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“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 with 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 Ke
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.’”
“Let us hope, Your Majesty, that they will say: ‘The Queen started it in her prison of Lochleven but completed it in the royal apartments at Edinburgh Castle or Holyrood House.’”
Certainly Christian was more sympathetic than Lady Douglas’s daughters, thought Mary; and she was not wrong when she surmised that she might be an ally.
Very often Mary was alone with her, and on one of these occasions Christian said: “I shall never forget the time when Sir William was in disgrace with Your Majesty. The Earl of Moray was in England and you sent word to Lochleven that Sir William and his family were to surrender the castle and leave Scotland within six hours.”
Mary nodded, remembering the occasion well. They had tried to prevent her marriage with Darnley, and at that time she had been very eager for the marriage. Moray had taken up arms against her, and of course the Douglases were, as ever, firmly beside him in all he did.
“It was a terrible day when we heard the news,” went on Christian. “I was in labor with my first child, and the thought of leaving the castle was alarming. Sir William had had to take to his bed with sickness.”
“I remember,” said Mary. She had been skeptical of Sir William’s illness but there had been no doubt that the Countess of Buchanan was in childbed.
“And you gave orders that we might remain,” went on Christian. “All you asked was that the surety of the castle should be at your command. I shall never forget the relief. And I shall never forget my gratitude to Your Majesty.”
“Naturally,” said Mary quickly, “I should not have thought of turning you out at such a time. But Sir William does not feel equally grateful, I am sure. He has little pity for my plight and thinks only to serve my ambitious brother.”
“Your Majesty . . . ” Christian looked over her shoulder . . . “you may know something of my story. If that is so, you will understand that I feel no great desire to serve your ambitious brother.”
“I know,” Mary told her, “that you were once betrothed to him and that he forsook you for Agnes Keith, the daughter of the Earl Marischal.”
“A match more to his liking!” retorted Christian meaningfully. “But that was of no moment. Matches which are made for us in our youth often come to nothing. But I was also his ward, and I was an heiress. He was not eager for marriage with me, seeing a more advantageous one elsewhere, but at the same time he did not mean to lose my fortune. I think he was rather sorry that there was no convent into which he could force me. So he sent me here to his family, and in this castle of Lochleven, Your Majesty, I was as much a prisoner as you are now.”