might descend upon them any day, and, moreover, there were always tradesmen and such-like coming and going between island and the mainland so that the news would soon have spread that George had remained at Lochleven.

Both Lady Douglas and Sir William knew that George was not far off; they knew also that somewhere in the Kinross area many of Mary’s supporters were lodging in the house of loyal townfolk, waiting for the day when an attempt would be made to free the Queen from captivity. That must not happen, of course, for Sir William would be blamed if she escaped; he did not believe any attempt would be made until the coming of spring, but then he would have to be more vigilant, if that were possible. He believed—and so did Lady Douglas—that George had joined forces with Lord Seton and his friends, and they were not many miles away.

Young Willie Douglas’s shrill whistle could be heard through the courtyards; he swaggered a little, which seemed all part of the business of growing up. Now and then he enticed the guards into a gambling game, for Willie had a coin or two to jingle in his pocket. Nobody asked where he procured the money. Willie would have had his answer ready if they had. He had been given it for some service rendered to some merchant on the mainland. Willie was never at a loss.

While he played with the guards he watched the arrival of the boats and the supplies for the castle being unloaded.

“Keeping a sharp watch-out, laddie,” said one of the guards. “They might make you do a bit of work for a change and you wouldna like that at all.”

“Oh ay,” said Willie, absently staring at the laundresses, who were going into the castle to collect the soiled linen which they would take away and bring back clean.

March had come and the first signs of spring were on the countryside. The winds were still strong, but now and again they would drop, and when the sun shone there was real warmth in the air.

One day Willie was helping to unload food from a boat which was moored on the shore, and his industry pleased those he was helping. When the unloading was done he leaped into the boat and sat there waiting.

“Coming back with us, young Willie?” asked one of the boatmen.

“Oh ay . . . ” answered Willie nonchalantly.

“Come on then, lads, back to Kinross.”

Willie whistled as the boat carried him across the water. When it touched ground he jumped out, saluted the boatmen and ran off.

He skirted the town, now and then breaking into a run, sometimes leaping in a rush of high spirits. When he came to a small hillock he stood for a few moments and looked about him. He could see the roofs of the Kinross houses and a quarter of a mile or so away the woods. Assuring himself that no one was following him he made quickly for these woods and was soon on the narrow path which led through them.

He began to whistle, and after a few minutes his whistle was answered.

He stood still waiting, listening. Then he heard the rustle of twigs; George was coming through the trees.

“I thought you were never coming,” said George.

“It took so long to unload the boat.”

“Are you sure no one followed you?”

Willie looked exasperated. “Who d’ye think I am, Geordie Douglas?”

George smiled. Willie was a first-class agent, because not only was he alert and nimble but it was scarcely likely that anyone would suspect him.

“Let’s sit down . . . away from the path . . . here where the trees are thickest. Then we shall hear anyone approaching. And speak low. Voices carry.”

“Ye dinna need to tell me that!”

“No, Willie, but we have to be very careful. If the plan fails how can we say what they might do to her?”

“Oh ay,” Willie agreed.

When they were seated George said: “Listen carefully; we are going to send a large box to the Queen, purporting to come from Melville. We will load it with some heavy substances—perhaps stones—and we shall say it contains articles and documents for the Queen. You must tell her that this box is to arrive shortly, and when it comes she is to take out the contents and hide them, and after a few days we must ask for the box to be returned to Melville. When the box is taken out of the castle, she will be in it.”

Willie stared at George and his light eyes suddenly crinkled with amusement. Willie held his sides and began to shake, giving a display of uncontrollable mirth.

“What is it?” said George impatiently.

“It’s just that you make me laugh, Geordie Douglas.”

“This is no laughing matter.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. It was one laughing matter when you planned escape by boat and then go sniffing around till Drysdale says: ‘Now why would wee Georgie be taking such interest in the boat?’ And this box is another.”

“It is not for you to laugh at your elders . . . and betters, Willie.”

“Oh ay,” said Willie mockingly disconsolate.

“All you have to do is to tell the Queen our intentions. I cannot say when the box will arrive, but you must come and tell me when it is to be sent back. Then I shall be ready for her . . . and I shall not be alone. We shall have horses waiting for her.”

Willie sat silently nodding. “You understand?” said George impatiently.

“Oh ay,” repeated Willie. “I understand. The box goes in . . . and Lady Douglas and Sir William watch it unloaded. ‘What lovely stones!’ cries my lady. ‘What is the Queen’s new pastime to be? Throwing stones from the keep windows on the sentinels?’”

“We have to arrange that the box arrives when Sir William is not there.”

“If Sir William is not there, someone else will be. Hoch, man, dinna ye know that our Queen is a prisoner and that everything that goes into her apartments is watched and ferreted over. Talk sense, Geordie Douglas. You wouldna get farther than the castle courtyard before they’d see through your game with boxes. Nay, Geordie Douglas, think again.”

George was silent. It was true that he had put forward one or two grandiose schemes which Lords Seton and Semphill had thought impracticable. The trouble with George was that he saw himself as a knight who was ready to die for his Queen; he would have preferred to go boldly to the castle and fight his way through to her. Lord Seton had said that it was subterfuge which was needed. Those who could best help the Queen would be crafty spies rather than bold knights.

And now even Willie was scorning his latest plan, and George had to admit that there was a great deal in what the boy said.

“I thought of something,” said Willie. “’Tis a better plan than yours, because it could work. It was when I watched the laundresses bringing out the dirty linen that I thought of it. You know the shawls they wear . . . some of them . . . over the head and gripped round the shoulders . . . and they carry the bundles of linen on one shoulder. Well, I thought to myself, Who counts them that goes in? Is it four or five? Who’d know if six came out?”

“What’s this?” cried George.

“Your Queen would have to wear a laundress’s shawl; she’d have to carry her bundle. I reckon Geordie Douglas would think that was summat a Queen shouldna do . . . even if it meant she got her freedom by doing it.”

George’s eyes began to sparkle. Willie’s scheme was so simple. And yet Lord Seton had said that they needed a plan that was too simple to be suspected.

He gripped Willie’s arm. “There may be something in this.”

“May be, George Douglas? I tell you there is summat in it all right.”

“When do the laundresses come?” George asked.

“This day week.”

“We’ll arrange that two whom we can trust shall be with them. Willie, you’re a bright boy.”

“Thank ye, George Douglas.”

“I am going to make plans to carry out your idea. You go back and, at the first opportunity, tell the Queen what we hope to do. Be here the day after tomorrow and I will give you instructions. The Queen shall walk out of the castle with the laundresses. Now Willie . . . go. And for the love of God take care.”

“Oh ay,” said Willie; and whistling shrilly he went to the shores of the lake where he waited for a boat that was going to the castle to carry him back.

