"Now, George, tell me quickly!" she said. "Is the Lord James well?" I
wish he were not, she thought, but I must not stretch George's loyalty,
for they are brothers.
He turned his open smile on her. "Aye. He thrives on the Regency."
"He has coveted it long enough," she said, before she could stop
herself. "Undoubtedly he has rehearsed it many a day."
"In truth, things are quiet. The city is recovering; so are all the
Lords. I have heard they plan to call a Parliament in December to
publish their reasons. But for now, no one stirs. Even Knox has
fallen uncharacteristically silent."
"He wore himself out whipping up hysteria to drive me from my throne.
Even rabble-rousers need rest." She looked over at George, at his
clean young profile as he was staring out across the loch, his eyes
narrowed. Oh, why could Damley have not truly been like this? "But
what of my son? What of James?"
"He slumbers on at Stirling, but from all reports is healthy and even
beginning to talk."
"Alas, poor child!" she said. "I wonder what words they are teaching
him?" Mother, murderess, and adulteress were probably high on their
list, above duck and stool and cheese. Oh, if only She stopped her
thoughts, "Have the foreign governments recognized him as King?"
George shook his head. "Queen Elizabeth refuses to, much to Jamie's
anger." He used the family's affectionate nickname for the stern
Regent.
Mary laughed in glee. "He did not count on that!"
"Nay, and she's stubborn. The French hem and haw, but do not dress
down Jamie the way the English Queen does. By God, she has courage!"
"Yes." Yes, she did. But she was so unpredictable. She had always
supported the Lords, and yet now she refused to recognize them. Mary
remembered the "Elizabeth ring," and wished she had it with her now. It
was in Edinburgh, where she had left it behind in her flight.
"If I were to escape," she said idly, "what do you think she would do?"
And what will you do to this suggestion? She almost held her breath
waiting.
"Why, I think she would help you, and restore you to your throne," he
said. He was looking directly into her eyes, so fiercely that she
could not drop hers or look away. "But first, of course, you would
have to be free. And that would be difficult. You would need a
confidant, someone you could trust."
This was the moment. If she was wrong, that would end it. But if she
was right, this was the time to speak.
"I believe I have that. Have I?"
He hesitated, as if steeling himself. "Yes," he finally said. "I will
do what I can." Immediately he grasped her hand as if to caution her.
"But I am only one person, and closely watched and unproved in battle.
I am no Bothwell "
"There is only one Bothwell," she said, and her meaning was clear. She
was so relieved and excited that George had declared himself on her
side that she hated to open herself up to sorrow so soon on its heels,
but she had to ask. "Is there has there been any news of him?"
"Aye." The single word hung there, and it was as if the noise of the
water rose up and became louder around them.
A dreadful, cold fear gripped her. "What?"
"He managed to escape from Grange and all Jamie's forces. There was a
long sea battle, and just when it seemed he was doomed, a fierce storm
blew up from the southwest. Now they say this is proof of his
witchcraft, that he raised it by the black arts."
"And they truly believe that?"
"They fear him, so they comfort themselves by saying he is in league
with the supernatural."
"So he has escaped?" That was all that mattered.
"For a time."
"What do you mean?"
"He was blown all the way to Norway, where he landed safely. But then,
once there, he encountered difficulties with the authorities. They
have taken him to Copenhagen as a prisoner."
"Oh!" she cried. "When? Why?"
"I know not why, but it was on the last day of September. And now that
the Lord James knows of his whereabouts, he is busy trying to get him
extradited, or else executed in Denmark. To his credit, King Frederick
has refused both requests. But still he continues to hold him
prisoner. It is my guess he wants some ransom for him."
She stifled a cry by stuffing her fist into her mouth. "O God! If
only I had something! But everything has been taken from me my jewels,
my plate, even my clothes!" She had to think of something. "Do you
think if I appealed to the King can you take a letter from me?"
"It would be known, dear lady. King Frederick would announce it. And
then they would know who carried it, and remove me from the island."
She felt panic rising in her. "But I must help him!"
"There is no way you can," George said sadly.
"Is there no one to help him?" she cried. "No kind soul, whom I can
repay?"
"Only the Queen of England or of France could do that, and neither
would," George replied.
"There must be no torture greater than this," she finally said. "To be
unable to aid the one you love, and just to sit by and watch him
suffer."
"Aye," said George, looking at her.
The leaves fell from the trees, leaving bare, twisted limbs, and the
sedge and reeds withered. A little crust of ice, like a wispy bread,
formed around the edges of the island, but as Mary had suspected, the
loch itself did not freeze.
