"But when Athaliah the mother of Ahaziah saw that her son was dead, she
arose and destroyed all the seed royal of the house of Judah.
"But the daughter of the King took Joash the King's son, and stole him
from among the King's sons that were slain, and put him and his nurse
in a bedchamber. So Joash was hidden from Athaliah, so that she slew
him not.
"And he was hidden in the house of God six years, and Athaliah reigned
over the land.
"And in the seventh year all the congregation made a covenant with the
King in the house of God. And he said unto them, Behold the King's son
shall reign, as the Lord hath said of the sons of David.
"Moreover, Jehoiada the priest delivered to the captains hundreds of
spears, and bucklers, and shields, that had been King David's, and were
in the house of God.
"And he set all the people, every man having his weapon in his hand,
from the right side of the temple to the left side of the temple, along
the altar and the temple, by the King round about. Then they brought
out the King's son, and put upon him the crown, and gave him the
testimony, and made him King. And Jehoiada and his sons anointed him,
and said, God save the King. Now when Athaliah heard the noise of the
people running and praising the King, she came to the people into the
house of the Lord.
"And she looked, and behold, the King stood at his pillar at the
entering in, and the princes and the trumpets by the King; and all the
people of the land rejoiced, and sounded with trumpets, also the
singers with instruments of music, and such as taught to sing praise.
Then Athaliah rent her clothes, and said, Treason, treason!
"Then Jehoiada the priest brought out the captains of hundreds that
were set over the host, and said to them, Have her forth of the ranges:
and whoso followeth her, let him be slain with the sword. For the
priest said, Slay her not in the house of the Lord. So they laid hands
on her, and when she was come to the entering of the horse gate by the
King's house, they slew her there.
"Then all the people went to the house of Baal, and broke it down, and
broke his altars and his images in pieces, and slew the priest of Baal
before the altars.
"And all the people of the land rejoiced: and the city was quiet, after
they had slain Athaliah with the sword."
Knox took a deep breath. He hoped they had followed the lengthy
reading, so apropos of the present events. They were all staring at
him. The little King had fallen asleep on the throne.
"Now you, my good friends, are like the true priests of the temple, and
the congregation that cleansed the land of the priests of Baal and of
the wicked Queen. Here before you is your King, miraculously
preserved, as was Joash. And as Joash, who, Scripture tells us,
restored the temple, which had been defiled by Baal-worshipers, so this
young King James will restore true worship here in our land." Knox
paused and cleared his throat. "Athaliah who was she?" Of course
everyone should know. "She was the daughter of Jezebel! Yes, the
wicked, wicked Jezebel. We, too, have a Jezebel in our land. And
surely she should also be slain, so that we may also have quiet in the
land! I say, let the dogs drink her blood!"
The members of the congregation were twitching in their seats. "Having
come so far, we should not flinch before the last requirement. She
should be slain, but not in the house of the Lord! And so I leave it
to you to carry it out."
Knox noticed that Morton was frowning. The Lords had shown a curious
reluctance to follow the thing to its logical conclusion. Jezebels and
Athaliahs, no matter how pathetic and appealing they could seem when at
one's mercy, would always rise to fight and take revenge unless they
were utterly destroyed. How could he make them understand the pressing
necessity of it?
"I appeal to you to spare not anyone if God commands otherwise.
Remember that Abraham stood ready to sacrifice Isaac without
question!"
After a concluding prayer, he stepped down from the pulpit. The peers
approached the sleeping baby on his throne and, one by one, knelt and
did homage. Then the titles of the High and Puissant Prince, James VI
of Scotland and the Isles, were proclaimed at the doors of the chapel
to the sound of trumpets.
Mary sat at the window recess on the lower-floor room of her tower
apartments. It was some eight feet off the ground, a great big belly
of a window that protruded out from the tower. From where she sat, she
could see across the loch to the other small islands, including the one
with ruins of an old monastery on it. The trees were in full leaf and
were rustling in the stiff breeze, teasing her with obscured vision.
She had sat thus for two days during the daylight hours, turning her
back on the chamber and just staring out the window. It was as if by
sitting very still she could keep her thoughts from straying back to
the scene enacted in her bedroom, if she just did not move, but
concentrated on emptying her mind of all thoughts, then she would feel
no pain. It worked for bodily injuries, and she had those as well.
Every time the thought of Lindsay and the papers began to steal into
her mind, she obliterated them. But still there were the reminders of
the abrasions on her arm where he had grabbed her, and though she kept
them covered with her shawl, they hurt.
I am still alive, she thought, feeling like a liar as she mouthed the
words. But why did she feel dead?