“OH, SETON,” whispered the Queen. “This could be successful. If I escape I shall send for you as soon as possible.”

“Do not think of that now,” said Seton; “think only of the part you must play. Do not speak, whatever happens. It must succeed, for it will all be over in fifteen minutes. Out of the castle . . . into the boat . . . and then across to the mainland. There your friends will be waiting for you with horses. You will always be grateful to these Douglas boys.”

“Give me the shawl. There! Is that right? How do I look?”

“So tall, so regal. Could you stoop a little? The bundle you carry will help. Let me pull the shawl forward so that your face is hidden. Like that . . . no one would guess.”

The two laundresses came to the door of the apartment then.

“The bundles are ready,” said Seton.

The two women came in. They were not the usual laundresses but two who had taken the place of those whose custom it was to come to the castle. They looked at the tall shawled figure with some apprehension.

“She will walk between you when you go out,” said Seton. “Go straight down through the courtyard to the boat, and do not speak to her, yet try not to give the impression that she is any different from the rest of you.”

The women nodded and the Queen watched the way in which they carried their bundles and tried to imitate them.

The moment had come. She followed them down the stairs, and out through the courtyard. At the castle gate young Willie Douglas stood idly watching the boat and the oarsmen.

He began to whistle; then he turned and went into the castle.

THE TWO OARSMEN were talking together. They were young, and while they had waited they had been on the lookout for any comely serving girl who might appear. There were usually one or two who made some excuse to come out of the castle when they were about.

They were telling each other of their latest conquests trying to cap each other’s stories to prove their virility.

“These laundresses are a poor lot,” one bewailed. “I remember one pretty laundress I used to row over . . . . Ah, she was a beauty.”

They exchanged stories about the saucy laundress until one of them said: “Here they come. You’re right . . . a poor lot.”

“Their ankles get thick through too much standing at the washtub,” agreed the other. “And their hands are rougher than an ordinary serving girl’s.”

“That’s true.”

The women were preparing to step into the boat, while the connoisseurs of women watched them without much interest. It was true, they were thinking, that standing at the washtub thickened the ankles.

One of them caught his breath as a laundress stepped into the boat; then he saw that his companion had noticed too. What a pair of ankles! As neat and slim as any Court lady’s. It was not true then that all ankles were thickened at the washtub.

Four pair of eyes traveled up that slim body which, although enveloped in its shawl, they saw was comely. This woman was taller than the rest and the shawl was wrapped so closely about her head that it was impossible to see her face. She almost dropped her bundle as she stepped into the boat, and one of the other women put out a hand to steady her and there she was, throwing down her bundle and pulling the shawl even more tightly across her face as though she suffered from a toothache.

“I wonder if her face is as pretty as her ankles?”

“I’d like to find out.”

“I mean to . . . before we put them ashore.”

They had put only a short distance between them and the island, when the bolder of the two men called: “Hey, my beauty.”

The tall woman did not look in their direction, but kept her eyes steadily fixed on the mainland.

The man leaned forward to seize her shawl and when, as he jerked it, with a little cry of protest she put out a hand to prevent his snatching it, the hand attracted even more attention than the ankles; it was very white; the fingers were long, the nails the shape of a perfect filbert nut. It was the hand of one who had never done a day’s washing in her life.

The two men stared in amazement at the hand before it was hastily hidden within the folds of the shawl; then one of them grasped the shawl in both his hands and sought to pull it away; now two white hands were visible—equally perfect, as in grim desperation they gripped the shawl, holding it up to her face.

But she was of course no match for the oarsman; in a few seconds he had ripped off the shawl and was looking into the flushed face of the Queen.

There was an immediate silence. The laundresses looked on openmouthed; the oarsmen were speechless.

Then Mary spoke. “Continue to row,” she ordered. “Take the boat to the mainland. You will not regret it if you do.”

One oarsman scratched his head and regarded the other.

“That is a command,” Mary continued imperiously. “If you do not obey me your lives are in peril. I am the Queen.”

The second oarsman said: “I’m sorry, Madam, but it would be more than our lives are worth to take you to the mainland now.”

“It will be more than your lives are worth to take me back to the castle!”

“We canna do it, Madam.”

“Why not?”

“Our orders are to carry the laundresses . . . and only they.”

“But I have given you orders, and I am the Queen.”

The men were still perplexed.

“Come,” persisted Mary, “I am in a hurry.”

But the oarsmen continued to look at each other. “They’d take us prisoner,” whispered one. “They’d cut us into collops . . . ”

“I would reward you,” Mary began, but even so she saw the futility of pleading with them, for what were the promised rewards of a captive Queen worth?

“We’d like to do it, Madam,” said the first oarsman.

“But daren’t,” added the second. “Turn the boat, lad. We must row her back to the castle.”

As the two men applied themselves to their oars, Mary cried in desperation: “I beg of you, have pity on me.”

But they would not look at her. There was that about her which could make them weaken, and they had their lives to think of.

“We’ve got to take you back, Madam,” one of them said, “but we’ll say nothing to Sir William. If no one’s missed you . . . there’ll be no one to know . . . ”

Mary was almost weeping with frustration. The plan had so nearly succeeded. And when would there be another chance?

She could not bear to look at the island. Is there no hope? she was asking herself. Does everything I attempt have to end in failure?

It seemed so. For at the landing stage Sir William, who had seen the boat returning, was waiting to know the reason why.

There was a grim purpose in his eyes as he helped her ashore.

WHEN THE QUEEN was safely in her apartments Sir William went to his mother and told her what had happened.

Lady Douglas was shocked. “And what would Jamie have said if this had succeeded?” she asked.

“He would have said little, as is his custom,” replied Sir William grimly, “but his actions would have been far from insignificant. This must never be allowed to happen again. It points to one thing. There is a traitor in the castle and I am going to find out who it is. I have a shrewd idea.”

“You cannot blame George now.”

“But indeed I do blame George. George is involved in this. You may be sure of that. George is on the mainland with Seton and Semphill . . . and certain others. They were waiting there to receive her. Don’t you see the importance of this? By God, there might have been civil war—and George . . . your son George would have been responsible.”

“He is your brother,” Lady Douglas reminded him.

“I’m afraid young Willie has also had a hand in this. He goes to and from the mainland at will. I heard that he gambles with the soldiers. Where does he get the money with which to gamble?”

“Oh, Willie’s a sharp one. There are several ways in which he could get money, I dare swear.”

“I intend to find out.”

Sir William strode to the door and called to a servant. “Find Willie and bring him to me without delay,” he ordered.

Lady Douglas left him. There would be trouble, Willie would doubtless be beaten, and she did not want to witness such a scene.

Willie came boldly into Sir William’s presence. Willie was not perturbed. He had believed that Sir William was his father and that he must have had a special fondness for his mother to allow him to be brought up in the castle.

