The Captive Queen of Scots

III Langside

THE QUEEN WAS GALLOPING through the night, George Douglas beside her, exultant with the knowledge that at last they had succeeded.

Not far behind them rode Willie, laughing to himself as he contemplated what was happening in the castle, where Sir William and the guards would now be endeavoring to break out and raise the alarm.

Mary was thinking that so many times she had undergone this urgent riding through the night, that it became almost like a pattern of her life; yet never on similar occasions had she felt this lifting of her spirits; she knew this was because she had come out of captivity and was riding to freedom.

Danger was still in the air. She was realist enough to know that she had taken but the first tottering steps toward victory; but at last she was no longer a prisoner; she was free to command, to plan, to wrest her kingdom from those who sought to keep it from her.

Now they were swerving from the route to the coast that they might avoid the territory of Kirkcaldy of Grange who it was well known was her enemy; she could smell the sea and she knew that they could not be far from the Firth of Forth.

Once they had crossed it they would be a little nearer to safety, but as they rode down to the sea and Mary saw the small open fishing-boat in which she must cross the Firth she felt a tremor of misgivings; yet she knew that this was no time to look for comfort. George was at her side, helping her into the boat, and with her company of faithful friends in similar craft, the crossing took place.

It seemed as though the ill fortune which had been her lot for so long had changed, for the crossing was made in safety and as they came ashore a party of horsemen was waiting for them, led by Lord Claud Hamilton, all ready to fight for the Queen.

Lord Seton, who helped the Queen into her saddle, said as he did so: “Your Majesty, I think that you should take a few hours’ sleep before morning. And I suggest we ride on to my castle of West Niddry that you may rest in comfort there before pursuing the journey.”

Mary bowed her head.

“I doubt whether I shall sleep,” she answered; “but I should certainly welcome the chance to rest my weary limbs.”

So, on through the night to West Niddry.

IN THE CHAMBER which the Setons had prepared for her in West Niddry Castle, Mary found it impossible to sleep. Jane Kennedy, rid at last of her wet clothes, lay at the foot of her mistress’s bed and fell at once into deep slumber.

Mary was not eager to sleep, for that might mean to dream she was a prisoner in Lochleven; freedom was too precious, too recently come by to be lost, even in her dreams. So she lay trying to plan for the future, but finding the immediate past intruding into her thoughts, so that she was again waiting in her chamber for the coming of Willie, walking out of the castle, while Willie locked the gates behind her . . . riding through the night, tossing on the Firth of Forth.

But that is all past, she told herself. Now it remains for me to regain my throne.

Could it be done peacefully? Was that hoping for too much? She thought how strange was her life, when her little son, who should have been with her, was the symbol for which her enemies would tell the world they were fighting.

As she lay between waking and sleeping the first streaks of dawn showed in the sky; and with them came the distant sound of pipes and bugles.

Mary lay listening, as nearer and nearer came the sounds, and unable to remain on her bed, she leaped up and, her chestnut hair falling about her shoulders, snatched a robe and went to stand at the window.

She saw them then . . . marching toward the castle and she felt tears of joy sting her eyelids as she recognized Lord Livingstone at the head of his men.

Now they were filing into the courtyard; and they were almost below her window when Livingstone, seeing her there, called a halt to his men and shouted: “Long live the Queen!”

Over the sweet May air their voices rang out and it was some time before Mary could speak to them and tell them how she welcomed them and how it warmed her heart to see such loyal subjects.

Even as she spoke, the pipes of other companies could be heard, and she saw the Bruces advancing and it seemed to her that from all directions the clans were converging on West Niddry Castle to offer themselves in the Queen’s service.

THE CASTLE of West Niddry was intended to be only a resting place and Mary with her followers—now swollen to a considerable size—left for Hamilton Castle where she had heard that more clans were coming in from all parts of the country to welcome her.

Here she was received by Archbishop Hamilton, and when she had made her speech of welcome to all those who were rallying to her cause, she delighted to hear that Sir Robert Melville had arrived at the castle.

She sent for him and when he came to her she greeted him warmly.

He was a little shamefaced, in view of the fact that he had been present when she had been forced to sign her Abdication, and he apologized for this.

Mary immediately forgave him; if she wondered whether he had changed sides rather hastily she dismissed the thought because she was so happy to be free and to have friends. Moreover, Sir Robert had sound advice to give her.

“Your Majesty’s first task should be to repudiate the Abdication,” he told her. “And you have two witnesses with you here at Hamilton who can verify the fact that you were forced, on pain of death, to sign those documents.”

Mary recognized the wisdom of this and summoned George Douglas, and when he came to her she held out both hands to him in her impulsive way. George took them and kissed the delicate fingers.

“George,” she cried, “you are so self-effacing that I feel I have to tell you every time I see you that I shall never forget what you have done for me.”

“It is enough reward for me to see Your Majesty free,” murmured George.

She told him that she was going to repudiate the Abdication and that he, with Melville, was to be a witness to the fact that she had signed under pressure.

George’s face brightened at the prospect of being of further assistance to her; she immediately called a council and made her formal declaration that the Abdication was null and void.

Immediately afterward, for all were aware of a great urgency knowing that Moray would act swiftly, there was a meeting at which the next step was discussed.

Seated around the council table with such tried friends as Lords Seton and Livingstone, were Lord Claud Hamilton and Lord Herries with Sir Robert Melville; and Mary had insisted that George Douglas should be present.

“We seem strong,” said Mary, “but we must remember that Moray is strong also, and that in his hands are the royal arsenals of Edinburgh and Stirling Castles, also Dunbar. He has the revenues at his disposal and all my most precious jewels are in his possession. I have little with which to pay those who fight for me, although in good time I hope to regain all that I have lost and so pay my debts. The first step I propose is to write to France and ask for help. I believe that the King of France would be eager to help me, although I am not sure of his mother. I suggest therefore that we send, without delay, a trusty messenger to France who will lay this matter before King Charles and ask his help in my name.”