Because, said her intellect briskly, you have lost a kingdom, a
husband, and all your children born and unborn, all in a short space of
time. But the truth is you are not dead, only stunned.
Your words are but wearying words, she answered herself. You tire me
and convince me not. I have no desire to do anything ever again but to
sit here.
Believe me, you will rise from the chair and find there is still
delight in the world, and that there is no such thing as a final
battle.
She smiled at the lecturing of her sensible, worldly self. But it was
no use. Tell that to Marc Antony after Actium, to Richard III after
Bosworth Field, she answered. Some battles are final; in some cases we
know it at the time, and in others not until much later. I have lost
all, I tell you.
Bothwell still lives, and Lord James is returning, the Prince has not
been crowned yet, and Elizabeth of England has shown herself your
friend; she is the only ruler to have stepped forward for you in this
dark hour. How can you say you have "lost all"? You yourself know
that the papers you signed have no validity since they were signed
under duress.
Yes, Bothwell still lives.... At that thought, her heart stirred a
little. Perhaps there was hope. Where there's life, there's hope,
tiresome people said. But there was truth in it.
What date was it? She had lost track of time since coming here. She
and Bothwell had parted on June fifteenth, and they had brought her
here late the next night, June sixteenth. And then she had lain ill
for .. . how long?
"What date is it?" she asked, in a voice so soft Mary Seton could
hardly hear her.
But at the slightest sound from her mistress, she flew across the room.
"What?" she asked breathlessly. The Queen was talking!
"I asked if you knew what the date is," she said, her voice a
whisper.
"Why July twenty-ninth." Should she add the year?
July twenty-ninth. Her wedding day to Darnley. It seemed impossible
that it had been only two years ago. Even her time in France seemed,
somehow, nearer.
She nodded and patted Seton's arm. "The dancing leaves make a very
intricate pattern," she said. "Perhaps you should sketch them, and we
could make a tapestry based on it. See, the darker green of the oaks
with their rounded edges, with the oval, thin lighter green of the
birches would be most subtle and unusual."
"Aye. I will use the charcoal and a handkerchief." When she saw her
mistress looking at her oddly, she said, "We are allowed no pens, inks,
or papers."
"Ohh!" So they would keep her from writing anything, except her
signature on an abdication! No letters at all? How could a queen not
correspond with the world?
How could she make her plight known to anyone?
A sickening feeling came over her, like a hand tightening around her
chest. To be deprived of the power of speech to those out of earshot
.. . She felt like a mute, a helpless mute.
"I see," she finally said.
What difference did it make, anyway? She was dead, as good as in the
tomb. This stone room was nothing but a sepulchre. Dead people did
not write letters, and was she not among them? Had she not just said
so?
But somehow it was different to have no choice, not to be able, to
write if she wished. It aroused in her a fierce, burning desire to do
so. And Bothwell unless she found a way to write, that meant she would
never speak to him again, in any form whatsoever.
A bright sparkle caught her eye. It seemed to be leaping and
quivering, and even as she watched it grew taller. A fire. Someone
had lit a fire on the grounds near the boat landing.
The size of it continued to grow, until it gave off great rolling
clouds of smoke and obscured her view of the loch. She heard people
around it start laughing and cheering.
It was a bonfire. What was it for?
Then she heard the startling boom of the castle ordnance firing from
the walls. The report was so loud that even the floor shook in her
room. She jumped up in fright. Were they being attacked?
The cannon continued to fire, one after another, in a salute.
"Send for George Douglas," she told Mary Seton. "Ask him what this
is." She could have asked her guards, but they were surly louts who
would take pleasure in pretending not to understand the question.
George had shown himself to be pleasant, and he alone, of everyone in
the castle, never mocked her in any way. And he was a handsome young
man, even if a trifle unworldly.
Quick as a garden snake, a thought passed through her mind: Perhaps
George would bring me paper and ink. Immediately she felt ashamed. But
the discovery of just how strict her imprisonment was, coupled with the
realization that she had no way to affect it by any outside help,
infuriated her. If they treat me thus, how can I be blamed if I use
any weapon that comes to hand to help myself? They have taken
everything else from me. Nothing remains but whatever sympathy I can
excite in someone's heart. If I cannot write to my friends outside the
castle, then I must create new friends inside it.
Interesting thoughts for a dead person, her intellect said with
amusement. I told you you would rise from the chair, my lady.
George Douglas was standing in the doorway, looking awkward. He had
beautiful colouring: very fair skin, eyes the colour of wild hyacinths,
and thick, wavy black hair. That was good; she had an aversion to the
red haired Douglas type of colouring, but that was probably because it
reminded her of Morton, who exemplified it.