"Yes?" he said.
"Master Douglas," she said, wrapping her shawl about her, "what is the
reason for the firing of the cannon salute? And why have you lighted a
bonfire?"
"I I Let my father tell you!" he blurted out, growing even paler.
Before she could stop him, he bolted out the door, leaving her standing
in the middle of the room, alone.
She waited, growing more uneasy. At length the Laird William Douglas
entered, using a walking stick.
"Good sir," she said, trying to sound pleasant, "wherefore have you
fired a cannon salute? And lit a bonfire?"
He blinked at her. What a weak, weedy little man. He seemed older
than his thirty-four years, and made of flimsy stuff compared to his
thickset half-brother, Lord James. It was as if James had usurped all
the good building material from their mother's womb and left William
with barely enough to constuct a human being.
William coughed and, taking out a handkerchief, honked into it. Then
he put it away and, leaning on his cane, said, "We celebrate a glorious
family event today. The fortunes of the Douglases have risen to the
highest pitch. For we have a new King in Scotland, and my brother, the
Lord James, will be Regent."
A cold shiver went through her, in spite of the warm July day.
"Today?"
"Aye. Today, at Stirling, the Prince was crowned. Anointed, and
crowned!"
"Today?"
"Not two hours ago, my lady."
"Ohhh!" It was like a physical blow to her, and she fell to her knees
as if she had been struck. "Ohh! O heaven, take pity!" she cried,
and great sobs shook her.
A few moments earlier, she had not known she had anything left yet to
lose.
The following days passed quietly. After six weeks in which event
after event, each one more shocking and profoundly hurtful than the one
before, had followed like toys strung on a rope pulled by a child, it
seemed odd to have nothing happen. Mary wept some days, lay down and
rested some days, walked some days, prayed some days, read some days.
Gradually, without her being aware of it, the days sorted themselves
out and she no longer lay awake all night and dozed all day. She knew
what day it was, even down to the saint's day, although no priest was
permitted her. She began working on the embroidery she and Seton
designed. She began to enjoy her meals occasionally, and drank too
much wine once in a while.
She wrote to Melville, asking him to deliver her some clothes that she
had left behind at Holyrood.
They moved her to the square tower keep across the courtyard, into her
old quarters, where she had stayed in happier days. Her tapestries,
the series of ten depicting hunting scenes in green and yellow silk,
were rehung, and the walls had been freshly plastered during the month
she had been in the other tower. This one had wide fireplaces and even
an eastern window that had been used as an oratory, a Catholic prayer
niche, earlier. They brought out the original Madonna (stored away now
that the family was firmly Protestant) for it, and she hung the
crucifix nearby.
In some ways she missed the isolation of the round tower, because now
she was annoyingly near the rest of the Douglas family, and they could
watch her much more closely. She assumed that was why they had moved
her here. On the other hand, she could watch them, study them, and get
to know their habits and weaknesses; and she could see George Douglas
many times in passing. She always contrived to look at him from
underneath her downcast eyes. She caught him staring at her often.
When she did, he would blush furiously.
George was a man who should have been born at least two hundred years
earlier, or perhaps even served at King Arthur's court. He and
Bothwell were the only men she had ever known who truly believed in
settling things through trial by single combat. He and Bothwell .. .
perhaps they were alike in many ways. Perhaps Bothwell had been like
George when he was very young, before his father had taught him that
the world was a nasty place and true knights did not fare well.
Bothwell .. .
She would sit and dream of Bothwell, wondering where he was and what
was happening. She gathered, from the guarded conversations of the
Douglases, that Kirkcaldy had not encountered him yet in his pursuit
north. Once she heard Lindsay talking about what they would do to him
when they caught him, and even the Laird said, "You must not
merchandise the bear's skin before you have caught the bear."
Ruthven suddenly disappeared from the island, removed from his
position. Lindsay muttered about how he might have to do the same if
it would manage to get him taken from this odious duty. But why
Ruthven was gone she did not know. It was a pleasure not to have to
encounter him any longer, although he had actually been surprisingly
gentle with her since that horrible afternoon. Perhaps he had been
ashamed after all, like a normal person.
She had managed to get George to bring her pen and ink, although she
had not found anyone to carry letters for her. That would come in
time, she thought. In the meantime it felt good to be able to write
again; it made her feel stronger. She had noticed that George had a
habit of supporting lost causes; monasteries, the crusades, Troy,
Carthage, and Constantinople all excited him. Perhaps she was another
lost cause in his mind, and therefore alluring.