This was agreed to be wise and John Beaton was chosen for the mission. He agreed to make his preparations and set out immediately.

“Your Majesty,” said Lord Seton, “we must prepare for battle without delay.”

A slight frown touched Mary’s brows. “I had hoped that we could settle our differences without resort to violence,” she said. “I propose to send a letter to the Regent Moray with a copy of my revocation of the Abdication, which was forced upon me during my imprisonment, and to assure him that if he will restore my rights to me peacefully, I will forgive him all that he has done against me; and because I have respect for his powers I shall wish him to work with me in the government of this realm.”

Melville shook his head; Seton was disturbed.

“Your Majesty,” said the latter, “we must remember that the Regent has shown himself to be your enemy. It was on his instructions that you were kept in rigorous confinement.”

“I know,” replied Mary; and she looked around the company with a smile that held some exasperation. How could she explain to them: I understand Jamie. He even has my sympathy. There is not a more ambitious man in Scotland—and we must remember how frustrating it must be to have been born a bastard when you long to wear the crown. Oh poor frustrated Jamie! He made me a prisoner; he wished to rule Scotland. He shall no longer do so, but I could make him happy with some post worthy of his exceptional abilities.

No, they would never understand her.

He is my brother! she wanted to cry. The Stuart blood runs through our veins. He was unjust to me, but I could never be so to him. The matter would lie on my conscience. I should remember it all my life.

Therefore she would not listen to their advice. At least she would give James a chance to confer peaceably. The idea of a civil war in Scotland was abhorrent; but that it should be war between brother and sister was doubly so.

No. She must give Jamie a chance to be her friend. She must forgive and try to forget.

So she wrote to Moray.

WHEN MORAY heard the news of the Queen’s escape he was dumbfounded. He let out an exclamation of rage—something he had rarely done in his life; but in that moment of dismay he was beyond self-control.

Escaped from Lochleven, and now at Hamilton Castle where supporters were rallying to her banner!

He sought out Morton at once.

“This is disastrous!” cried Morton.

“Nay,” answered James, almost his calm self again. “It is bad, but we must not be over-disconsolate. Deeply as I regret what has happened, there may still be a chance to settle this matter once and for all.”

“They say supporters are rallying to her side.”

“She will not have the money to pay them.”

“Doubtless she will receive help from France.”

“I am afraid of that. But it will take a little time before aid can reach her. In the meantime we have the arms. We also have her jewels. I shall immediately offer her pearls to Elizabeth of England.”

“You think she will buy them?”

“I know she will. She has wanted them ever since she heard that Mary was a prisoner in Lochleven.”

Morton looked at Moray. A sly one, thought Morton; so he had already been in negotiation with Elizabeth over the pearls! You could trust Moray to be one step ahead of his enemies—and his friends. Morton believed—in spite of rumors that were in the air—that he was on the right side.

“She will offer twelve thousand crowns for them,” went on Moray.

“I had heard they are worth sixteen thousand.”

“It is so. But the Queen of England dearly loves a bargain and it is to our advantage to please her. Moreover she has an obsession about her cousin of Scotland and constantly longs to outshine her in all things. She is the vainest woman in the world, and there have been too many reports of my sister’s beauty and charm which have reached her. She hates her rival. In truth she was delighted to hear she was a prisoner in Lochleven, robbed of her comfort and luxury. She constantly inquires about the health of her dear cousin, and professes concern that imprisonment may have impaired her beauty, fervently hoping all the time that it has. She wants the pearls so that Mary cannot have them and she will pay for them without delay. We shall need the money.”

“You think we can rely on her help?”

Moray nodded slowly. “She will offer congratulations to Mary; she will rage against the indignity done to Royalty; and she will turn a blind eye and a deaf ear while her minister, Cecil, supports the Protestants of Scotland against the Catholics. Throckmorton assures me of this.”

“But meanwhile Mary may receive help from France.”

“It is wrong, I believe, to wait for help from England. By then Mary may have received help from France. There must be a battle if we are to preserve the throne for James VI; we must prepare for that battle and it must take place without delay. In the meantime I will write humbly to my sister so that she will think I am considering her proposals. But make no mistake about it. The time to strike is close at hand. If we delay we shall have the Highlanders marching South. I doubt not that when Huntley heard the news he began shouting the battle cry.”

“You are right,” agreed Morton. “To delay would be to give the Queen the advantage.”

MARY WAS DISCONSOLATE because Moray had now shown his true intentions. After seeming to be considering a reconciliation he had put in irons the messenger whom she had sent to him in Glasgow.

There must be a battle. Her advisers were optimistic because she had now a force of six thousand, while Moray had under four thousand. Victory seemed inevitable and she was glad that the battle would not be delayed because, having at Carberry Hill seen how rapidly an army could turn against its leaders, she was afraid of a similar occurrence when those who had rallied to fight for her knew that she had—until she gained the victory—no means of paying them for their services.

There was trouble within her ranks. She had given the command of the army to the Earl of Argyle who was the husband of a half-sister of hers—one of her father’s bastards. Mary, who had always longed to be one of a large family, had constantly shown indulgence toward her father’s bastards. However, Lord Claud Hamilton thought that the command should have been offered to him. This was an unfortunate state of affairs particularly as neither of the contestants was noted for his military genius, and against them Moray would have the best general in Scotland—Kirkcaldy of Grange, one of the Queen’s most bitter enemies.

The Queen’s ill luck seemed to have returned, for it started to rain heavily and, so violent were the storms, that the progress of the Highlanders, who under Huntley were hurrying to her banner, was halted.

Moray, aware that delay could cost him his future, determined on immediate battle. Mary, however, still hoping to avoid bloodshed, decided to march with her followers to Dumbarton, which was in the loyal hands of Lord Fleming. But the Hamiltons were eager for battle; they had old scores to settle with Moray and it was largely for this reason that they had rallied to the Queen; they did all possible therefore to impede the departure for Dumbarton.

