Then there was a gruesome splintering sound as a cannonball hit the
Pelican's mainmast and tore it away. Like a stately tree being felled,
the tall timber toppled slowly, majestically to the deck, tangled in
its stays and rigging. Only one mast remained now.
Tullibardine started closing in. His sailors were standing by with
grappling hooks.
"Surrender!" Tullibardine yelled. "Surrender, Bothwell, you pirate,
you murderer!"
"I'll see you in Hell first!" he answered, firing on Tullibardine with
a harquebus. The ball ripped through Tullibardine's hat and sent it
flying.
"Damn!" screamed Bothwell. Another three inches and it would have
been Tullibardine's brains flying instead.
A chorus of gunfire sounded, and eight of BothwelPs men fell.
Bothwell fired again. "Don't give up the cannon!" he yelled, but the
men were falling back under the rain of fire.
"I've got you!" yelled Tullibardine, aiming at Bothwell, but he was so
excited he missed widely.
The sky darkened, as if a squid had suddenly released a huge cloud of
ink. The sun disappeared, and in its place came a howling wind from
the southwest. The blast was so strong that the Pelican heeled over
and several sailors fell overboard. So did the Primrose, and the fact
that the enemy ship had its full complement of sails intact actually
hindered it, as the wind took control of its sails. It almost
capsized, and heeled so far over that water rushed into the hole
Bothwell had shot in its side. Rain poured down from above as if a
giant's cauldron had been tipped over on them.
The ships began to run before the wind, BothwelFs vessel, lighter and
more maneuverable, outdistancing Tullibardine's. BothwelPs second ship
was not far behind, and the ships raced northward. Tullibardine
pursued for sixty miles into the open sea before he turned back.
Bothwell could hardly keep his footing on the slippery deck of the
lurching boat, and the waves on either side looked like hills. He
clung to the railing and watched as tons of water washed over the deck.
The hills rose and fell. They were ominous, dark, pulling him into
them. They looked horribly familiar; they were the hills of Hell where
the Demon Lover was pulled to his doom in the Border song he knew so
well and had sung to Mary. Those are the hills of Hell, my love, where
thou and I must go. They were taking him home. Still he grasped the
rail and told the captain, "Steer on!" and they shot in and out of the
hungry waves all night long.
In the dark, the roaring of the sea and the pitching of the ship
sometimes her decks were almost perpendicular made them feel that they
were indeed being tipped down into the maws of hell. The sailors,
fighting to control the sails on the one mast left, could believe the
stories of the giant kraken that old Norwegian seamen swore infested
these waters a huge, tentacled beast that would suddenly rear up and
devour a ship, masts and all. The icy arms of the sea that flung
themselves over the deck, lashing them in the face, felt like the slimy
arms of the monster.
The one remaining mast creaked and groaned, straining at its base. The
helmsman and his assistant fought the rudder, which bucked like a mule
and could barely be controlled. Rudders often broke and they had no
spare on board. The men wept and prayed, remembering all their sins
and begging for another chance. There was no sight of the second ship,
and no way to tell whether it was following or had been blown off
course, or even sunk ... or perhaps had been devoured by the kraken.
The storm raged all night and half the next day, gradually abating by
sunset. As the giant waves fell, and they could once again see over
the troughs, night fell again, so that they were unable to get their
bearings. Judging from the stars, they had been steering or had been
blown north-northeast.
As the skies lightened in the next dawn, Bothwell sighted land at a
distance. It was shrouded in mist and bluish white, and very high
indeed. Mountains, capped by snow, came almost down to the water.
"Norway," he breathed. Yes, it had to be.
Suddenly he remembered that odd dream he had had about Norway, in which
he had actually spoken Norwegian. An omen? It made him shudder, but
at the same time it made the Norwegian coast seem a friendly, beckoning
place. I have already been here, in my dreams, he thought. So I have
nothing to fear.
The captain came over to him on unsteady legs. He draped himself over
the rail, his arms limp.
"Thirty-six hours of battle," he said. "I hope never to endure its
like again." His voice was a whisper.
"Where are we?" asked Bothwell. "Can you determine it when the sun
comes out?"
"Aye," he said. "The astrolabe will tell us exactly how far we've
come. But I know this is Norway; no other place has these mountains.
It is not Iceland or Denmark. The tip of the Shetlands is a good two
hundred miles from the Norwegian coast, so I imagine we've put our
enemies far behind. Look!" He pointed out to starboard, at the
bobbing shape of another boat. "Our other ship is with us! God has
brought us both safely through!"
"Thanks be to Him," said Bothwell. He looked at the strewn deck, burnt
from the fire, pocked with holes, littered with frayed ropes and pieces
of torn canvas. Overturned barrels and debris lay everywhere. The
mast was crooked, but still held. "We will have to refit ourselves in
port. But what of that? We are free! We have won!" He embraced the
captain. "We are free!"