“Come here, boy,” said Sir William blandly.

Willie approached lightheartedly, and as he did so Sir William shot out an arm and gripped his shoulder.

“What do you know of this attempt of the Queen’s to escape?”

“Oh,” said Willie, “I know a lot. I saw her go out. She looked like the others . . . only taller. I saw her get into the boat and them row her away.”

“I mean how much did you know before it happened?”

Willie looked puzzled. “What should I have known before it happened, Sir William?”

“You knew there was a plot for her escape, did you not?”

“I reckon there’s been lots of plots.”

Sir William went on: “You gamble with the soldiers. Where do you find the money?”

“An odd job here and there brings its reward,” said Willie, slightly less truculent than usual.

Sir William took the boy by the shoulders and shook him until his freckled face was scarlet. “George Douglas gave you the money, did he not? You have been to see George Douglas on the mainland. You keep him informed of what is happening in the castle, do you not?”

Willie was silent. Sir William, who was not a violent man, was now a frightened one, and Willie’s stubborn silence alarmed him further.

He threw the boy across the room. Willie fell, knocking his head against a table. He felt the warm blood on his face, and as he picked himself up he was looking for the door. But Sir William was not prepared to let him go. He strode toward him and said in a quiet voice: “If you do not tell me all you know, I will give you the severest whipping you have ever had in your life.”

“It’s that I don’t know much, Sir William,” Willie began, but Sir William struck him again and this was no light blow. Willie felt as though the floor was coming up to meet him. He clenched his teeth together, and unfortunately Sir William noticed this and knew it meant that Willie was determined to let no secrets escape him.

“You’ve been seeing George Douglas,” he said. “You’ve been acting as a spy in the castle. The reward of spying is death. Did you know?”

Willie did not answer.

“What other plans are there?” Sir William demanded.

Willie whispered: “I don’t know, Sir William.”

“You’ve been seeing George though. George gave you the money?”

Willie thought quickly. What harm could he do by admitting that? They knew that George was on the mainland. It was obvious that they would have met. He could do no harm by admitting that he had seen George and that it was George who had given him money. All he must do was deny his part in the laundress plan, for Sir William would say that if he had helped once, he would do so again, and then, when the time came to put another plan into action, he would be a suspected person.

“I did see George,” he said.

“And he gave you money. Why?”

“Because he likes me,” answered Willie promptly.

“And you convey message from him to the Queen?”

“Messages . . . ?” began Willie and clenched his teeth again.

Sir William’s anger was dying. There was something appealing about the boy; but he knew that he had been acting as a spy; he knew that he was as dangerous as George had been. He could not afford to have Willie in the castle.

He liked the boy’s boldness; his refusal to betray his part in this was admirable—or would have been if he had been on the right side. But this was too important a matter to allow sentiment to get in the way of common sense.

Sir William put his hand into his pocket, and brought out a gold coin. He held this out to Willie who looked at it in amazement.

“Take it,” said Sir William. “You may need it.”

Willie took it in his grubby hand.

“And now,” said Sir William, “you will get out. This castle is no longer your home.”

Willie stared at Sir William disbelievingly, but the man would not meet his eye.

“Get out,” continued Sir William. “Get out while you’re still alive, you imp of Satan. Get out of my castle. Get off my island. We don’t harbor those who spy against us.”

Willie went to the door, clutching the gold coin; an impulse came to him to turn and plead with Sir William, to ask him to remember that this was his home. But he would not do it. He held his head high and walked out of the room and out of the castle to the shores of the lake.

He called to the old boatman who worked the ferry.

“Row me over to the mainland,” he said.

“I don’t know as I will,” was the answer.

“You should, you know,” retorted Willie. “It’s Sir William’s order. You’re to row me across and leave me on the other side.”

Then he stepped into the boat, and not once did he turn to look back at the castle; his eyes were fixed on the mainland, on the woods. Not far away, he was thinking, was George.

THE QUEEN WAS in despair. Not only had she lost George but Willie also.

There were new restrictions, and Sir William had ordered that one or two of the female members of his household must share the Queen’s room, so that she had no chance of making plots with her women. This meant that one or more of his sisters were in constant attendance; they were beautiful and naturally amiable women but they had been warned that they must act as spies.

They would come into the apartment and sit with the Queen, Seton, Jane Kennedy and Marie Courcelles while they all worked on the tapestry. It meant that conversation must be guarded for any remarks likely to arouse suspicion were reported to Sir William.

Mary had not felt so hopeless since those early days of her incarceration and she thought longingly of that period when she had been able to see George Douglas and be assured of his devotion; she thought sadly of Willie who amused her with his quaint ways but who had inspired her with hope as much as had the romantic George.

One day another member of the Douglas family came to her room presumably, thought Mary, for the purpose of spying on her. This was a young woman who had married Lady Douglas’s son Robert and was therefore a Douglas only through marriage; Mary was inclined to like her the better for that. She was modest and a little apologetic.

“Your Majesty, I am Christian, wife of Robert Douglas. My father was the Master of Buchanan.”

“But of course,” said Mary pleasantly, “I could not forget the Countess of Buchanan who was once betrothed to my half-brother.”

As the Countess flushed slightly Mary remembered that Christian had no reason to love Moray.

“Welcome to my apartments,” went on Mary. “I trust you will not find them as dreary as I do.”

“Your Majesty is a prisoner and that is why you hate your prison. It grieves me that I should be a member of that family who are your jailors.”

“Thank you for those words. Come, sit down. Are you fond of needlework?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then take a look at our work. I think we shall make it into a screen.”

“It is very beautiful,” murmured Christian.

“It is our great pleasure to work on it,” Mary told her. “There is something so satisfying about tapestry. It lives on after us . . . and consider, in years to come people will say: ‘That is what Mary Queen of Scots did while she was a prisoner in Lochleven.’”

“Let us hope, Your Majesty, that they will say: ‘The Queen started it in her prison of Lochleven but completed it in the royal apartments at Edinburgh Castle or Holyrood House.’”

Certainly Christian was more sympathetic than Lady Douglas’s daughters, thought Mary; and she was not wrong when she surmised that she might be an ally.

Very often Mary was alone with her, and on one of these occasions Christian said: “I shall never forget the time when Sir William was in disgrace with Your Majesty. The Earl of Moray was in England and you sent word to Lochleven that Sir William and his family were to surrender the castle and leave Scotland within six hours.”

Mary nodded, remembering the occasion well. They had tried to prevent her marriage with Darnley, and at that time she had been very eager for the marriage. Moray had taken up arms against her, and of course the Douglases were, as ever, firmly beside him in all he did.

“It was a terrible day when we heard the news,” went on Christian. “I was in labor with my first child, and the thought of leaving the castle was alarming. Sir William had had to take to his bed with sickness.”