Moray had set spies among the Queen’s men and was kept informed of her movements. Thus the news that she was making her way to Dumbarton, to join with Fleming and doubtless pick up other supporters on the road, was brought to him and, as he was discussing tactics with his General Kirkcaldy at the time, Kirkcaldy hit on the plan that he and his army would intercept the Queen and hers on the road to Dumbarton. In this way he would be able to choose his battlefield and position—always an important factor in victory; and as it was necessary to engage in an action as soon as possible, the time had come.

Moray was confident that he had the finest general in Scotland and he agreed at once. So Kirkcaldy selected his battlefield at the little village of Langside close by Govan Moor.

ON HER WAY to Dumbarton Mary stayed the night at Castlemilk as the guest of her kinsman Sir John Stuart.

She slept well for she was confident of eventual victory; and when it was hers she would send for Moray and reproach him for all that he had done against her. She would remind him of the blood ties between them and she would of course forgive him; and she hoped that then there would be an end of strife between them. “Jamie,” she would say, “I understand and you have my sympathy. I am our father’s legitimate daughter; you are his illegitimate son. It is sad for you who are so ambitious, but you must learn to accept that.”

And he would agree because, whatever else James was, he was a man of sound common sense.

How wonderful to be at peace again—a Queen on her throne! And the years of violence and tragedy would not have been in vain, because she had learned so much through them, and she would profit from those lessons. She would be a good Queen to her Protestant subjects no less than to her Catholic ones. There should be freedom of religion in Scotland, freedom of opinion, prosperity and peace.

She dozed, for she was worn out with emotion and physical exhaustion. She dreamed that she was in Lochleven and her joy was great when she opened her eyes in the large room with the three embayed windows which gave her wide views over the countryside.

Not Lochleven but Castlemilk on the road to Dumbarton!

But in the morning when she arose and went out to the battlements to gaze down on the magnificent view of her beautiful country she saw troops encamped in the distance; and she felt sick with apprehension because she knew that they were not her own soldiers but those of the enemy.

She believed then that the battle could not long be delayed.

She had just completed her toilet, and was wearing a crepe coif and simple dress, which fitted her figure closely and which was made of white taffety, when she heard that Lord Livingstone was asking for an audience with her.

He looked disturbed, and when she asked the reason, he kissed her hand and told her that all augured well for this day and that he believed that before nightfall their enemies would be defeated. There was a small trouble however. Two captains of her musketeers were quarreling as to who should have supremacy over the other.

Mary sighed. “There is no time for private quarrels on such a day. Who are these men?”

“Arthur Hamilton of Mirrinton and John Stuart of Castleton. They are bitter enemies, and are ready to draw swords against each other. I warned them that if they did not desist I should be forced to lay the matter before Your Majesty. They persist in their quarrel, so I have come to ask you to give a decision.”

“Is one a better captain than the other?”

“They are both good fighters, Your Majesty; but arrogant, stubborn and proud.”

“Then I suppose I must perforce give the command to the Stuart . . . for the sake of the name.”

Livingstone bowed. “It is one way of solving the problem, Your Majesty.”

Mary said: “The enemy is massing against us. I can see them in the distance.”

Livingstone nodded. “The battle will surely take place this day. Will Your Majesty come now to the chamber in which your generals and councillors are gathered?”

Mary went with him; and there it was decided that, on account of their superiority in numbers, they should surround the rebel army and annihilate it in a short time.

“We will call for surrender,” insisted Mary. “If they surrender there will be no need for slaughter. I do not wish the blood of Scotsmen to be shed unnecessarily on this day. I am sure that many who now stand against me may well become my good friends when they learn that I intend to rule well, to forgive them and bear no malice that they once ranged themselves against me.”

One of the guards at the door of the council chamber slipped away from his post. No one noticed his departure because there was so much coming and going; moreover many of those who had rallied to the Queen’s cause were friends of his.

He had no difficulty in procuring a horse and soon was speeding across country to the headquarters of Mary’s enemies.

There he went straight to Kirkcaldy who was conferring with Moray, and received their congratulations when he was able to tell them the form in which the enemy’s attack would be made.

KIRKCALDY WAS EXULTANT. He was certain of victory. The inferiority in numbers concerned him little for throughout the Queen’s army were his own men. He had taken the precaution of sending them to declare their loyalty to the Queen, with strict instructions as to how they were to act. He did wonder uneasily whether a similar strategy had occurred to the other side. Hardly likely. The Queen would have notions of fighting fairly. As if any battle was ever won through fairness! Argyle? Not a brilliant rival. Moreover he was Moray’s brother-in-law and they had been allies at one time. He did not think Argyle would prove a very good general for the Queen. She should have remembered that while he was related to her he was also related to Moray; and Moray was a shrewd and competent statesman, whereas Mary was an emotional woman.

He, Kirkcaldy, was never so much alive as when he was planning a battle or winning it. He would now post his hagbutters behind the hedges and in the gardens and orchards of Langside, and they should have orders to hide themselves in trees, behind bushes . . . anywhere, making sure that they were not seen by the approaching army. They were to shoot as the Queen’s men marched by. That should account for a few of them. And the Queen planned to surround him! Well, he would take possession of the hill which was above the village and here place his men, so that as Mary’s army tried to advance they would have to climb the hill and thus could more easily be mown down.

There was another hill close by, known as Hagbush-hill, and here, protected by a body of horsemen was a cradle in which the little James VI was sleeping unaware of the excitement which was going on about him.

It had been deemed necessary to remove him from Stirling, in case some of Mary’s supporters stormed the castle; if the child fell into his mother’s hands, this could prove disastrous for those who declared they were fighting to keep him on the throne.

It had been a good idea to bring the baby to the battlefield, mused Kirkcaldy. The sight of that cradle would, in a way, be an inspiration to his men; and if there should be any danger of defeat—which Kirkcaldy did not anticipate for a moment—those whose duty it was to guard the cradle would swiftly carry the child away.