SIXTY-TWO
Mary stood by the water landing, waiting for George Douglas to return.
She knew it gave him pleasure to see her there, enveloped in one of her
hooded mantles, and it gave her a reason to stand by the water's edge
without causing her guards alarm. She liked to watch the water, with
its surface rippled by the rising winds, its colour changing as it
reflected the intermittent clouds and sunshine. Some days, now that it
was well into autumn, the entire lake was a swirl of mist, like a dream
disappearing into a dream.
Gradually her guards had grown more lax, but she was still not allowed
beyond the castle walls by herself. They allowed her to stand at the
boat landing only because they could watch her from the main gate.
The routine was unyielding. Soldiers there were some sixty of them in
the island garrison guarded the walls and the single entrance gate. The
only time they deserted their posts was during the brief supper hour,
when they all went into the hall to eat. Then the gate was locked, and
the keys placed by Sir William's plate while he dined. Thus they were
never out of sight.
Mary and her party were still housed in the square tower, and two of
the Douglas ladies would sleep in the quarters with them. As far as
they knew, Mary did not write or receive letters, and her only source
of news was what Lord James permitted them to tell her. In truth,
young George, outraged at their treatment of her, acted as her liaison
with the world. To be safe, she wrote very few letters, but he kept
her abreast of the news from Edinburgh and beyond.
Dear George! Sometimes she thought he must have been provided by fate,
because there was no other explanation for him. He was everything she
had imagined Darnley to be brave, honest, innocent. Now he was her
only consolation, bringing her news, treating her as someone worthy of
love and respect, when all the world had branded her whore and
murderess, and condemned her without a trial.
She tried to tread a fine line between showing George that she deeply
appreciated him, and encouraging his affections. She now knew so much
more than she had before; Bothwell had taught her about her own
desires, and in their new existence it was hard to keep them hidden.
She was no longer the virgin who had danced merrily with Chastelard and
then been bewildered by his response; the careless queen who liked to
lean against people, whispering secrets, warming herself; the
nonchalant woman who could sit up late at night alone with Riccio and
think nothing of it. Then her body had been an innocuous thing,
something neutral and easy to disregard; now it seemed a dangerous
creature of its own that could speak without her knowledge, and say
things to others she did not wish to say, and without her permission.
Perhaps it had spoken all along, and others had heard it, although she
had been deaf to it herself.
At night she often lay awake, reliving times when she had lain in
Both-well's arms, trying to recall every detail. It made her hot and
achy, and frantic that she could not remember things exactly. She had
dreams in which he came to her, dreams in which their times together
were recreated in minute, explosive detail. She would awaken in
wonder, her heart racing, her body shiny with sweat, and sit up
gasping. Then she would hear the snoring of the Douglas women, smell
the water of the loch, and weep with disappointment.
As her health recovered, Bothwell grew stronger in her mind rather than
fading away as her enemies assumed he would. She never mentioned him
to them, partly because she did not want to desecrate his name by
exposing it to them, but also to mislead them. If they thought she had
given him up, then perhaps they might be less likely to persecute
him.
But where was he? She had heard nothing since Lord James had taunted
her with the squadron of ships he had sent to capture Bothwell in the
Orkneys. Where, where, where, was he?
For a while in her dreams he stormed the walls of the castle and rowed
her away. But for a good time now she had realized that she would have
to manage her own escape, and then go to him. Hence, George Douglas:
her only dim hope of escape. Yet she did care for him and his safety,
and did not want to bring trouble down on his head as well. Already
his family was watching him closely, after Lord James's warning.
The boat was approaching; she could see it bobbing on the water. George
had gone to Edinburgh at the behest of his father to confer with his
august older brother, the Regent. She hoped he had been able to linger
long enough to talk to the French or English ambassador.
The boat tied up at the dock, and Mary allowed herself to wait before
greeting George; the soldiers were watching and would notice any
eagerness or friendliness on her part, or his. So he merely nodded at
her and whispered, "By the oak," as he passed by on his way toward the
gate. He would dutifully report everything to his parents, indulge in
a lengthy visit with them, drink wine, and only later be able to see
her. "The oak" was the huge tree just outside the round tower, and
technically outside the walls. The guards did not care, as there was
so little ground there and no boat landing, so that it was impossible
to escape.
It was twilight before George strolled toward the gate and, with Mary
by his side, said grandly to the guard, "It is all right, Jock," and
walked out. They made their way slowly round the castle, staying close
to the walls for the water was within ten feet of them until they
finally reached the large boulder that lay at the foot of the oak. The
water touched its foot, but they could sit on its rounded hump and be
sheltered by the heavy branches of the tree, now covered with yellowing
leaves that fell crisply.