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“My poor Christian! I fear I have thought so constantly of my own woes that I have given little thought to those of others.”
“Your Majesty is well known for your generous heart. And my plight was made less hard by the sympathy of Lady Douglas, who, although she would serve her bastard son, is always ready to be kind to those in distress, providing of course that in doing so she does not go too much against the wishes of Moray. Even so, she is ready to risk a little . . . as in my case. When Robert and I fell in love she helped us to marry . . . and she did not let Moray know what had happened until we had gone through the ceremony.”
“So then there was nothing he could do about it!”
“Oh yes, Your Majesty, he is always resourceful. That is why he has reached his present position. He still kept me a prisoner at Lochleven and he has taken my fortune from me. So here I remain—no longer an heiress—dependent on the bounty of the Douglases because I am Robert’s wife.”
Mary was silent. Then she said thoughtfully: “It is a marvel to me that I always believed so firmly in the goodness of my half-brother. It is only now that I have time for reflection that I see him in his true light. Again and again he has stood against me; then when he was in my presence, his calmness and his appearance of stern devotion to duty deceived me. It will do so no longer; one of my greatest enemies in Scotland today is my own half-brother, Regent Moray.”
“But Your Majesty has good friends. The Setons, and the Flemings are with you. And the Huntleys in the North.”
“The Setons and Flemings have always been my good friends. Mary Seton and Mary Fleming were brought up as my sisters. Then there is Lord Semphill who married Mary Livingstone, another of my Marys, and he is also on my side.”
“And I understand, Your Majesty, that Lord Semphill, with Lord Seton, is not far off at this moment. I do not doubt that they often look toward your prison from the mainland.”
“It’s a comforting thought.”
“Then you have friends abroad.”
“The King of France greatly desired to marry me,” mused Mary. “I am certain that he would help if he could; but he is ruled by his mother, Catherine de’ Medici, and he never liked me.”
“Yet no Queen is happy to see another in captivity. It is an insult to royalty, which they must needs resent.”
“If I could but write to them . . . . if I could but make them see my humiliation and the indignity of my position . . . ”
“I am sure Your Majesty’s eloquence would move them to pity.”
“I have no means of writing. No writing materials. They have been taken from me. I have no means of conveying letters to my friends.”
Christian was silent, and Mary picked up her tapestry and began to work with a desperate concentration.
But the next day when Christian came to see her she brought writing materials.
“Your Majesty must have a care that you are not seen with these,” she said. “But if you wrote your letters I could see that they are delivered to a reliable messenger. They do not watch me, you see. They do not fear that I shall escape. Here I have my home and my family . . . and my fortune is already Moray’s.”
How quickly hope was ready to spring up. The Queen sat at her window looking out over the lake. She had lost George and Willie, and now Fate had offered her Christian.
Charles of France would help her. She knew he would because he had loved her with all the force of his strange, twisted nature; although he was much younger than she was his jealous rage, when she had married his brother François, had been alarming to behold.
But he was entirely ruled by the mother whom he feared, and Mary knew that any letter he sent to Charles would first pass through his mother’s hands. So there was only one thing to do. She must write to Catherine de’ Medici and try to arouse in her the indignation all queens must feel for insulted royalty. She must hope that the Queen would show her letter to her son; and then the King of France would long to come to her aid.
There were few moments when it was safe to bring out those writing materials, and she had to wait for her chance. But it came at last, and Seton and Jane kept watch while she sat at her table and wrote.
Her appeal was pathetic.
. . . I am so closely guarded that I have no leisure but when they are at di
She sealed the letter. And when Christian came to her apartments next day she took it and assured the Queen that it should be dispatched to France at the earliest possible moment.
HOW LONG the waiting seemed! How long before she realized how foolish she had been! To have written to Catherine de’ Medici, to expect help from her, surely showed how blind she had become. The woman had hated her from the moment they had first met when Mary was a child and she, the neglected wife of Henri Deux, was taking second place to the dazzling Diane de Poitiers.
Why should Mary expect help now when she was alone and helpless? But it was in her nature to dream of the impossible and, if it were pleasant enough, imagine it would come true.
She could picture the slow smile on that flat, expressionless face as Catherine de’ Medici read her appeal. She could hear the sudden loud laughter which she had always found so unattractive.
Young Charles would never see the letter.
How foolish to have hoped for succor from that direction! But for what else could she hope? She was only in her twenties. Was she to spend the rest of her life in the dreary island fortress of Lochleven?
The waters of the lake had begun to have a great fascination for her. They were dappled now with April sunshine. Spring was here but it brought her little hope. George was lost to her. She had not realized until she had lost him how much he had done to make her life tolerable.
When she sat at her window looking down on the lake, she began to picture herself walking there and letting the water lap about her ankles (those ankles which had betrayed she was no laundress to the observant and lecherous boatmen) and not pausing but walking on and on until the whole of her body was submerged in the water of the lake.
She would not struggle for life, for what had life to offer her? She would eagerly embrace death because she was weary and hope had fled.
But that was folly; it was sinful. Whatever happened she must go on living; hope would return to comfort her; it had never deserted her for long.
Sir William and Lady Douglas were alone in the latter’s apartment and on a table before them lay a letter which they had both perused with some concern.
It was from George, who wrote that he realized there was nothing for him in Scotland, since he had ruined his hopes of advancement, and he pla
“Of course he must come!” cried Lady Douglas. “I ca
“All this time,” Sir William murmured, “he has been in the Kinross area. He will have been with Seton, Fleming, Semphill and the rest. How do we know that this is not yet another plot?”
“Nonsense!” snapped Lady Douglas. “He is going to France. How could he plot from there? He says he will not remain more than an hour. I insist on his coming. He is my son, William, as much as you are.”