Kirkcaldy was waiting, well satisfied. Soon the Queen’s army would begin to move.

KIRKCALDY WAS RIGHT. Almost before he had succeeded in placing his men the Queen’s army was seen marching in the distance, their pennons flying in the breeze; their glistening pikes reflecting the sunlight.

Kirkcaldy watched them. Moray was stationed by the bridge with his men and Morton was in charge of the vanguard. Kirkcaldy felt the utmost confidence in his generals. They had so much to lose with this battle.

On the Queen’s men came. They were passing the gardens and orchards, and the hagbutters were doing their work. Men were falling as they marched, their comrades looking about startled since there was no sign of the enemy.

Now they were approaching the hill on which Kirkcaldy was stationed, and Arthur Hamilton, leading his troop and smarting under the humiliation of John Stuart’s being given precedence over him because he bore the same name as the Queen, suddenly shouted: “Where are now these Stuarts that did contest for the first place? Let them come forward and take it now.”

John Stuart was close by, and heard, as Hamilton had intended he should.

“And so will I,” he retorted. “Neither you nor any Hamilton in Scotland shall set foot before a Stuart this day.”

John Stuart ill-advisedly spurred his horse and leading his men tried to storm his way up the hill. The effect was disastrous. But not to be outdone Hamilton followed him with the same dire results.

The fighting was furious for a few moments and men used their dirks because they were too close to each other to draw their swords.

Argyle, who was in command of the Queen’s army was seen to fall forward on his mount; yet did not appear to be wounded but slid to the ground and lay there writhing as though in a fit.

His men watched him in dismay for in that section of the army there was no one else to give them orders. None was quite sure what had caused Argyle’s malady. Some thought it was a fit, which seemed a bad omen; others that he had merely fainted at the prospect of disaster; some that he feigned sickness in order to play into the hands of his old friend Moray.

Mary had ridden with Lord Livingstone on one side of her and George Douglas on the other; and immediately behind her was Willie Douglas, carrying a two-handed sword which required all his attention to maintain. Willie’s eyes were alight with enthusiasm; and Mary believed that none would fight more earnestly for her cause.

But she was disturbed, because she was aware of disaffection in her ranks, and could not help being reminded, with something like terror, of Carberry Hill.

Lord Livingstone was remonstrating with her. She should not go too near the battle zone, for if aught should happen to her, her soldiers would lose heart. It was better to wait some distance away and watch the progress of her soldiers from comparative safety.

George added his pleas to Lord Livingstone’s, and eventually she realized the wisdom of their words and agreed to wait beneath a hawthorn tree until the heat of the battle was over. With her were Lady Livingstone and Jane Kennedy; and Lord Livingstone and Lord Herries with George and Willie remained by her side. Livingstone ordered that fresh horses should be brought.

“For what reason?” the Queen demanded.

“In case we should need them . . . in a hurry, Your Majesty,” answered Livingstone.

Mary’s throat was suddenly parched. She knew that all was not going well.

A RIDER dashing up to the little party brought news of the battle. What he had to tell was disturbing: Argyle was incapacitated; Lord Seton was seriously wounded; fifty-seven of the Hamiltons had been slain.

He reported that Mary’s baby son was on the battlefield in his cradle; and when she heard this Mary gave a cry of horror. Her son . . . her baby . . . exposed to danger and in the hands of her enemies who pretended that they supported him against her!

She felt weak suddenly and the tears were rushing to her eyes. Slipping from the Spanish jennet which Livingstone had suggested she mount in case she should need it, she stooped to drink from the little burn which flowed from the brae.

When she had drunk she silently remounted; the excitement of the day was turning to anguish. Now she could see riderless horses, bleeding from pike wounds, running hither and thither in their bewildered agony. She was glad of the distance which separated her from that fearful scene; but her heart yearned for the child in the cradle.

Herries laid his hand on her arm and said quietly: “I think, Your Majesty, that it is unwise to stay here longer, and the time has come for us to move on.”

That was enough. She understood. The battle of Langside was almost over. Kirkcaldy and Moray were the victors; and the captive Queen had become the fugitive.

TO DUMBARTON—where she could count on loyal supporters! But before she reached it she must cross the Clyde.

Lord Herries, who was riding beside her, while the rest of the little band followed behind, said: “We must get down to the shore. There we shall find a boat. We must hope to find horses on the other side; but get to Dumbarton we must.”

To reach the river bank they must cross the estates of the Earl of Lennox—strong supporter of Moray; and when the men who were working in the fields saw their approach and guessed who the riders were, they brandished their scythes and uttered such curses that the Queen turned her horse and commanded that Herries did the same.

Then they abandoned hope of crossing the Clyde.

“We will make our way into Galloway and Wigtownshire,” said Herries. “It is my native ground and the people there are Catholics and loyal to Your Majesty. You will find the going rough, but there are few who know the ground as well as I, and I shall lead you to safety.”

So along the beautiful banks of the River Doon they rode; through mountain passes and across moors and small, swift streams. The white taffety gown was splashed with mud, the crepe coif askew; yet Mary was not thinking of her appearance as she rode, but of the child who was lost to her, together with her kingdom.

All through the night they rode and at length they reached Herries’ house at Terregles; and there they tarried for a rest, but only a brief one. All Mary’s faithful friends knew that, after the defeat of Langside, Moray would not rest until he had made her his prisoner once more.

AT TERREGLES a follower of Herries, who had hoped that he might find his master there, had come riding from the battlefield. He brought the news that Lord Moray was sending parties out in all directions to search for the Queen and all the efforts of the conquerors were now being concentrated on her capture.

So the stay at Terregles was very brief.

Herries believed that there was one way in which the Queen could hope to regain her throne, and that was by escaping from Scotland to France, where her relatives and friends would provide her with money and perhaps soldiers to fight for her crown. Meanwhile loyal supporters in Scotland would wait for her return.