“I remember,” said Mary. She had been skeptical of Sir William’s illness but there had been no doubt that the Countess of Buchanan was in childbed.

“And you gave orders that we might remain,” went on Christian. “All you asked was that the surety of the castle should be at your command. I shall never forget the relief. And I shall never forget my gratitude to Your Majesty.”

“Naturally,” said Mary quickly, “I should not have thought of turning you out at such a time. But Sir William does not feel equally grateful, I am sure. He has little pity for my plight and thinks only to serve my ambitious brother.”

“Your Majesty . . . ” Christian looked over her shoulder . . . “you may know something of my story. If that is so, you will understand that I feel no great desire to serve your ambitious brother.”

“I know,” Mary told her, “that you were once betrothed to him and that he forsook you for Agnes Keith, the daughter of the Earl Marischal.”

“A match more to his liking!” retorted Christian meaningfully. “But that was of no moment. Matches which are made for us in our youth often come to nothing. But I was also his ward, and I was an heiress. He was not eager for marriage with me, seeing a more advantageous one elsewhere, but at the same time he did not mean to lose my fortune. I think he was rather sorry that there was no convent into which he could force me. So he sent me here to his family, and in this castle of Lochleven, Your Majesty, I was as much a prisoner as you are now.”

“My poor Christian! I fear I have thought so constantly of my own woes that I have given little thought to those of others.”

“Your Majesty is well known for your generous heart. And my plight was made less hard by the sympathy of Lady Douglas, who, although she would serve her bastard son, is always ready to be kind to those in distress, providing of course that in doing so she does not go too much against the wishes of Moray. Even so, she is ready to risk a little . . . as in my case. When Robert and I fell in love she helped us to marry . . . and she did not let Moray know what had happened until we had gone through the ceremony.”

“So then there was nothing he could do about it!”

“Oh yes, Your Majesty, he is always resourceful. That is why he has reached his present position. He still kept me a prisoner at Lochleven and he has taken my fortune from me. So here I remain—no longer an heiress—dependent on the bounty of the Douglases because I am Robert’s wife.”

Mary was silent. Then she said thoughtfully: “It is a marvel to me that I always believed so firmly in the goodness of my half-brother. It is only now that I have time for reflection that I see him in his true light. Again and again he has stood against me; then when he was in my presence, his calmness and his appearance of stern devotion to duty deceived me. It will do so no longer; one of my greatest enemies in Scotland today is my own half-brother, Regent Moray.”

“But Your Majesty has good friends. The Setons, and the Flemings are with you. And the Huntleys in the North.”

“The Setons and Flemings have always been my good friends. Mary Seton and Mary Fleming were brought up as my sisters. Then there is Lord Semphill who married Mary Livingstone, another of my Marys, and he is also on my side.”

“And I understand, Your Majesty, that Lord Semphill, with Lord Seton, is not far off at this moment. I do not doubt that they often look toward your prison from the mainland.”

“It’s a comforting thought.”

“Then you have friends abroad.”

“The King of France greatly desired to marry me,” mused Mary. “I am certain that he would help if he could; but he is ruled by his mother, Catherine de’ Medici, and he never liked me.”

“Yet no Queen is happy to see another in captivity. It is an insult to royalty, which they must needs resent.”

“If I could but write to them . . . . if I could but make them see my humiliation and the indignity of my position . . . ”

“I am sure Your Majesty’s eloquence would move them to pity.”

“I have no means of writing. No writing materials. They have been taken from me. I have no means of conveying letters to my friends.”

Christian was silent, and Mary picked up her tapestry and began to work with a desperate concentration.

But the next day when Christian came to see her she brought writing materials.

“Your Majesty must have a care that you are not seen with these,” she said. “But if you wrote your letters I could see that they are delivered to a reliable messenger. They do not watch me, you see. They do not fear that I shall escape. Here I have my home and my family . . . and my fortune is already Moray’s.”

How quickly hope was ready to spring up. The Queen sat at her window looking out over the lake. She had lost George and Willie, and now Fate had offered her Christian.

Charles of France would help her. She knew he would because he had loved her with all the force of his strange, twisted nature; although he was much younger than she was his jealous rage, when she had married his brother François, had been alarming to behold.

But he was entirely ruled by the mother whom he feared, and Mary knew that any letter he sent to Charles would first pass through his mother’s hands. So there was only one thing to do. She must write to Catherine de’ Medici and try to arouse in her the indignation all queens must feel for insulted royalty. She must hope that the Queen would show her letter to her son; and then the King of France would long to come to her aid.

There were few moments when it was safe to bring out those writing materials, and she had to wait for her chance. But it came at last, and Seton and Jane kept watch while she sat at her table and wrote.

Her appeal was pathetic.

. . . I am so closely guarded that I have no leisure but when they are at dinner or sleeping, when I rise stealthily, for their girls lie with me. This bearer will tell you all. I entreat you to give credit and reward him as you love me. I implore you both to have pity upon me for unless you take me hence by force, I shall never come out, I am certain. But if you will send troops all Scotland would revolt from Moray and Morton on perceiving you took the matter in earnest . . .

She sealed the letter. And when Christian came to her apartments next day she took it and assured the Queen that it should be dispatched to France at the earliest possible moment.

HOW LONG the waiting seemed! How long before she realized how foolish she had been! To have written to Catherine de’ Medici, to expect help from her, surely showed how blind she had become. The woman had hated her from the moment they had first met when Mary was a child and she, the neglected wife of Henri Deux, was taking second place to the dazzling Diane de Poitiers.

Why should Mary expect help now when she was alone and helpless? But it was in her nature to dream of the impossible and, if it were pleasant enough, imagine it would come true.

She could picture the slow smile on that flat, expressionless face as Catherine de’ Medici read her appeal. She could hear the sudden loud laughter which she had always found so unattractive.

Young Charles would never see the letter.

How foolish to have hoped for succor from that direction! But for what else could she hope? She was only in her twenties. Was she to spend the rest of her life in the dreary island fortress of Lochleven?

The waters of the lake had begun to have a great fascination for her. They were dappled now with April sunshine. Spring was here but it brought her little hope. George was lost to her. She had not realized until she had lost him how much he had done to make her life tolerable.

When she sat at her window looking down on the lake, she began to picture herself walking there and letting the water lap about her ankles (those ankles which had betrayed she was no laundress to the observant and lecherous boatmen) and not pausing but walking on and on until the whole of her body was submerged in the water of the lake.

She would not struggle for life, for what had life to offer her? She would eagerly embrace death because she was weary and hope had fled.

But that was folly; it was sinful. Whatever happened she must go on living; hope would return to comfort her; it had never deserted her for long.

Sir William and Lady Douglas were alone in the latter’s apartment and on a table before them lay a letter which they had both perused with some concern.

