The Captive Queen of Scots

WHEN NEWS of the fate of his wife and child was brought to James Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh, who was at that time living secretly at Linlithgow in the house of his kinsman, Archibald Hamilton, his grief was uncontrollable. But it was soon replaced by a rage that was even greater, and the only way in which he could bear to go on living at that time was to plan revenge.

Bellenden was in residence at Woodhouselee, and it was certain that there would be a strong guard about him, for it was believed that Bothwellhaugh would not be able to resist taking his revenge on the man who had sent his wife and child so callously to their death.

But, reasoned Bothwellhaugh, and the whole Hamilton clan were with him in this, there was one who was more to blame than Bellenden. That was the man who set a ruthless example to his lieutenants; it was the man who would shrug callous shoulders when he heard of the tragedy at Woodhouselee, and wish everyone to know that such a fate was to be expected by all those who disobeyed the Regent’s orders.

Bothwellhaugh would assuage his grief, not by the assassination of the insignificant Bellenden, but by that of the Regent Moray.

ON THE 23RD DAY of January Moray would pass through Linlithgow on his way to Edinburgh, and Bothwellhaugh was ready for him. He had concealed himself in a house where the High Street was at its most narrow. At this point the cavalcade in which the Regent rode would be slowed down, and moreover it was impossible for more than two to ride abreast. The house backed onto fields; and in the fields a saddled horse was waiting.

Bothwellhaugh, spurred, ready for flight, watching behind latticed windows, was thinking of Alison—lying abed, the child in her arms, waiting for him, of her wandering blindly through the snow, of her terrible end. When he thought of this his fingers grew steady and he knew with cold certainty that when he took aim he would not miss.

At the lattice windows were hangings to conceal him; in these he had cut a hole only large enough to take the muzzle of his harquebuss. There were four bullets in that harquebuss. He intended to make no mistake.

Now the cavalcade was turning into the High Street, and Bothwellhaugh, concealed by the hangings, could peep through them and watch its progress. At its head he rode—the Regent Moray, the man who, as much as that other, was the murderer of his dear Alison. Bothwellhaugh only needed to remember that, and he could feel quite cool and calm.

The Regent was almost abreast of the window. Now was the moment.

Bothwellhaugh took careful aim; and when he saw Moray fall forward, saw the red blood staining his jacket, he knew that he had avenged Alison and their baby.

He heard the shouts as he ran from the room, down to the garden, leaped onto his horse and was a mile away before Moray’s men had succeeded in breaking into the barricaded house.

Bothwellhaugh had flown to Hamilton; and the Regent Moray’s turbulent life was ended.

JAMIE DEAD! Mary could not believe the news when it was brought to her.

She pictured him, riding at the head of his men—vigorously living one moment; and the next slipping away to death.

She wept for the Jamie she had known as a child when she had believed him to be her friend. She had loved him then, and she had found it difficult not to go on loving him. He was clever; he was meant to be a ruler; he was his father’s son; she had understood more than most, the terrible frustration he had suffered because he was not the King’s legitimate son. She, who was that King’s legitimate daughter and heir, could forgive Jamie more readily than most of her friends could do.

Seton came to her and found her weeping.

“Your Majesty should dry your eyes,” she said. “This should prove no hardship to you. He was never your friend, and of late years your most bitter enemy.”

“All that is over now, Seton,” Mary replied sorrowfully. “He is gone to his Maker, and I can only remember my big brother . . . whom once I thought to be my friend.”

“Then Your Majesty should remember his conduct to you since Carberry Hill. Most of your sufferings can be traced to him.”

“Perhaps I should, Seton, but I was never one to do what I should. My emotions will always command my actions; and I can only think of Jamie in the days when I loved him so dearly and thought I was the luckiest girl in Scotland to have him for my brother. So leave me now, and since you ca

So Seton left her with her memories of the young Jamie; and as the Queen wept for the past, which might have been so different, her faithful friends were asking each other what difference this would make to her future.

ELIZABETH WAS HORRIFIED by the assassination of the Regent, whom she had looked upon as an ally and who was ready to obey her wishes; it had been part of her plan to keep him ruler of Scotland; she had also of late wished him to rid her of the Queen of Scots.

It had been an obsession with Elizabeth—since the rising of Northern Catholics—that she must rid herself of Mary; and to find this plan—which had seemed to her the only safe one—foiled by Moray’s assassination, made her for the time being almost frantic.

Her first action was to seize the person of Mary’s ambassador to England, Lesley, Bishop of Ross, and send him to the Tower.

She saw at once that her fears had not been without grounds. Mary’s friends in Scotland, led by Huntley and Argyle, marched on Edinburgh. Kirkcaldy of Grange, who was keeper of the Castle and regretted his disloyalty to the Queen at Carberry Hill when he led Moray’s forces, had joined the lords of the Highlands. Fernyhirst, who had once offered Mary refuge in his castle if she could escape her English captors, marched across the border. And Leonard Dacre, on whose behalf Mary had pleaded effectively with Norfolk so that Dacre had not lost all his family possessions, gathered together three thousand men, and there was a new rising in the North.

If only Mary could escape, there was an army waiting to fall in behind her.

Huntingdon and the Shrewsburys, realizing the danger, doubled the guard at Tutbury; for they knew that fresh schemes for rescuing the Queen were being set in motion, and they believed that never had Mary’s chance of escape been so good.

Mary, however, thought constantly of Norfolk in the Tower. There was one thing she needed more than freedom; and that was affection. Generous as she was, she poured out her affection on any who were ready to receive it; and although she knew Norfolk only through his letters, she was prepared to give him the devotion she had always longed to give to a husband.

She wanted to be loyal; she wanted to make sacrifices; she was striving toward that perfect relationship which in her three previous marriages she had not attained.

“Mine own good Lord,” she wrote, “I would know your pleasure if I should seek to make some enterprise. If it please you I care not for my danger . . . ”

There was no answer from Norfolk, and she wrote again;

“If you think the danger too great, do as you think best, and let me know what you please that I do, for I will be for your sake perpetual prisoner, or put my life in peril for your weal and mine . . . .”

And she signed this letter “Your own faithful to death Queen of Scots, my Norfolk.”

When Norfolk received the letter he sweated with terror. Did she not know that, since the death of Moray, she was being watched more closely than ever before? He was not risking his head to write love letters.

MARY BELIEVED that she was now living through the most dangerous weeks of her life. Her enemy and father-in-law, the Earl of Le

But Elizabeth had no intention of allowing Mary to be reinstated; she subdued the rebellion in England as she had that led by Northumberland; and she sent Sussex to Scotland with seven thousand troops to teach Mary’s supporters a lesson. Lord Scrope followed Sussex, and Sir William Drury laid waste many a Scottish community which had declared loyalty to the Queen.