There was no time to discuss such matters now, but he knew that Livingstone and Fleming agreed with him. Their objective was the coast. If they could have crossed the Clyde and arrived at Dumbarton the flight to France would have been comparatively easy, for there ships worthy to cross the seas would have been in readiness for them. As it was they would strike the coast farther south, and who could tell what vessels would be at their disposal?

But there was no time for regrets; they must move quickly because Terregles would be one of the first places in which Moray would expect to find the Queen sheltering, since it belonged to Herries.

So the journey began again with Herries leading the way through the lonely passes of the Glenkens until they at length came to the banks of the River Ken.

Mary was almost asleep in her saddle when Herries announced that they had arrived at the Castle of Earlston.

Earlston! As Mary stared at the castle she forgot her exhaustion, for memory had brought vividly to her mind the picture of a burly man, crude and brutal, who shouted: “I will take you to my castle of Earlston . . . and there in that lonely spot far from your courtiers you shall learn who is the master.”

Had he need to take her there, to show her what he had proved in her Court when she had been surrounded by her courtiers?

She began to shiver. “No, my lord Herries,” she said, “I will not stay at Earlston.”

“Your Majesty, there is no other refuge for miles, and you are exhausted.”

Mary shook her head. “No,” she repeated coldly.

She turned her horse and as she did so she seemed to throw off her exhaustion. “Come,” she said, “we can ride on a few more miles.”

And as they rode the memories of Bothwell came flooding back. In this wild country he would have hunted and made sport. It was as though his spirit rode beside her, as though he mocked, as though he said: So even now, when I am miles away across the sea, you are afraid to enter a place which was once a home of mine. Why, Mary?

Why? she asked herself. He was far away. He could do no harm to her. Did she believe that the presence of one so vital could never be completely eradicated and must linger on in spirit when the man himself had departed?

Why was it that she could not endure to enter a place which must be full of reminders of him, where she would be afraid of encountering something which would bring back memories that were too bitter to be borne? Did it mean that she longed for him still?

She was not sure. But she believed that her abhorrence of Earlston meant that she no longer cared to be reminded; that memories brought back too much that was shameful; that there was a superstition in her mind that he it was who had brought her to disaster, and that some evil force within him could harm her still.

No, she could not be entirely sure. She only knew that, exhausted as she was, she would rather ride on than enter a house in which he had once lived.

So on they rode until at length they came to Kenmure, an estate belonging to the Laird of Lochinvar.

THE LAIRD of Lochinvar had bad news for her. Her pursuers had discovered the direction in which she was traveling, and were not many miles away. It could be fatal if she tarried; so, pausing just long enough to take refreshment, she and her faithful band were on their way again. On they rode through miles of wild and beautiful country; and eventually they came to a bridge which crossed the River Dee.

Here Herries, calling a halt, said they would cross the bridge and then break it down so that when their pursuers reached this spot they would be delayed in their crossing of the river.

Lord Livingstone looked with compassion at the Queen. “Your Majesty,” he said, “rest here while we demolish the bridge. At least it will be a small respite.”

So Mary dismounted and Willie Douglas tied her horse to a tree and she stretched herself out on the grass and closed her eyes. She was thirsty and, realizing how hungry she was, she called Willie to her.

“I would give a great deal for some food and wine,” she said.

Willie grinned and laid his hand on the sword, which he would not give up although it impeded him considerably. Willie felt that he was no longer a boy since he had left Lochleven; he was ready to work like a man and fight like a man for his sovereign.

“I’ll go and forage,” he told her.

George, who was busy at work on the bridge, called after Willie: “Where are you going? If you’re not here when we’re ready to go, you’ll be left behind.”

Willie answered: “Dinna fach yourself, Geordie Douglas.” He drew out his word and brandished it as though to show what he would do to any who stood in his way.

Mary could not help smiling, and when the men’s attention was on the bridge she rose and followed Willie.

“Willie,” she called.

He stopped and she came up beside him.

“Why dinna you rest?” he demanded, “you’re weary.”

“So are we all,” she said. “Where are you going?”

“There’s smoke in yon trees,” said Willie. “It means there’s a cottage there. I’m going to ask for food for you.”

“I shall come with you.”

Willie looked dubious, but she smiled and said: “I wish it, Willie; and I am your Queen, remember, although I sometimes think you forget it.”

“Oh ay,” said Willie, “Your Majesty’s such a bonny lassie that it slips the mind ye’re a Queen as well.”

It was impossible not to be amused by Willie. He was so loyal and so frank. She trusted him to work for her as she could never trust some who overwhelmed her with their flattery.

So she and Willie came to the cottage, and when Willie knocked on the door a woman opened it.

“What is it you want?” she asked.

“We’re travelers in sore need of food,” Willie told her. “This lady needs to rest and eat if we are to continue our journey.”

The woman peered at the Queen.

“Oh you poor creatures!” she said. “Come you in and you shall have some of that that’s in my cupboard.”

Into the small room stepped the Queen with Willie, and the woman bade them sit at her table.

“Have ye come far?” she asked, turning to the cupboard.

“Very far,” answered Mary.

“Ah . . . these are troublous times.”

“You live alone?” Mary asked.

“Nay, there’s my good man who works up at Culdoach Farm.”

“Is that far?”

“Oh no. We’re on the farm land now.”

The woman had brought oatmeal and sour milk from her cupboard. She had scarcely enough for herself but her heart was touched by the plight of the travelers and she was willing to share with them all she had. At any other time Mary would have been unable to eat such fare, but so great was her hunger that it tasted good.

The woman was looking at the Queen’s hands and had noticed the dainty way in which she ate.

“If I had more and better fare,” she said, “you should have it.”

“What you have given us was good indeed,” said the Queen. “I shall always remember you with gratitude.”

The woman started up. She had heard the sound of galloping horses and, running to her window, she saw that her cottage was surrounded.

