Виктория Холт - The Captive Queen of Scots

Ruthven whispered: “We are there, Your Majesty.”

She saw the dark shapes of people, and in the light of torches the gray shape of the castle loomed up before her. A fortress! she thought; my prison.

Sir William had come forward. He was bowing over her hand. So there were some who remembered that she was their Queen.

“I and my household will do our best to make Your Majesty’s stay at Lochleven comfortable,” he told her.

And there was she who had been Margaret Erskine, who was now Margaret Douglas—the beauty who had been her father’s mistress and was her brother James’s mother.

Margaret curtsied.

“Welcome to Lochleven, Your Majesty.”

Mary answered: “I am so tired. Take me to my bed.”

“Your Majesty would like to rest before taking a little food?”

“The thought of food sickens me. I want only to rest.”

“Then come this way.”

So Mary entered the castle of Lochleven, knowing that she entered a prison. But she was too weary to care. There was only one thing she craved now. Rest. Quiet, that she might shut out the memory of those cruel faces which had leered at her, that she could for a while forget the words which had been shouted at her. Oblivion. That was what at this moment she needed more than anything in the world. She was aware of faces as she passed on her way through the quadrangle to the southeast tower. They looked almost ghostly in the lights of the cressets on the castle walls.

There was one which held her attention for a few seconds; it was the face of a young man with a gentle mouth and eyes which betrayed his sympathy as he looked at her. Perhaps she half smiled at him; she was not sure. But the face did have the power—exhausted as she was—to hold her attention for that short moment.

There was one other, she noticed—a young boy with a mischievous expression; his alert eyes were fixed on her and she could not read what thoughts were going on behind them.

These faces became mingled with the hazy impressions of that grim and fearful night.

She had entered the room which had been made ready for her and, without waiting for her servants to prepare her, she threw herself upon the bed and in a few seconds had lost all consciousness of where she was.

The Queen was sleeping the sleep of complete exhaustion.

WHEN SHE awoke it was daylight and for some moments she could not remember where she was. As she looked at the lofty yet gloomy chamber, she was aware of a certain odor; it was not unpleasant and she wondered where she had smelled it before. It was faint yet haunting; and it was when she realized what it was, that memory came flooding back. It was the dank smell of lake water which could take her back in time to that period of her childhood which she had spent at Inchmahome. She remembered then that she was a prisoner in Lochleven.

She raised herself on her elbow and, looking about her, saw that the room was sparsely furnished in the Scottish manner. She would never grow accustomed to it. Yet in this castle, in this very tower were those rooms which she herself had furnished, for in the past she had lodged here when on hawking or hunting expeditions, and because her visits were so frequent she had hung her own tapestries on the walls and had her own bed installed. Why then was she brought to this dismal room? It must be to impress on her that she was no longer an honored Queen, but a prisoner.

The sound of tramping feet was audible, and glancing through the window she saw the sentinel pacing up and down. So they had determined to guard her well. She could trust Lindsay for that. At the thought of that dark bearded face her anger began to rise; and the hideous memories came back. If she did not restrain her thoughts she would be living it all again—the absolute hell of that night in the Provost’s House, that walk to Holyrood House and the ride through the darkness to Lochleven. Nothing could be worse, and she hoped never to be called upon to live through the like again.

She thought of Bothwell then and she was sick with longing for him. It was a wild sensual yearning, a mad desire for the man who had first awakened sexual knowledge in her and taught her that she was a voluptuous woman. He would come for her surely. But he must be reasonable. Bothwell had never loved her as she had loved him. It was her crown he had wanted; many of his mistresses had beautiful bodies to offer him; but she was the only one who had a crown. He had not denied this when she had taunted him with it; he was too sure of himself to lie. Yet at the end he had been tender.

He will come for me, she told herself. He must come. Then he will take that black Lindsay by the beard and throw him into the lake.

A woman rose from a chair not far from the bed. Mary had not noticed her until that moment.

This was Jane Kennedy, one of her maids of honor.

“So they have allowed you to remain with me,” she said.

“Yes, Your Majesty. And Marie Courcelles is with us. We shall do our best to serve you. Your French apothecary is here also. So if there is anything you need . . . ”

“There is only one thing I need, Jane: my freedom. And that is something they have determined to take from me.”

“It will not always be so. Shall I see about food for Your Majesty?”

“I am not hungry and the thought of food nauseates me. What hour is it?”

“It is well after noon.”

“Then I have slept long.”

“Your Majesty was quite exhausted. And still is, I’ll swear.”

Mary put her hands to her face. “Oh, Jane, how do I look? I am filthy. There is the grime of Carberry Hill on me . . . and the Provost’s house . . . .”

“I will fetch water.”

“Help me up first.”

Jane did so but when Mary stood she felt sick and dizzy.

“You should rest, Your Majesty. I pray you, lie still while I bring the water.”

Mary lay back obediently; but when Jane returned she found her mistress had become listless.

“Your Majesty, when you have washed and eaten you might be allowed to explore the castle. I do not see how they can prevent your doing that. This state of affairs will not last. Your faithful subjects will soon come to rescue you from your enemies.”

Mary said quietly: “My faithful subjects? Those who deserted from my army? Those who called out that I should be burned as a murderess . . . as an adulteress?”

“Come, allow me to wash your face. Then I will comb your hair and bring a mirror that you may see the result. It is all that is needed to make you the most beautiful woman in Scotland.”

But Mary could not rouse herself from her melancholy.

Marie Courcelles came in and when she saw that the Queen was awake she expressed her pleasure.

“Your Majesty will soon be well again. You will make a Little France in this dreary old Lochleven.”

But Mary turned her face away and began to weep silently.

“It will pass,” whispered Jane to Marie. “She has yet to recover from the shock.”

“If only my lord Bothwell were here all would be well. He would make her gay again.”

Mary turned and looked at them. Her voice seemed devoid of all hope as she said: “Bothwell has fled. I have a feeling that I shall never again see his face. And what is happening to my son? How will my little Jamie fare without me to care for him?”

“All will be well, Your Majesty. Do you think Lord Bothwell would leave you to your enemies! I have heard it said that he has gone North to take refuge with Huntley. They will come to release you.”

She shook her head. How she wished she could have believed that! And why could she not? Why was she so certain that she could never see Bothwell again?

And if I do not, she asked herself, what reason have I for living? He was my life. At times I hated him; he was harsh to me—always cruel, determined to dominate me, to go on as he had begun when in Buchanan’s House he stole in on me unawares and took his will of me. I tried to resist him then and yet I knew—as he did it—from that moment I was in his power.