It was from George, who wrote that he realized there was nothing for him in Scotland, since he had ruined his hopes of advancement, and he planned to leave for France where he hoped to make his fortune. Before he left, however, he wished to see his family. Would Sir William be prepared to receive him at Lochleven? He merely wished to say goodbye and would be gone within an hour. But he had a great desire to see his mother as he did not know when they would meet again.

“Of course he must come!” cried Lady Douglas. “I cannot agree, William, that he should be allowed to go to France without saying goodbye to his mother.”

“All this time,” Sir William murmured, “he has been in the Kinross area. He will have been with Seton, Fleming, Semphill and the rest. How do we know that this is not yet another plot?”

“Nonsense!” snapped Lady Douglas. “He is going to France. How could he plot from there? He says he will not remain more than an hour. I insist on his coming. He is my son, William, as much as you are.”

“And have you thought what your other son might have to say if he knew George had come back after he had banished him?”

“Jamie need never know,” retorted Lady Douglas complacently. “Or if he does, it will then be too late for him to protest, for George will be in France by that time. It is a sad thing when a mother must plead to be allowed to say goodbye to her son.”

At length William gave way and replied to George’s letter that they would see him at the castle.

George arrived half an hour before supper and was received with tearful embraces by his mother, and even William was not unmoved. There had always been deep family feeling among the Douglases; and William, being really fond of his young brother, sincerely deplored the fact that he had made what he called a fool of himself over a woman—not that William could not understand that.

“Come along in, my dear son,” cried Lady Douglas. “Come to my own private chamber. I have much to say to you. You come also, William.”

When they were alone, Lady Douglas looked in consternation at her younger son. He was thin, she declared. How had he been living since he left the castle? She had suffered many a sleepless night on his account.

George told her she was not to worry. He was well able to take care of himself, for he was not a boy any longer.

“I suppose,” said William, “you have been with Seton and Semphill on the mainland?”

George nodded.

“And you’ve been within a stone’s throw of the island, I swear.”

“Where else did you expect me to be?”

“And you were in that plot to smuggle her out as a laundress, I’m certain.”

“You should not feel so disgruntled about it, brother. It failed.”

“And might so easily have succeeded,” growled William.

“Don’t you see,” said George, “the matter is hopeless. That is why I want to get away to France.”

Sir William was pensive. He was thinking: Out of sight, out of mind. He is no longer so enamored of his Queen. He is weary of the plots and subterfuge. Well, he was but a boy suffering from the pangs of calf-love.

“Look here,” he said, “your mother does not wish you to leave Scotland.”

“Oh, George,” cried Lady Douglas, “stay in Scotland. I am sure that Jamie would give you some position with him . . . if you could only assure him that you would serve him faithfully.”

“He is, after all, your brother,” added Sir William.

“I do not think Moray will ever be my friend again,” said George. “No, it is better for me to get right away. Perhaps in a year or so I shall return and by that time Moray may have forgiven me. But I think it best now that I go to France.”

Lady Douglas continued to persuade and Sir William joined with her; but George shook his head and at length they realized that he had made up his mind.

As it was supper time, Lady Douglas said that George must take the meal with them. George said he would be delighted to join them, and so once more he took his place at the supper table.

He noticed the keys beside William’s plate, and William followed his gaze.

“We have been doubly careful since the attempted escape,” he told his brother. “As all the guards are off duty during mealtime, when they come to table I lock the castle gates and the Queen’s apartments, and during that time the keys are never out of my sight.”

“Ah,” said George, “you had a good warning, brother. You were nearly caught once. I’ll warrant you will not be so easily caught again.”

Sir William drank freely of the wine which the page had poured into his goblet. He was feeling sad, partly because he was wearying of his commission to guard the Queen, and partly because he was saying goodbye to his young brother.

“No,” he said firmly, “it shall not happen again. We’re determined on that. We watch her night and day. She would not now be able to slip out of the castle in the guise of a laundress. Everyone who leaves is closely scrutinized.”

“William,” said George, “there is one request I would make to you before I go. I trust you will grant it.”

“I will if it is in my power to do so.”

“It concerns young Willie.”

“That young rogue!”

“Oh, not such a rogue, William. I admit he worked with me. I gave him money . . . and he was always my friend, as you know. We were like brothers.”

Sir William nodded.

“You cannot blame him for doing what I asked him to.”

“So you admit you asked him to help you.”

“I do. You should blame me for what happened . . . not Willie.”

“You might have caused God knows what damage between you. You weren’t rescuing a lady in distress, brother. You were freeing a Queen and preparing to start a civil war.”

“I know. I know. I was young . . . so was Willie. It was my fault. But I ask you not to blame Willie. He has been with me since he left the castle. What will happen to him, think you, when I go to France?”

“You’re taking him with you?”

“That was not my plan. I am going to ask you to take him back into the castle. He can do no harm; I shall be in France, so there’ll be no temptation to. He’s sharp but he’s too young to roam the country by himself. He’d starve to death or fall in with robbers. William, will you take young Willie back?”

Sir William hesitated. He would not have admitted it, but he had often thought of the engaging lad, and he was secretly pleased to have an opportunity of bringing him back.

He pulled at his beard. “Well . . . ” he began, and tried to make excuses for his leniency. “’Tis true the fellow who now serves me at table is a clumsy loon.”

“So you will? I thank you, William. Now I can go with an easy mind.”

George did justice to the food on the table. Not at all, as Lady Douglas said afterward to Sir William, like a lovesick young man.

Afterward they conducted him to the boat, for in spite of his seeming indifference Sir William could not run the risk of his seeing the Queen.

No harm had been done. He had been with George all the time he had been in the castle, and even Moray could not take exception to that.

He stood with Lady Douglas beside him watching until the boat reached the mainland.

“Did you notice,” he said to his mother, “that George did not once look up to the keep?”

“I did. Jamie was right to banish him for a while for the trick has worked. But how I wish that he could now come back to Lochleven.”

THE SOLDIERS WHOSE duty it was to guard the Queen found the days somewhat monotonous. The importance of their task was continually being pointed out to them, but that did not alter the dullness of their duties which consisted of standing in one spot for a number of hours, or pacing back and forth a few paces each way.

They were continually thinking of ways to pass the time. Gambling was a favorite occupation; another was rough horseplay; and one of the favorite games was what they called “liberating the Queen.” In order to play this they divided themselves into two sides and had a mock battle, using lumps of turf, for ammunition, with which they pelted each other.

This game caused great amusement, not only to themselves but to watchers in the castle. Serving men and maids would call from the windows urging on this side or that, and sometimes they would even take part in the mock battle.

Even Will Drysdale, the commander of the garrison, found the game irresistible, and one day to make the battle more realistic he fired a hackbut, which mistakenly he believed to be loaded with powder only, into a group of the “enemy.”

