The Captive Queen of Scots Read online

  George was silent. It was true that he had put forward one or two grandiose schemes which Lords Seton and Semphill had thought impracticable. The trouble with George was that he saw himself as a knight who was ready to die for his Queen; he would have preferred to go boldly to the castle and fight his way through to her. Lord Seton had said that it was subterfuge which was needed. Those who could best help the Queen would be crafty spies rather than bold knights.

  And now even Willie was scorning his latest plan, and George had to admit that there was a great deal in what the boy said.

  “I thought of something,” said Willie. “’Tis a better plan than yours, because it could work. It was when I watched the laundresses bringing out the dirty linen that I thought of it. You know the shawls they wear . . . some of them . . . over the head and gripped round the shoulders . . . and they carry the bundles of linen on one shoulder. Well, I thought to myself, Who counts them that goes in? Is it four or five? Who’d know if six came out?”

  “What’s this?” cried George.

  “Your Queen would have to wear a laundress’s shawl; she’d have to carry her bundle. I reckon Geordie Douglas would think that was summat a Queen shouldna do . . . even if it meant she got her freedom by doing it.”

  George’s eyes began to sparkle. Willie’s scheme was so simple. And yet Lord Seton had said that they needed a plan that was too simple to be suspected.

  He gripped Willie’s arm. “There may be something in this.”

  “May be, George Douglas? I tell you there is summat in it all right.”

  “When do the laundresses come?” George asked.

  “This day week.”

  “We’ll arrange that two whom we can trust shall be with them. Willie, you’re a bright boy.”

  “Thank ye, George Douglas.”

  “I am going to make plans to carry out your idea. You go back and, at the first opportunity, tell the Queen what we hope to do. Be here the day after tomorrow and I will give you instructions. The Queen shall walk out of the castle with the laundresses. Now Willie . . . go. And for the love of God take care.”

  “Oh ay,” said Willie; and whistling shrilly he went to the shores of the lake where he waited for a boat that was going to the castle to carry him back.

  “OH, SETON,” whispered the Queen. “This could be successful. If I escape I shall send for you as soon as possible.”

  “Do not think of that now,” said Seton; “think only of the part you must play. Do not speak, whatever happens. It must succeed, for it will all be over in fifteen minutes. Out of the castle . . . into the boat . . . and then across to the mainland. There your friends will be waiting for you with horses. You will always be grateful to these Douglas boys.”

  “Give me the shawl. There! Is that right? How do I look?”

  “So tall, so regal. Could you stoop a little? The bundle you carry will help. Let me pull the shawl forward so that your face is hidden. Like that . . . no one would guess.”

  The two laundresses came to the door of the apartment then.

  “The bundles are ready,” said Seton.

  The two women came in. They were not the usual laundresses but two who had taken the place of those whose custom it was to come to the castle. They looked at the tall shawled figure with some apprehension.

  “She will walk between you when you go out,” said Seton. “Go straight down through the courtyard to the boat, and do not speak to her, yet try not to give the impression that she is any different from the rest of you.”

  The women nodded and the Queen watched the way in which they carried their bundles and tried to imitate them.

  The moment had come. She followed them down the stairs, and out through the courtyard. At the castle gate young Willie Douglas stood idly watching the boat and the oarsmen.

  He began to whistle; then he turned and went into the castle.

  THE TWO OARSMEN were talking together. They were young, and while they had waited they had been on the lookout for any comely serving girl who might appear. There were usually one or two who made some excuse to come out of the castle when they were about.

  They were telling each other of their latest conquests trying to cap each other’s stories to prove their virility.

  “These laundresses are a poor lot,” one bewailed. “I remember one pretty laundress I used to row over . . . . Ah, she was a beauty.”

  They exchanged stories about the saucy laundress until one of them said: “Here they come. You’re right . . . a poor lot.”

  “Their ankles get thick through too much standing at the washtub,” agreed the other. “And their hands are rougher than an ordinary serving girl’s.”

  “That’s true.”

  The women were preparing to step into the boat, while the connoisseurs of women watched them without much interest. It was true, they were thinking, that standing at the washtub thickened the ankles.

  One of them caught his breath as a laundress stepped into the boat; then he saw that his companion had noticed too. What a pair of ankles! As neat and slim as any Court lady’s. It was not true then that all ankles were thickened at the washtub.

  Four pair of eyes traveled up that slim body which, although enveloped in its shawl, they saw was comely. This woman was taller than the rest and the shawl was wrapped so closely about her head that it was impossible to see her face. She almost dropped her bundle as she stepped into the boat, and one of the other women put out a hand to steady her and there she was, throwing down her bundle and pulling the shawl even more tightly across her face as though she suffered from a toothache.

  “I wonder if her face is as pretty as her ankles?”

  “I’d like to find out.”

  “I mean to . . . before we put them ashore.”

  They had put only a short distance between them and the island, when the bolder of the two men called: “Hey, my beauty.”

  The tall woman did not look in their direction, but kept her eyes steadily fixed on the mainland.