“Mercy on us!” she cried. “What does this mean?”

The Queen went to the window, Willie beside her, his sword drawn. Then he laughed suddenly because he had seen that those who surrounded the cottage were Herries, Fleming, and Livingstone and the rest.

“All is well,” he said. “You have nothing to fear, good woman. These are our friends.”

“Your friends!” she cried. “Then who are you?”

Mary said: “I am the Queen.”

The woman stared at her disbelievingly and then her eyes went to the table on which the empty bowl now stood.

“The Queen!” said the woman. “Sitting at my table . . . eating my oats!”

Mary laid her hand on her shoulder. Then she turned to Willie: “Go out and tell our friends that all is well, and ask Lord Herries to come here.”

“Lord Herries!” cried the woman, for in her eyes he was as grand a personage as the Queen, more to be feared perhaps because he was the laird of the land on which her cottage stood—whereas the Queen was merely a name to her.

“If you could ask for something,” said Mary, “what would it be?”

“Ask for something?” stammered the woman.

“Some gift. Tell me what you would rather have than anything in the world.”

The woman looked about the walls of her cottage; lovingly she raised her eyes to the ceiling. “I’d ask that this cottage was my very own,” she said.

Mary was about to say, It is yours, when she remembered that she was a Queen flying for her life, that she had been robbed of most of her possessions, including her crown. Was she in a position to say: This is yours?

She felt disconsolate. It was characteristic that she was more hurt now by the loss of her power to grant this woman her small wish than she had been by the confiscation of her precious jewels.

Lord Herries was at the door and the woman made a deep curtsy.

“I have enjoyed hospitality under this roof,” said Mary, “and I should like to show my gratitude. I should like to give this woman the cottage in which she lives and for which she now pays rent. It is on your land, Lord Herries.”

“The cottage is hers, Your Majesty.”

The woman stared from one to the other and in the emotion of the moment tears gushed from her eyes.

“My lord Herries . . . ” she began.

“Your thanks are due to Her Majesty,” Herries told her.

The woman cried: “But I only gave her that which I would give any hungry traveler. Oatmeal and sour milk . . . and for that . . . this cottage is mine.”

“Not for the oatmeal,” answered Mary gently, “but for your kindness to a weary traveler. Kindness is not always easy to come by and I value it highly.”

Herries said: “What is the name of your cottage, that I may know which one it is?”

“It is Dunn’s Wa’s, my lord.”

“Dunn’s Wa’s,” Herries repeated. “Now tell me where I can find fresh horses.”

“Up at the farm of Culdoach, my lord. They have horses there.”

So the Queen departed and in the cottage its new owner sat by her table and covered her face with her apron, rocking herself to and fro, because in that moment she could not bear to look at those beloved walls which would henceforth be her own. And all because she had given a stranger a share of her sparse supper! There’d be a little less to eat at her next meal—but she could not have enjoyed it if she had denied a weary, hungry stranger a share.

And for this . . . Dunn’s Wa’s was hers.

THE FUGITIVES had put fifty miles between them and the battlefield of Langside and had now come to Dundrennan Abbey.

Here they halted, for on the other side of the Solway Firth was England. Looking across the water Mary could see the mountains of Elizabeth’s country and she felt a great longing to be there. In Scotland she must remain a fugitive until she could raise a large enough army to win back all she had lost; and she could not do that while she was flying before the enemy. She needed respite which only refuge in a foreign country could give her.

So at the Abbey of Dundrennan she called together her faithful band, and with Gordon of Lochinvar who had joined them, they sat around a council table to discuss further plans.

Among those who talked with her were Lord Herries, Lord Fleming and the Laird of Lochinvar, Lord Livingstone, Lord Boyd and George Douglas.

Herries began by saying that he believed the Queen could stay in Dundrennan and there hold out against the enemy. The place would make a good fortress and would not be difficult to defend. There was no doubt that Huntley was on the march and would join them shortly. When he arrived with his Highlanders they would be ready for battle again, and this time they would defeat the enemy.

It was Livingstone’s opinion that they should move to a more doughty fortress than Dundrennan. There were stronger places not very far distant and they should make one of these their headquarters without delay and prepare for a siege.

Lord Boyd with Lochinvar considered that the Queen was in danger as long as she remained on Scottish soil. In France she had powerful relations; she could enlist the help of the King of France. They believed that without delay she should set out for France.

Mary listened, considering each proposal as it was offered. To stay in Scotland? To risk capture and another long imprisonment such as she had suffered at Lochleven? She could not endure that.

Go to France? She thought of her ambitious uncles and the Queen-Mother of France who had always hated her. How could she return to that country where she had once reigned as Queen, where she had been beloved—except by the Queen-Mother—where she had been so happy? How could she return, a miserable fugitive, begging for help, seeking a refuge?

She could imagine the reception she would get from Catherine de’ Medici. She shivered and as she looked through the window at the distant mountains of England, she spoke firmly: “I am going to England. I shall throw myself on the mercy of my cousin Elizabeth.” The men about the table stared at her in dismay, but Mary went on: “She will help me. She is angry, I have been told, to hear that I am so treated. She will give me her sympathy, and more. She will help me to regain my kingdom. We are of an age—though she is a few years older than I. We are both women, both Queens. There is a bond between us.”

“Your Majesty,” said Herries, “I implore you to reconsider your decision. You know that Elizabeth has been helping Moray to defy you?”

“He sought her help and she gave it.”

“It does not seem as though she feels herself to be Your Majesty’s friend.”

“If I can go to Hampton Court, and confer with her there, I know I shall win her sympathy. We are two women; we are cousins.”

“Your Majesty,” began Livingstone, “can you trust the Queen of England?”

“I have never had any reason not to.”

“The English have always been our enemies. They killed your father.”

“I know, but that was not the present Queen.”

“May I recall to Your Majesty’s mind how your illustrious ancestor, James I, ventured to England in a time of peace; he was made prisoner for many years.”