The result was that two of the men were wounded in their thighs, so what had begun as a game turned out to be a serious matter.

Mary, who had been watching from her window, immediately sent her French apothecary down to see what he could do to help.

The two wounded men were carried into the castle and their wounds dressed; but when the apothecary returned to his mistress he was thoughtful.

“A sorry end to their play,” the Queen remarked.

The apothecary grunted.

“It would seem you do not agree with me?” went on the Queen, astonished.

“Your Majesty,” answered the apothecary, “I noticed that one of these men is he who is in charge of the boats.”

“He is badly wounded?”

The man lifted his shoulders. “His wound will incapacitate him for some time, Your Majesty.”

Mary understood his meaning and she sighed. It might have been important when George and Willie had been in the castle. They might have devised some plan. But now, who was there to help her? Sir William had redoubled his precautions. There were always soldiers on guard except at meal times when she was locked in her apartment and the castle gates were also kept locked; and Sir William never let the keys out of his sight.

That accident to the boatman might have been significant and advantageous when George and Willie were in the castle.

A few day later Willie returned to Lochleven.

IT WAS THE FIRST of May. This should be a joyous time of the year. In the past Mary had ridden out with her courtiers dressed in green to go a-maying. Such occasions only served to bring home more bitterly the plight to which she had been reduced.

The sun shone into her room and, rising from her bed, slipping on her robe, Mary went to her prie-Dieu and there knelt, with her hair streaming about her shoulders while she prayed for what now would seem like a miracle.

When she rose she felt exhilarated and, as those members of the Douglas family who shared her bedchamber were still sleeping, she went into the small ante-room and, cautiously taking out her writing materials from where she had hidden them, began to write.

This letter was addressed to Elizabeth of England, and she was making an appeal for help.

From Lochleven the first of May, [she wrote] Madame, my good sister, the length of my weary imprisonment and the wrongs I have received from those on whom I conferred so many benefits are less annoying to me than not having it in my power to acquaint you with the reality of my calamities and the injuries which have been done to me in various ways. Therefore, I have found means to send you a line by a faithful servant . . . .

She paused and listened. There was no sound from the adjoining chamber. She thought of those days at the Court of France when she had heard that Mary of England was dead and when her uncles, the Guises, and her father-in-law Henri Deux had insisted that she claim the title of Queen of England. Elizabeth would not be very pleased about that. Yet she could not hold it against her now. She must understand that it had been no wish of Mary’s to claim a title which was not hers.

. . . I implore you, on receiving this letter, to have compassion on your good sister and cousin, and believe that you have not a more affectionate relative in the world . . . .

When she had finished the letter she signed it “Your obliged and affectionate good sister and cousin, Mary R.”

She sealed it and, carefully putting away her writing materials, went quietly back to her bed, noticing that her jailors were still sleeping.

When Christian came to her she would give her the letter, and Christian had promised that it should be smuggled across to the mainland and given to a trustworthy messenger.

Would the English Queen be so incensed by the indignity done to royalty that she would offer help? Or would she smile and say: This was the woman who once called herself the Queen of England!

Mary, who quickly forgot grudges she had once borne, gave Elizabeth the credit for sharing her forgiving nature. So she was hopeful on that sunny May morning.

Later in the day when she walked with Seton down to the lake’s edge she saw a boy near the boats, and as she approached he looked up giving her a frank grin.

Mary cried in sudden pleasure: “Why, it’s Willie Douglas.”

“Back now in the castle, Your Majesty,” said Willie, looking about him searchingly. He went on: “Walk on, Your Majesty, and don’t appear to be talking to me. But I have something to say and I’ve been waiting the opportunity. But pass on, please, and come back. When you do, I’ll be lying in this boat and no one will see me. Stop close by and listen to what I have to say.”

The Queen and Seton walked on. Willie watched for a second or two and then busied himself with the boat. After five minutes or so the Queen and Seton came back to the spot. Willie was now lying in the boat and out of sight from the castle.

“Is there anyone within earshot?” he asked.

“No,” answered Seton.

The Queen sat down on the grass and Seton sat with her.

“Listen,” said Willie. “We’re going to free you any hour now. You must be prepared for when I come for you. Lord Seton and Lord Semphill are on the other side of the lake . . . . and George is with them. All I have to do is to get you out of the castle.”

Mary said: “Now . . . ?”

“No, no. If you as much as stepped into a boat you’d have the garrison out. You’re being watched at this moment. You’re never out of their sight. We wouldn’t stand a chance. You must not stay here too long or they’ll be suspicious. Rise now and stand for a few minutes looking at the mainland while I tell you the plan. It’ll be tomorrow. I shall try to get the keys while they’re at supper. You will be dressed as one of your maids . . . . I shall come to you. The boat will be ready . . . I can arrange that, now that the boatman is injured. You will follow me out of the castle. I shall lock the gates behind us. I will give you the word. Be prepared.”

“But how can it be done, Willie?” demanded Mary desperately.

“Only while they are at supper. It is the only time they are not on guard. I must find some means of getting the keys from Sir William. If I could do that we could be out of the castle before they realize it. And once on the mainland, your friends will be waiting with fleet horses. They are waiting now. I have come back to do this. I have sworn I can do it, and I will.”

“If only you can!”

“I must do it soon . . . while the boatman is sick. If only Drysdale were sick too! He is the one I fear. Do not linger here any longer. Walk on now. It would be the end of the plan if they began to watch me too closely now.”

“Come, Seton,” said Mary. “Bless you, Willie. I will be watchful . . . and ready when you come.”

When they had left Willie lying in the boat, he stared up at the blue sky, his light eyes screwed up in concentration. He must do it. He had boasted to George and all those grown-up lords that he would. But how was he going to spirit those key away from Sir William?

He waited on him at table, and so had those keys under his eyes all the time the company was at the meal. Sir William kept them by his plate so that every second he could assure himself of their safety.

How could he get those keys into his possession while the guards were at table? When he had heard the plan it had not seemed an insuperable difficulty. How different was the reality.

NOW THAT WILLIE had inspired her with hope, Mary’s optimism had returned. She knew that, across that small strip of water, friends were waiting for her. Surely it was not impossible to slip across to them.

At any moment Willie might be ready for her. She must be prepared. This time there must be attention to detail. When she thought of how easily she might have escaped with the laundresses she was ashamed of her inability to play her part for such a short time.

She sent for Will Drysdale. She had an idea of luring him away from the castle, which might possibly work. There was one thing she had noticed about Will Drysdale, and that was his love of gambling. Therefore, she reasoned, money would tempt him. He was loyal to his masters so bribery was no use. She must use other methods.

When he came to her presence she said: “I called you because, although it may seem strange to you, I am grateful to you. You have been appointed commander of this garrison which keeps me prisoner, but I do not hold that against you because in your dealings with me you have always been kindly and respectful.”