In the cold, nasty weather, the number of boats passing to and from the
island were few in number. The laundresses made their weekly journey,
collecting the soiled linens and delivering the clean, and fishermen
brought in their catches, but all other business ceased. The Laird
shuffled about with sad, rheumy eyes, coughing incessantly. Normally
he vacated the island castle during the winter and lived in his manor
house on the mainland, but because of his royal guest, he was now a
prisoner here as well. Lady Douglas was solicitous of him, and gave
Mary resentful looks.
You needn't look at me in blame, Madam, Mary thought. I would gladly
free you were I free myself.
She and her ladies worked on their embroidery in the dull candlelight,
huddled in the tower room with a fire burning at all times. The days
stretched on interminably, long pale days when nothing happened, when
the most exciting thing was matching two shades of red exactly from two
different threads.
Sometimes she and George were left alone before the fire, she sewing,
he mending weapons and sharpening swords.
"Tell me a story, George," she would say, and he would smile and tell
her of the voyages of Ulysses, or the fall of Troy. His face would
grow dreamy and his voice thick and drowsy as the sleet beat against
the windows and he recounted stories that had happened on dusty, windy
plains, or on the high seas. Mary Seton and Nau would draw up a
cushion and listen. George could tell stories the way Riccio could
sing songs.
It helped the days to pass dark, cold days with creeping damp and
bitter mists. There was no word of Bothwell.
It was March before they were able to work out a plan. Christmas had
come and gone, a dreary Twelfth Night, with nothing to celebrate for
Mary. The Lords had carried out their threat to publish the reasons
for their behaviour. Throwing aside all pretence of having acted in
order to "save" Mary from Bothwell (or, rather, from her own insane
passion for him, depending on which official story they quoted), they
now switched to branding her a murderess along with him. They
announced the incriminating letters that they claimed proved her to
have planned her husband's death and to have lured him back to
Edinburgh on her lover BothwelPs instructions, acting as a decoy. Lord
James, the conscientious Regent, sent a herald to Loch-leven, in
accordance with the ancient custom of Scotland that forfeitures and
outlawry of any great peer be announced at a place where the sovereign
was personally present, to read her the Act of Privy Council, and
inform her that Lord BothwelPs estates were forfeit, Maitland and
Morton having received part of them.
The gold and scarlet tabards were fluttering, and the lion-banner at
the prow of the boat made a bright spot of colour in the dull greyness
the day the herald arrived. He stood and read out:
"That the cause of their taking up arms, and taking of the Queen's
person upon the fifteenth day of June last past, and holding and
detaining of the same within the house and place of Lochleven, and all
things said and done by them since the tenth of February last, on which
day the late King Henry, the Queen's lawful husband, was shamefully and
horribly murdered, was all in the said Queen's own default, in as far
as by divers her privy letters, written and subscribed by her own hand,
and sent by her to James Earl of Bothwell, chief executer of the said
horrible murder, as well before the committing thereof as after, and by
her ungodly and dishonourable proceeding in a private marriage with
him, it is most certain that she was privy part and parcel of the
actual device and deed of the fore mentioned murder of the King her
lawful husband, committed by the said James Earl of Bothwell, his
accomplices and partakers, and therefore justly deserves whatsoever has
been attempted or shall be used toward her for the said cause."
Then, having fulfilled his official duty, he stepped back in the boat
and was rowed away, leaving the castle inhabitants standing on the
landing and staring after him.
Since then, in desperation, Mary had redoubled her efforts to find some
way to escape, all the while trying to act like a placid, broken person
someone who did not bear watching too closely.
There was only George to try to arrange things, although a kinsman of
some sort (could the Laird have his own bastard?), named Willie
Douglas, might also be recruited. He seemed to come and go as he
pleased, and the family still regarded him as a child, although he was
almost fifteen.
The first plan George offered was that he would manage to organize a
group of loyalists on shore who would seize the Laird's great boat when
it was tied up at the manor house, row out to the castle, and storm it
at night, aided by George from within the walls. Unfortunately,
somehow the Laird got wind of a possible plot by unknown persons, and
locked up the great boat. Next he proposed to lie in wait with his men
the same loyalists in the ruins of the monastery on the deserted St.
Serf's Island in the loch. Then Mary could prevail on the Laird to
allow her to go hawking there; when they arrived, the Laird and his
servants would be overpowered and Mary spirited away to freedom.
But this involved too many other people, and would require being rowed
across the water twice: once to St. Serf's, and once to the mainland.
At one point George thought it might be simpler just to board Mary up
in a box and let it be transported innocently back to Kinross.
"Nay, that's foolish," little Willie objected. "It is always better to
rely on your own two feet. Let the Queen walk out, in disguise. That
is surer." He had a strange way of jerking his head when he spoke that
made him appear stupid, which he was not.