  The man leaned forward to seize her shawl and when, as he jerked it, with a little cry of protest she put out a hand to prevent his snatching it, the hand attracted even more attention than the ankles; it was very white; the fingers were long, the nails the shape of a perfect filbert nut. It was the hand of one who had never done a day’s washing in her life.

  The two men stared in amazement at the hand before it was hastily hidden within the folds of the shawl; then one of them grasped the shawl in both his hands and sought to pull it away; now two white hands were visible—equally perfect, as in grim desperation they gripped the shawl, holding it up to her face.

  But she was of course no match for the oarsman; in a few seconds he had ripped off the shawl and was looking into the flushed face of the Queen.

  There was an immediate silence. The laundresses looked on openmouthed; the oarsmen were speechless.

  Then Mary spoke. “Continue to row,” she ordered. “Take the boat to the mainland. You will not regret it if you do.”

  One oarsman scratched his head and regarded the other.

  “That is a command,” Mary continued imperiously. “If you do not obey me your lives are in peril. I am the Queen.”

  The second oarsman said: “I’m sorry, Madam, but it would be more than our lives are worth to take you to the mainland now.”

  “It will be more than your lives are worth to take me back to the castle!”

  “We canna do it, Madam.”

  “Why not?”

  “Our orders are to carry the laundresses . . . and only they.”

  “But I have given you orders, and I am the Queen.”

  The men were still perplexed.

  “Come,” persisted Mary, “I am in a hurry.”

  But the oarsmen continued to look at each other. “They’d take us prisoner,” whispered one. “They’d cut us into collops . . . ”

  “I would reward you,” Mary began, but even so she saw the futility of pleading with them, for what were the prom
ised rewards of a captive Queen worth?

  “We’d like to do it, Madam,” said the first oarsman.

  “But daren’t,” added the second. “Turn the boat, lad. We must row her back to the castle.”

  As the two men applied themselves to their oars, Mary cried in desperation: “I beg of you, have pity on me.”

  But they would not look at her. There was that about her which could make them weaken, and they had their lives to think of.

  “We’ve got to take you back, Madam,” one of them said, “but we’ll say nothing to Sir William. If no one’s missed you . . . there’ll be no one to know . . . ”

  Mary was almost weeping with frustration. The plan had so nearly succeeded. And when would there be another chance?

  She could not bear to look at the island. Is there no hope? she was asking herself. Does everything I attempt have to end in failure?

  It seemed so. For at the landing stage Sir William, who had seen the boat returning, was waiting to know the reason why.

  There was a grim purpose in his eyes as he helped her ashore.

  WHEN THE QUEEN was safely in her apartments Sir William went to his mother and told her what had happened.

  Lady Douglas was shocked. “And what would Jamie have said if this had succeeded?” she asked.

  “He would have said little, as is his custom,” replied Sir William grimly, “but his actions would have been far from insignificant. This must never be allowed to happen again. It points to one thing. There is a traitor in the castle and I am going to find out who it is. I have a shrewd idea.”

  “You cannot blame George now.”

  “But indeed I do blame George. George is involved in this. You may be sure of that. George is on the mainland with Seton and Semphill . . . and certain others. They were waiting there to receive her. Don’t you see the importance of this? By God, there might have been civil war—and George . . . your son George would have been responsible.”

  “He is your brother,” Lady Douglas reminded him.

  “I’m afraid young Willie has also had a hand in this. He goes to and from the mainland at will. I heard that he gambles with the soldiers. Where does he get the money with which to gamble?”

  “Oh, Willie’s a sharp one. There are several ways in which he could get money, I dare swear.”

  “I intend to find out.”

  Sir William strode to the door and called to a servant. “Find Willie and bring him to me without delay,” he ordered.

  Lady Douglas left him. There would be trouble, Willie would doubtless be beaten, and she did not want to witness such a scene.

  Willie came boldly into Sir William’s presence. Willie was not perturbed. He had believed that Sir William was his father and that he must have had a special fondness for his mother to allow him to be brought up in the castle.

  “Come here, boy,” said Sir William blandly.

  Willie approached lightheartedly, and as he did so Sir William shot out an arm and gripped his shoulder.

  “What do you know of this attempt of the Queen’s to escape?”

  “Oh,” said Willie, “I know a lot. I saw her go out. She looked like the others . . . only taller. I saw her get into the boat and them row her away.”

  “I mean how much did you know before it happened?”

  Willie looked puzzled. “What should I have known before it happened, Sir William?”

  “You knew there was a plot for her escape, did you not?”

  “I reckon there’s been lots of plots.”

  Sir William went on: “You gamble with the soldiers. Where do you find the money?”

  “An odd job here and there brings its reward,” said Willie, slightly less truculent than usual.

  Sir William took the boy by the shoulders and shook him until his freckled face was scarlet. “George Douglas gave you the money, did he not? You have been to see George Douglas on the mainland. You keep him informed of what is happening in the castle, do you not?”