Drysdale bowed; he was a little under the spell of the Queen and he often regretted that his duty made it necessary for him to have her watched so closely.

“I want to reward you with a small gift. It is not as much as I would wish but, as you doubtless know, many of my possessions have been taken from me.”

“Your Majesty is good to her humble servant.”

“I have no money here, but if you will take this draft to my state treasurer in Edinburgh he will honor it. And I have a list here of articles of which I am in dire need. Good Master Drysdale, would you please bring these to me with as much speed as you can muster?”

Drysdale’s eyes gleamed. It was pleasant to have the money and do a service to this beautiful woman at the same time.

He bowed. “Your Majesty can rest assured that I shall do my utmost to bring you what you desire as quickly as possible. And I thank you for your kindness to your servant.”

Mary gave him a dazzling smile and he bowed himself from her presence.

She was delighted less than an hour later to hear him giving orders to his men, and from her windows she saw him rowing across the lake to the mainland. Will Drysdale had left for Edinburgh, and he would consequently be absent from Lochleven for some little time.

Willie too had seen the departure of Will Drysdale and heard from some of the men that their commander was making a trip to Edinburgh.

The boatmen incapacitated; the commander absent from the castle; assuredly the moment had come.

But how make Sir William so bemused by wine that his keys could be stolen from him? That was the question.

SIR WILLIAM WAS dozing in his chair. He had eaten well and the sun was warm. In his pocket were the keys of the castle; even though the guards were on duty he kept one hand on them as he slept.

“Sir William?”

He opened his eyes; Willie was standing before him.

“What is it?” asked Sir William.

“Sir William, I want your permission to give a feast.”

“What!” cried Sir William.

“To everyone in the castle . . . everyone,” explained Willie. “I’ve been away and now I’m home again. It is something I rejoice in, and I would have everyone rejoice with me.”

Sir William’s mouth twitched slightly. In spite of an effort to repress his feelings he could never quite do so where this boy was concerned, and he was secretly delighted to know that he was back in the castle. The page who had waited on him at table was a clumsy oaf, he always said; he was more critical of him than he might have been because he missed Willie.

Now he said: “You give a feast? How would you manage that?”

“I have money, Sir William. George gave it to me when he said goodbye.”

“And when do you propose to have this feast?”

“Today.”

“On a Sunday!”

“A good day for a good deed,” said Willie raising his eyes piously. “I have already had meat and vegetables brought from Kinross, and with them several bottles of good wine which would not offend even your palate.”

“And suppose I give you permission to hold this feast, whom will you ask? The Queen, I suppose.”

“I shall ask everyone, Sir William. The Queen, Sir William, Lady Douglas . . . everyone who cares to come. It is to be a banquet equal to that which the Queen has enjoyed at Court, and I shall be the Lord of Misrule.”

Sir William burst out laughing. “And Willie Douglas will do all this?”

“Willie Douglas will.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Then I must prove it!” Willie stood back a few paces and bowed low.

“I thank you, Sir William, for your permission. I offer you a formal invitation to Willie Douglas’s feast.”

Sir William was laughing.

It’s good, he thought, to have the young rogue back in the castle.

THE FEAST TOOK PLACE in the early afternoon. Mary was present; so were Sir William and Lady Douglas; in fact all who could be spared from their posts were at the great table. Willie presided, plying his guests with wine; aping the manners of the nobility in such a manner that he had the entire company laughing at him. He minced about the room; he gave orders in arrogant tones; he was gallant to the ladies, his freckled face wrinkled in simpering admiration; and all the time his alert eyes were on Sir William, who kept his keys in his pocket and, although he drank heavily and complimented Willie on his good wine, was none the worse for the amount he took.

Willie was also watching the Queen. He was eager to get a message through to her. He wanted her to be ready to leave during supper this evening. He knew that she was expecting some signal, but how difficult it was when he could not find an opportunity to have a word with her.

The company was becoming drowsy and the feasting could not be prolonged, so Willie suddenly announced that he was going to take advantage of his position as Lord of Misrule. Picking up a green branch which he had acquired for the occasion he approached the Queen.

“I am the Lord of Misrule,” he chanted. “I touch you with my rod. This day you must follow me whither I command.”

Mary answered: “Lord of Misrule, this day I will follow you wherever you lead me.”

Willie danced into the center of the room and beckoned the Queen, who rose from her chair and made to follow him.

Willie tripped from the room, with Mary behind him.

When they were outside, Willie turned and whispered: “It must be during supper tonight. Be watchful.”

“Willie . . . are you sure?”

Willie shook his head and laid his fingers on his lips. Lady Douglas was coming toward them.

“I’m a little weary after the revelry,” said the Queen. “I think I will rest awhile.”

Lady Douglas’s eyes were alert. She had not forgotten the part Willie had played in the laundress scheme. “I will accompany Your Majesty,” she said.

Willie returned to his guests while Lady Douglas went with the Queen to her own apartments.

Mary lay on her bed; she was too tense to feel tired; she closed her eyes, pretending to sleep, and Lady Douglas seated herself by her bed. It was clear that she did not trust Willie and had been made suspicious by the feast. Mary knew that Willie had hoped to lure all the guards to the feast and during it manage to steal the keys: he had been disappointed in that, and all he seemed to have done was arouse suspicion.

Lady Douglas bent over the bed to see if she were asleep, and Mary gave no sign that she was aware of this. She heard Lady Douglas sigh deeply and go to the door.

Someone said: “My lady, I felt I should tell you without delay.”

“What is it?”

“My lord Seton was seen close to the lake on the mainland. He rode by with a party of horsemen.”

“Was that so?”

“I thought I should tell you.”

Mary did not recognize the voice which was speaking, but she guessed it to be that of one of the kitchen maids.

“You did right.”

“And, my lady, it is said that Master George has not gone to France, but is with my lord Seton in Kinross.”

“Is that so?” said Lady Douglas slowly. “Then . . . off with you. You will awaken the Queen.”

Mary’s heart was beating so fast that she was afraid Lady Douglas would notice. But the older woman gave no sign of this and returning to the bed continued to sit beside it. It seemed a long time before she rose and went to her own apartments.

THE AFTERNOON was coming to its close when Mary rose from her bed and declared that she was rested from Willie’s revelry and would take a walk. She put on a cloak and went out of the castle in the company of Seton.

“This suspense is becoming intolerable,” she whispered to Seton. “I am afraid they are too suspicious of us. We expect too much from Willie. He is after all only a boy.”

“I am sure his plan was to do something during his feast. Now it is to be while supper is in progress.”

“We are being followed now,” said Mary.

Lady Douglas came up with them and as she fell into step beside them they were startled by the distant sound of horses’ hoofs, and looking up saw a party of horsemen on the mainland.

