Виктория Холт: Royal Road to Fotheringhay

“No, they do not. You must be careful what you say. If you do not understand, you must come to me. You must talk to no one about Wishart and the Cardinal… to no one … not even your Marys. You must remember that you are the Queen. You are but little yet, but to be a queen is not to be an ordinary little girl who thinks of nothing but playing. We do not know who are our friends. The King of England wants you in England.”

“Oh, Maman , should I take my Marys with me?”

“Hush! You are not going to England.” The mother took her child in her arms and held her tightly. “We do not want you to go to England. We want to keep you here with us.”

Mary’s eyes were wide. “Could they make me go?”

“Not unless …”

“Unless?”

“It were by force.”

Mary clasped her hands together. “Oh, Maman , could they do that?”

“They could if they were stronger than we were.”

Mary’s eyes shone. She could not help it. She loved excitement and, to tell the truth, she was a little tired of the castle where all the rooms were so familiar to her. She was never allowed to go beyond the castle grounds; and when she played, there were always men-at-arms watching.

Her mother came to a sudden decision. The child must be made to understand. She must be shocked, if need be, into understanding.

“You are being foolish, child,” she said. “Try to understand this. The worst thing that could happen to you would be for you to be taken to England.”

“Why?”

“Because if you went your life would be in danger.”

Mary caught her breath. She drew back in amazement.

It was the only way, thought the Queen-Mother. There was too much danger and the child must be made aware of it.

“The King of England has said that he wishes you to go to England to be brought up with his son.”

“You do not wish me to marry Edward?”

“I do not know … as yet.”

The Queen-Mother stood up and walked to the window. She looked across the country toward the south and thought of the aging monarch of England. He had demanded the marriage for his son, and that Mary be brought up in the Court of England as a future Queen of England. A good enough prospect… if one were dealing with any but the King of England. But there was a sinister clause in the agreement. If the little Queen of Scots died before reaching an age of maturity, the crown of Scotland was to pass to England. The royal murderer should never have a chance of disposing of Mary Stuart. How easy it would be! The little girl could fall victim to some pox… some wasting disease. No! He had murdered his second and fifth wives and, some said, was preparing to murder his sixth. He should not add the little Queen of Scots to his list of victims.

But how tell such things to a child of five years!

Marie de Guise turned back to the bed. “Suffice it that I shall not allow you to go to England. Now … to sleep.”

But Mary did not sleep. She lay sleepless in the elaborate bed—the bed with the beautiful hangings sent to her by her glorious uncles—and thought of that ogre, the King of England, who might come at any moment to carry her off by force.

NOW THE LITTLE QUEEN was aware of tension. She knew that the reason why she must never go beyond the castle walls without a strong guard was because it was feared she would be abducted.

She called the Marys together. Life was exciting. They must learn about it. Here they were shut up in Stirling Castle playing hide-and-seek, battledore and shuttlecock, reading, miming, playing games; while beyond the castle walls grown-up people played other games which were far more exciting.

One day when they were all at play, Flem, who happened to be near the window, called to them all. A messenger was riding into the courtyard, muddy and stained with the marks of a long ride, his jaded horse distressed and flecked with foam.

The children watched—five little faces pressed against the window. But the messenger stayed within the castle and they grew tired of waiting for him to come out, so they devised a new game of messengers. They took it in turn to be the messenger riding on a hobby horse, come from afar with exciting news concerning the King of England.

Later they were aware of glum faces about them; some of the serving men and women were in tears and the words Pinkie Cleugh were whispered throughout the castle.

Lady Fleming shut herself in her apartment and the five Marys heard her sobbing bitterly. Little Flem beat on the door in panic and called shrilly to be allowed to come in. Then Janet Fleming came out and looked blankly at the five little girls. Her own Mary ran to her, and Janet embraced her crying over and over again: “My child… my little Mary… I still have you.” Then she went back into her room and shut the door, taking Flem with her.

Mary, left alone with her three companions, felt the tears splashing on to her velvet gown. She did not understand what had happened. She was wretched because her dear Aunt Janet and little Flem were in some trouble.

“What is Pinkie?” she demanded; but even Beaton did not know.

It was impossible to play after that. They sat in the window seat huddled together, waiting for they knew not what.

They heard a voice below the window, which said: “They say Hertford’s men are not more than six miles from the castle.”

Mary knew then that danger was close. Hertford, her tutors had told her, was the Lord Protector of England who ruled until Edward—that boy who might very well be her husband one day—was old enough to do so himself, for King Henry had died that very year. To Mary, Hertford was the monster now; he was the dragon breathing fire who would descend on the castle like the raiders on the Border and carry the Queen of Scotland off to England as his prize.

That was a strange day—a queer, brooding tension filled the castle. Everyone was waiting for something to happen. She did not see her mother that evening and her governess was not present when she went to her apartment for the night.

At last she slept and was awakened suddenly by dark figures about her bed. She started up, thinking: He has come. Hertford has come to take me to England.

But it was not Hertford. It was her mother, and with her were the Earl of Arran, Lord Erskine and Livy’s father, Lord Livingstone, so that she knew this was a very important occasion.

“Wake up,” said her mother.

“Is it time to get up?”

“It is an hour past midnight, but you are to get up. You are going away on a journey.”

“What! At night!”

“Do not talk so much. Do as you are told.”

This must be very important, for otherwise even her mother would not have talked to her thus in the presence of these noble lords. She had to be a little girl now; she had to obey without question. This was no time for ceremony.

Lady Fleming—her eyes still red with weeping—came forward with her fur-trimmed cloak.

“Quickly,” said Lady Fleming. “There is no time to be lost. If your lordships will retire I will get my lady dressed.”

While Mary was hustled into her clothes she asked questions. “Where are we going? Why are we going now? It’s the night… the dead of night…”

“There is no time for questions.”

It should have been an exciting adventure, but she was too tired to be conscious of most of that journey. She was vaguely aware of the smells of the night—a mingling of damp earth and misty air. Through the haze of sleep she heard the continued thudding of horses’ hoofs. Voices penetrated her dreams. “Pinkie… Pinkie…. Hertford close on our heels. Cattle driven over the Border. Rape… murder… fire… blood.”

Words to make a grown-up person shudder, but to a child of five they were little more than words.