  Willie was silent. Sir William, who was not a violent man, was now a frightened one, and Willie’s stubborn silence alarmed him further.

  He threw the boy across the room. Willie fell, knocking his head against a table. He felt the warm blood on his face, and as he picked himself up he was looking for the door. But Sir William was not prepared to let him go. He strode toward him and said in a quiet voice: “If you do not tell me all you know, I will give you the severest whipping you have ever had in your life.”

  “It’s that I don’t know much, Sir William,” Willie began, but Sir William struck him again and this was no light blow. Willie felt as though the floor was coming up to meet him. He clenched his teeth together, and unfortunately Sir William noticed this and knew it meant that Willie was determined to let no secrets escape him.

  “You’ve been seeing George Douglas,” he said. “You’ve been acting as a spy in the castle. The reward of spying is death. Did you know?”

  Willie did not answer.

  “What other plans are there?” Sir William demanded.

  Willie whispered: “I don’t know, Sir William.”

  “You’ve been seeing George though. George gave you the money?”

  Willie thought quickly. What harm could he do by admitting that? They knew that George was on the mainland. It was obvious that they would have met. He could do no harm by admitting that he had seen George and that it was George who had given him money. All he must do was deny his part in the laundress plan, for Sir William would say that if he had helped once, he would do so again, and then, when the time came to put another plan into action, he would be a suspected person.

  “I did see George,” he said.

  “And he gave you money. Why?”

  “Because he likes me,” answered Willie promptly.

  “And you convey message from him to the Queen?”

  “Messages . . . ?” began Willie and clenched his teeth again.

  Sir William’s anger was dying. There was something appealing about the boy; but he knew that he had been acting as a spy; he knew that he was as dangerous as George had been. He could not afford to have Willie in the castle.

  He liked the boy’s boldness; his refusal to betray his part in this was admirable—or would have been if he had been on the right side. But this was too important a matter to allow sentiment to get in the way of common sense.

  Sir William put his hand into his pocket, and brought out a gold coin. He held this out to Willie who looked at it in amazement.

  “Take it,” said Sir William. “You may need it.”

  Willie took it in his grubby hand.

  “And now,” said Sir William, “you will get out. This castle is no longer your home.”

  Willie stared at Sir William disbelievingly, but the man would not meet his eye.

  “Get out,” continued Sir William. “Get out while you’re still alive, you imp of Satan. Get out of my castle. Get off my island. We don’t harbor those who spy against us.”

  Willie went to the door, clutching the gold coin; an impulse came to him to turn and plead with Sir William, to ask him to remember that this was his home. But he would not do it. He held his head high and walked out of the room and out of the castle to the shores of the lake.

  He called to the old boatman who worked the ferry.

  “Row me over to the mainland,” he said.

  “I don’t know as I will,” was the answer.

  “You should, you know,” retorted Willie. “It’s Sir William’s order. You’re to row me across and leave me on the other side.”

  Then he stepped into the boat, and not once did he turn to look back at the castle; his eyes were fixed on the mainland, on the woods. Not far away, he was thinking, was George.

  THE QUEEN WAS in despair. Not only had she lost George but Willie also.

  There were new restrictions, and Sir William had ordered that one or two of the female members of his household must share the Queen’s room, so that she had no chance of making plots w
ith her women. This meant that one or more of his sisters were in constant attendance; they were beautiful and naturally amiable women but they had been warned that they must act as spies.

  They would come into the apartment and sit with the Queen, Seton, Jane Kennedy and Marie Courcelles while they all worked on the tapestry. It meant that conversation must be guarded for any remarks likely to arouse suspicion were reported to Sir William.

  Mary had not felt so hopeless since those early days of her incarceration and she thought longingly of that period when she had been able to see George Douglas and be assured of his devotion; she thought sadly of Willie who amused her with his quaint ways but who had inspired her with hope as much as had the romantic George.

  One day another member of the Douglas family came to her room presumably, thought Mary, for the purpose of spying on her. This was a young woman who had married Lady Douglas’s son Robert and was therefore a Douglas only through marriage; Mary was inclined to like her the better for that. She was modest and a little apologetic.

  “Your Majesty, I am Christian, wife of Robert Douglas. My father was the Master of Buchanan.”

  “But of course,” said Mary pleasantly, “I could not forget the Countess of Buchanan who was once betrothed to my half-brother.”

  As the Countess flushed slightly Mary remembered that Christian had no reason to love Moray.

  “Welcome to my apartments,” went on Mary. “I trust you will not find them as dreary as I do.”

  “Your Majesty is a prisoner and that is why you hate your prison. It grieves me that I should be a member of that family who are your jailors.”

  “Thank you for those words. Come, sit down. Are you fond of needlework?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Then take a look at our work. I think we shall make it into a screen.”

  “It is very beautiful,” murmured Christian.

  “It is our great pleasure to work on it,” Mary told her. “There is something so satisfying about tapestry. It lives on after us . . . and consider, in years to come people will say: ‘That is what Mary Queen of Scots did while she was a prisoner in Lochleven.’”