Lady Douglas watched them intently and with some misgiving; Mary guessed she was eager to report what she had seen to Sir William, and she felt dejected; for after Willie’s unusual behavior, the gossip of the kitchen-maid and the actual appearance of horsemen on the mainland, she felt that it must be obvious that some plan was in the air.

She sought to turn Lady Douglas’s thoughts from what she had seen by complaining bitterly of the way in which Moray had treated her.

Lady Douglas could never bear to hear her favorite son attacked. When this happened she immediately forgot all else in her defense of him.

“His one thought,” she insisted, “is the good of this land.”

“His one thought,” retorted Mary, “is to rule this land.”

“Your Majesty wrongs him.”

Mary then began to enumerate all that he had done against her, and Lady Douglas grew warm in his defense.

All was now quiet on the mainland and it seemed that Lady Douglas had forgotten what a short while ago she had seen there to disturb her. She talked in glowing terms of the cleverness of Moray, how like his father he was, and therefore a little like Mary. “For, Your Majesty, I see your father in you.”

Lady Douglas was back in her glorious past when she had been a King’s favorite mistress. So that the suspicious activity on the mainland completely slipped from her memory.

She was still talking when Sir William appeared.

“The Queen’s supper is about to be served in her chamber,” he said. He bowed to Mary. “May I escort you there?”

She went into the castle with him, and never had the place seemed so gloomy, never so much a prison as it did on that Sunday evening.

She went to her room and took her supper.

For a short while she was alone with her friends whom she could trust: Seton, Marie Courcelles and Jane Kennedy. Jane said suddenly: “If Willie can procure the keys, it is still possible.”

“How can Willie procure the keys?” Mary asked. “Yet we must be prepared. I will change clothes with you, Seton, for you are more my height than the others. And I will do it now, for if the moment should come, we must be ready.”

They changed clothes.

“I will keep my veil,” said Mary, “because I must wave this from the boat as a signal, so that my faithful defenders may know I am on the way.”

So in Seton’s gown and cloak, with her own white veil with its red and gold border and red tassels, Mary waited tensely for what would happen next.

SIR WILLIAM was feeling drowsy. The wine Willie had provided at his feast had been very potent. He could go to sleep there on the dais. All was well. The guards were at supper with him and the rest of the household; the castle gates had been carefully locked; and beside his plate lay the keys, without which no one could leave the castle.

Lady Douglas was talking indignantly of the Queen’s accusations against Moray, and defending him; but Sir William had heard his mother on the perfections of Moray before, and it added to the soporific effect of the wine.

Behind Sir William’s chair stood Willie, ready to fill his plate or his goblet. It was good to have Willie back in place of that clumsy oaf who had served him during the boy’s absence.

As for Willie, he could not take his eyes from that bunch of keys which were lying on the table. His fingers itched to seize them. He had to resist an impulse to snatch them and run—which would of course be the utmost folly.

Sir William was yawning and Willie poured more wine into his goblet. On and on went Lady Douglas. And Willie stood, only half hearing what was said, his impatient fingers pulling at the napkin in his hands.

The meal would soon be over and then it would be too late. Shortly Drysdale would be back; the boatman might be well enough to take over his duties; and there would never be an opportunity like this. Now the boat was ready, the oars in place, and how could that possibly have been prepared unless Willie had charge of the boats!

Yes, he must spirit those keys away five minutes before it was noticed that they were gone . . . enough time to go to the Queen’s apartment, to bring her out, to hurry down to the castle gates, unlock and lock them again; then down to the boats and away. But he must have the keys.

Willie leaned forward to remove Sir William’s plate and, as he did so, he let his napkin fall over the keys. When he picked up the napkin and Sir William’s plate, the keys were no longer on the table.

This was the most difficult part—to walk out of the hall holding the plate, the napkin and the keys, unhurried and without concern, knowing that at any moment the absence of the keys might be noticed. If so, he would be stopped, all would be discovered and that would be the end of Willie Douglas’s hopes of saving the Queen—and perhaps the end of Willie Douglas.

Past the long table, past the noisy soldiers and the servants . . . and out.

Willie was taking the stairs two at a time. He unlocked the room which led to the Queen’s apartment. He was standing before her. He did not speak but held up the keys.

Now Mary was following him down the stairs and out of the castle.

Jane Kennedy, who it had been arranged should go with her, had been putting on her cloak in the ante-chamber when Willie had arrived and, as there was no time to lose, Mary had started after Willie without Jane.

It was a glorious feeling to be in the fresh air and the short distance to the castle gates seemed one of the most exciting journeys Mary had ever made. Willie ran ahead. He was unlocking the gates, holding them for her to pass through; then he locked them again behind them.

At that moment Jane Kennedy emerged from the castle. Mary looked back, but Willie shook his head. They had overcome the biggest obstacle. They were outside the castle and everyone else was locked inside. He was not going to run any risks by unlocking the castle gates. At any moment the loss of the keys might be discovered and the hue and cry would start. Those soldiers would find some means of coming after them.

The plan had not yet succeeded.

Willie ran ahead to where the boat was ready and waiting. Mary stepped into it, Willie took the oars, and they were slipping away from Lochleven.

“We have succeeded!” cried the Queen.

“We have to reach the mainland yet,” Willie grimly reminded her.

“We will,” replied Mary, and she took an oar and began to row with him.

There was a sudden splash in the loch close by, and to her horror Mary saw a dark figure swimming toward them.

“Why,” she cried, “it’s Jane! Stop, Willie. It’s Jane Kennedy swimming after us.”

Jane had gone to one of the castle windows from which she had jumped into the loch and encumbered by her clothes was making slow progress toward the boat. But Willie would not stop even for her. Eventually however she reached them and Mary eagerly leaned over the side of the boat to help her scramble in.

“I could not let . . . Your Majesty . . . be without one of us to serve you,” she panted.

In a few seconds she had recovered her breath and ignoring her dripping garments, insisted on taking the oar from Mary, and she and Willie pulled with all their might for the shore.

Each stroke took them farther and farther from Lochleven and nearer to freedom. Mary took off her veil and waved it and when she heard a shout from the mainland and the clatter of horses’ hoofs she believed she had rarely been so happy.

The boat touched ground and someone had come forward to kneel at her feet.

“Why, George,” she said, “so you are the first to welcome me back to my kingdom.”

Now others were crowding around her. Horses were waiting and it would be unwise to stay in Kinross.

Friends were with her now: Seton, Semphill, John Beaton, George Douglas and the humble people of Kinross who had sheltered the Queen’s loyal subjects secretly in their houses awaiting this great day.

The horses were ready. Mary was helped into the saddle. Willie watched her, grinning with delight as he turned and threw the keys of Lochleven into the middle of the lake.

Then he took the horse which was waiting for him; and so the Queen escaped from her prison of Lochleven.