“This is a woman, a Queen like myself. She is no hard-hearted man who wants to go to war and pillage and kill. The Queen of England hates war. We know that.”

“She likes the spoils of war and prefers others to fight for them.”

“She hates war,” said Mary firmly.

“Your Majesty,” said Livingstone, “when your royal father was invited to York to meet Henry VIII of England he was warned by his nobles, after setting out on the journey, that he would be wise to turn back. He did.”

“I cannot see,” said Mary, “that any good will come of my staying in Scotland or going anywhere else.”

“To France . . . ” began Herries.

“A perilous journey, and how can I be sure what my reception will be?”

“But . . . to the Queen of England!”

They were studying her in dismay. Had she forgotten that long ago, secure under the sheltering wing of the royal house of France, she had assumed the title, Queen of England? Elizabeth was not the woman to forget that.

She was weary of being a fugitive and across the Firth the country looked beautiful and at peace. She could never rest easily on Scottish soil. Her sleep would be broken by the slightest noise. She would be continually on the alert for the coming of the enemy who would carry her away to a prison like that of Lochleven.

She had made up her mind. She was a Queen and would insist on their obedience to her wishes.

Calmly she faced them.

“I am going to England,” she said.

SHE SENT FOR George Douglas.

“Ah, George,” she said, holding out her hand. “It is such a short while since I walked out of Lochleven, yet it seems like a year. What will you do now that I am going to England?”

George gulped because of the lump in his throat; his eyes were earnest as they met hers.

“Whatever Your Majesty commands.”

“I would not command you, George. I would have you act of your own free will.”

“My will is to obey Your Majesty’s orders.”

She sighed. “Oh, George,” she said, “if I were not myself . . . I could be very happy with you. But are you wise to link your fortunes to those of an exiled Queen?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, since I am only happy serving her.”

“You cannot stay in Scotland now, George. Your life would not be worth much if you did. You should go to France. I will give you letters of commendation which you could take to my uncles. They would reward you well for all you have done for me.”

George was silent.

Mary continued: “Christian told me that before I came to the castle there was talk of your betrothal to a French heiress. That was true, George?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And you are no longer eager for that match?”

“I am eager only to serve my Queen.”

“Then, George, there is nothing for it. I shall have to give you your orders.” She laughed and, because she could not bear to see the anguish on his face, she said quickly: “I order you to come to England with me, George Douglas.”

The relief shone from his eyes as he said: “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“My friends do not trust the Queen of England, George. But I shall visit her, and when I talk to her I will make her understand. The sooner I am in England the easier I shall sleep. George, I wish you to go down to the Solway and arrange for a boat to carry us to England.”

George bowed low and eagerly went to perform his task.

WHILE GEORGE went off on his quest with Willie as his companion, Lords Herries, Fleming, Livingstone and Boyd conferred together.

Herries said: “As we cannot persuade the Queen not to go to England, there is only one course open to us. We must go with her.”

The others agreed, and Livingstone added: “There can be no greater peril for us all than to stay in Scotland; and I doubt that the young Douglases will find such a craft as could carry us to France in safety. It may be that this plan to visit England is the best after all.”

The others were silent. The position was full of dangers. They distrusted Elizabeth; in her realm they might lose their liberty; but if the Moray faction captured any of them it would be their heads that would go.

“Then,” said Herries, “I will write to Sir Richard Lowther who is the Deputy-Governor of Carlisle and I will ask him for a safe conduct for the Queen and her party.”

“Do so without delay,” said Livingstone. “I shall feel much happier when we receive it.”

So Herries wrote at once and dispatched a messenger to England.

AWAITING the return of George Douglas, Mary found it difficult to rest. She had in her possession a ring which Elizabeth of England had once sent her. This she had lost for a time but Melville had restored it to her with other possessions, and she took it out now and examined it.

It was delicately made and had two joints which, when put together, formed two right hands supporting a heart made of two diamonds which were held in place by a spring. When this was opened the ring could be divided into two halves.

Mary had been delighted to receive such a ring from her cousin of England. The symbolism implied by the ornament pleased her; believing Elizabeth to be of a nature similar to her own—warm, generous, forgiving, tolerant—she had thought that such a gift must mean the desire for her friendship.

Therefore merely to look at the ring comforted her.

She decided to write to her and send half of the ring, which she was sure would touch a tender chord in Elizabeth’s heart, as it did in hers.

She sat down at a table and wrote:

My dearest sister,

You are not ignorant of my misfortunes but these which induce me to write at present have happened too recently yet to have reached your ear. I must therefore acquaint you as briefly as I can, that some of my subjects whom I most confided in and raised to the highest pitch of honour have taken up arms against me and treated me with the utmost indignity. By unexpected means the Almighty Disposer of all things delivered me from the cruel imprisonment I underwent; but I have since lost a battle in which most of those who preserved their loyal integrity fell before my eyes. I am now forced out of my kingdom, and driven to such straits that, next to God, I have no hope but in your goodness. I beseech you therefore, my dearest sister, that I may be conducted to your presence, that I may acquaint you with all my affairs. In the meantime I beseech God to grant you all heavenly benedictions, and to me patience and consolation, which last I hope and pray to obtain by your means. To remind you of the reasons I have to depend on England, I send back to its Queen this token of her promised friendship and assistance.

Your affectionate sister, Mary R.

From Dundrennan.

She put half the ring with the letter and sealed it; and as she was doing this Lady Livingstone came to tell her that her husband wished to speak to the Queen.

Mary received him immediately, when he told her that in case the rebel army should have received word that she was at Dundrennan Abbey and attack during the night he, with Herries and the rest had thought it best for her to leave the Abbey and spend the night in a mansion close by. This was Hazlefield, the home of a family named Maxwell who were kinsfolk of Herries and eager to help her.

Mary agreed to this. “With good luck, it may be for one night only,” she added, “for if George Douglas succeeds in finding a vessel we shall leave for England tomorrow.”