The Lord James had arrived back in Scotland, so she heard. He had come
through England, taking his time, conferring with Elizabeth and Cecil,
and finally had reached Edinburgh. She knew that he would come to
Lochleven, and she was grateful that she had had these two weeks to
rest and be restored before encountering him. He must see that she was
herself again: calm, in good health, clear-headed. When he realized
that, he would have to make arrangements to alter what had been done by
the Lords in his absence. He would not take the regency, but recommend
that she be restored to power ... if... There was always an if. The if
would be that she allow him to be her Cecil, her most senior adviser.
That she would agree to. It seemed a small price to pay at this point.
And had he not been that, in the beginning, before Darnley? He and she
had governed well together. Those days seemed almost idyllic, when all
they had had to worry about was the senior Huntly's revolt.
She almost laughed in remembering it. Why, there were no problems at
all, none to speak of, for four years! My biggest problem was
pestering Elizabeth to recognize me as her successor, and trying to
decide whom to marry, which foreign prince to favour. And there was
Knox, of course, but he was more like a buzzing fly, or a crocodile
snapping at a distance. Oh, I did not know what a paradise I lived in
then!
I will impress James with my regained health and sensibility; I will
persuade him to liberate me and restore me to my throne, with him at my
side as a reward.
It was Assumption Day, August fifteenth. Every Assumption Day as long
as Mary could remember, she had marked the day in some way, and in
France it had been a day of celebration. Now, on Lochleven, without
any way to observe it formally, she knelt before the Virgin in the
embrasure in the misty dawn. She did not speak to the Blessed Mother,
even in her mind, but just let the peace of the presence wash over her.
She had prayed herself out of words, and now wished to rest in silence.
She still did not feel able to meet the gaze of the eyes on the
crucifix.
She could hear the lapping of the water near the castle wall, could
hear the deep rumbling croaks of the frogs. They called all night, in
a chorus to remind her that all creatures had their amours. She had
found them soothing, although her companions a daughter and
granddaughter of Lady Douglas who had been posted in her bedroom
complained of the noise.
The ladies slept on, snoring quietly. Her own attendants were forced
to sleep on the floor above, adjoining Nau in his quarters.
A little privacy, here, in the pearl-blue dawn, was all Mary could hope
for. Day and night she was attended. The privacy, the privilege of
being able to kneel unobserved, was like a gentle soothing of
aloe-balm.
A few moments later, after listening to make sure the women were still
asleep, she drew out the paper on which, whenever she had the rare
chance, she was composing a letter to Bothwell. How he would get it
she did not know, but when the opportunity to send it suddenly came,
the letter would have to be already written. With a silence that she
had taught herself well, she wrote quickly.
My dearest heart, my soul, it is now almost two months since I have
beheld your face, a thing I never thought I could have sustained. My
misery is beyond what I once thought it was in the human soul to
endure. Without you, I have lost the best part of myself, but my
constant fear for your safety has turned ordinary yearning and fierce
desire and regret into fearsome torture. They speak of you in the
vilest manner, and torment me by withholding what they know of your
whereabouts and state.. ..
A groan and a stirring from the other room sent Mary quickly back to
the priedieu. When Euphemia Douglas emerged from the bedroom, rubbing
her eyes, she saw the Queen of Scots on her knees, hands folded, eyes
closed in adoration.
The rest of the day passed as all the days there passed: occupied in
minute, harmless, inconsequential actions. Mary strolled by the
water's edge accompanied by her gaolers played at archery, and even
danced a bit when the castle fiddler played "The Bride of Loch Lomond"
on the castle green. In the shade of an oak, she and her two ladies
sat and played cards, and invited the garrison soldiers to join them.
Some of the friendlier ones did, and they sat on the grass and played
Triumph as the shadows grew long.
The company of the castle always ate separately from Mary, who was
served in her apartments, and as suppertime drew near, Mary ended the
card game and prepared to return to the tower. Just then she saw a
boat full of people making its way toward the western landing stage.
"Jane! Who is that?" she asked.
Jane Kennedy shaded her eyes and looked hard. " Tis Lindsay," she
finally said, and Mary shuddered. It had been pleasant without him
these past few days, when he had gone to Edinburgh for more directions
from his masters. "And Morton. I recognize his red hair."
Morton! Then this was a delegation of some sort. What could they want
now? She had given them everything. Except .. . her life.
"And Lord James!" Jane clutched her sleeve. "And Atholl, sitting in
the rear."
Lord James! He had come at last but with Morton and Atholl. What did
this mean?
Mary walked down to the castle gate and waited for it to open. She
wished she had had an opportunity to have her hair combed and
rearranged. Without her wigs she felt altogether too much like an
ordinary woman and not enough like a queen. Only wigs made it possible
to have huge mounds of hair that cried out for a crown.
The gates swung open with a creak and the four men strode in, Lord
James leading. He saw her at once, but no hint of a smile softened his
stony face. Instead he nodded jerkily, like a puppet whose strings are
stiff. "Your Grace," he said.