“We cannot hope yet, Your Majesty, to receive a safe conduct from the Deputy-Governor of Carlisle. Herries’ request can scarcely have reached him.”

Mary laughed. “Rest assured we do not need such a safe conduct. We shall set out as soon as the vessel is found.”

Livingstone was less sure, but Mary added that delay was dangerous. She would not sleep easily until she had left Scottish soil.

Shortly afterward she left Dundrennan in the company of a few of her female attendants and went to Hazlefield, there to await news of what vessel George had been able to find to convey them to England.

THE MAXWELLS greeted her with respectful enthusiasm and had already prepared their best suite of rooms for her use.

Jane Kennedy suggested that she should retire early and sleep while she could, for at any moment she might hear that the journey must continue.

Jane and Lady Livingstone were helping her to retire when the door of the chamber was silently pushed open. All three turned somewhat startled. There was no one at the door; but while they stared at it, it was gently opened further and a child came into the room. He was little more than a baby, and he was chuckling as though he were enjoying himself. He stopped a short distance from the group at the mirror and then, with a gurgle of laughter, darted at the Queen and threw himself against her.

Mary picked him up and sat him on her lap.

“And who are you?” she asked.

He stared at her wonderingly.

“So you have come to see me?” she asked.

He nodded and caught at one of the rings on her fingers which completely absorbed his attention.

He was beautiful and, as she looked at the plump wrists with their creases of soft flesh, Mary was overcome with emotion. This child was about the same age as her little James. In that moment she forgot all ambitions, all desires but one—to have her baby with her again. She caught at the boy and held him against her so tightly that he wriggled in protest while she kissed the soft hair and the rounded cheek. He submitted, not without some displeasure, and when she loosened her embrace he seized her fingers again and returned to his examination of the ring.

There were sounds of consternation outside the apartment, and when Jane Kennedy went to the door she found the child’s nurse there.

“He is safe,” Jane told the woman. “He is now on the Queen’s lap examining her jewels. Come in. The Queen will wish to speak to you.”

So the nurse entered and, at the sight of her, the child turned toward Mary and gripped her hand tightly, and began to chant “No—go away. He wants to stay.”

“You are his nurse and come to look for him?” said the Queen with a smile. “Do you know, I think he would prefer to stay with me.”

The nurse made an embarrassed curtsy and said: “Now that he can toddle about he’s more than one body’s work, Your Majesty.”

“I am glad he toddled into my apartment,” said the Queen. “And you, my little man, are you glad you came to see me?”

The child regarded her solemnly and chuckled. “He stay,” he announced.

“Could you leave him with me for a while?” asked the Queen.

“Why . . . yes, I suppose so, Your Majesty. It was just that . . . it’s his bedtime and . . . ”

“Leave him for a while,” said the Queen. “I will tell his parents that he is with me.”

As the nurse curtsied and went out, Mary said: “My little one must be very like this. While I hold this child in my arms I can almost believe that he is my own son.”

Then she saw that about the child were attached leading-strings, and she thought of those which little James had once worn and how, when she had visited him in Stirling Castle and knew that she had to be parted from him, she had taken his leading-strings with her and kept them as something precious. They had been lost to her after Carberry Hill, but she often thought of them with regret.

The little boy was absorbed with interest in the Queen’s fingers; he then examined her face and, as his plump fingers explored it, Mary caught them and kissed the little palms.

The boy wriggled off her lap and toddled over to a table behind which he hid himself, to emerge after a second or so almost choking with laughter. Then he hid himself again, and the Queen and her women pretended to hunt for him.

This game was in progress when the boy’s mother appeared.

“You have come for your son?” asked Mary.

“I fear he is disturbing Your Majesty.”

“He is giving me much pleasure. May I keep him awhile?”

“If it is Your Majesty’s wish.”

The child had come out and threw himself at his mother’s skirts. He pointed to the Queen, as though to draw his mother’s attention to her.

“Look” he cried. “Look!”

His mother lifted him up and he continued to cry: “Look!” turning to point at Mary.

“Come,” said his mother, “it is time you were in bed. I am sorry, Your Majesty. I know you wish to rest.”

“It was a pleasure to meet your son,” Mary answered.

The little boy, sensing that he was about to be taken away, turned in his mother’s arms and held out his own to the Queen.

“He wants to stay with that one,” he cried.

“Hush! Hush!” said his mother.

But Mary went to him and again took him in her arms. “I should like to keep him with me this night.”

“Your Majesty, he will disturb you.”

“I do not think so. If he is agreeable, it would please me to have him in my bed this night.”

The child’s mother was secretly delighted at the Queen’s pleasure in her son, so she kissed him and left him. As for the boy, he was delighted to be with Mary and her ladies; and when the Queen lay in bed, the boy was beside her.

He slept almost at once and Mary slept too, although several times during the night she awoke and remembered the child; and she wept a little out of longing for her own little James who had been taken from her.

In the morning she left Hazlefield for Dundrennan Abbey, but before she went she took a little ruby ring from her finger and gave it to the boy’s mother.

“I pray you,” she said, “give him this when he is a little older, and tell him that it is a gift from the Queen to whom his company gave such pleasure on what may well be her last night in Scotland for many a long year.”

MARY WAITED with her friends at the secluded Bay of the Abbey of Burn-foot on the Solway Firth. The vessel which George had been able to procure was nothing but a fishing-boat, and there was great misgiving among those assembled there.

Mary uttered a prayer as she stepped into the boat: A safe passage across the water, a warm welcome from the English Queen, the help she needed, and soon she would be back in Scotland.

Several of her friends were looking at her anxiously reminding her that there was still time to change her mind; but Mary had no intention of doing that. She was filled with hope on that beautiful May morning.

The surf in the Abbey Creek impeded the boat for some minutes, and then they were out on the Firth.

Scotland lay behind them—before them was England and what Mary believed to be the way back to her throne.