Виктория Холт - Royal Road to Fotheringhay

She laid her hands on her heavy body. Bothwell seemed to think she was a hardy adventurer like himself, instead of a woman, six months pregnant. Lowered over walls in her condition! It was impossible.

Still, it was gratifying to know that outside these walls her friends were making plans for her safety.

Nevertheless she must find some way to escape from the palace. She must do it, not by following Bothwell’s wild suggestion, but in a subtler manner; her plan was already beginning to take shape.

Her brother came into the apartment at that moment. He knelt before her. He lifted his face to hers and there were tears in his eyes when he embraced her.

“Dear Jamie,” she said.

“My dearest sister, I blame myself for this terrible thing. I should never have left you. Brothers and sisters should not quarrel. Had I been at hand I should never have allowed you to suffer so.”

Those tears in his eyes seemed to be of real emotion, but she was not so foolish as she had once been. Did he really believe that she did not know he had been in the plot to kill Rizzio? Did he really believe that she did not understand that he had returned to Scotland to wrest her power from her and take it to himself? It was with pleasure that she would deceive him now as he had so often deceived her.

“Jamie,” she said, “you see me a sick woman. My child was to have been born three months from now.”

“Was to have been born?”

“I am in such pain, Jamie… such terrible pain. I fear a miscarriage.”

“But this is more terrible than anything that has happened.”

“You see, Jamie, they have so far taken only my faithful secretary. Now they will take my child as well.”

“You are sure of this?”

She put her hand to her side and groped her way to the bed. Moray was beside her. He put his arm about her.

“Jamie, you will not let them deny me a midwife?”

“No… no… certainly you must have a midwife.”

“And… Jamie … it distresses me … all these men about me … at such a time. I… in my state … to have soldiers at my door. Jamie, look at me. How could I escape in this condition? How could I?”

“I will have a midwife sent to you.”

“I have already asked my woman to bring one. See that she is not kept back, I beg of you.”

Mary turned her head away and groaned. She was enjoying her triumph; she had successfully deceived her brother.

She gripped his hand. “And… the men-at-arms… they distress me so. I … a queen in my own palace … a poor sick woman … a dying woman … to be so guarded. Jamie, it is mayhap my last request to you.”

“No … no. You will soon be better. Dearest sister, I will do all that you ask. I will have the midwife sent to you as soon as she comes. I will see what may be done about clearing the staircases about your apartments.”

“Thank you, Jamie. This would not have happened, would it, had you been here? Oh, what a sad thing it is when a brother and sister fall out. In future, brother, we must understand each other … if I live through this.”

“You shall live, and in future there shall be understanding between us. You will be guided by me.”

“Yes, Jamie. How glad I am that you are back!”

THE “MIDWIFE” had come. She was a servant of the Huntleys and knew that her task was not to deliver a stillborn child but to take charge of letters the Queen had written and see that they were dispatched with all speed to Lords Huntley and Bothwell.

Moray and Morton had decided that if Darnley would stay in the Queens bedchamber all night, the guards about her apartments could be withdrawn. They trusted Darnley, and in any case the Queen was considered far too sick to leave her bed.

In the evening all the lords retired from the palace to Douglas House, the home of Morton, which was but a short step from the palace. There they could feast and talk of the success of their schemes and make future plans.

As soon as they had gone and the sentries had been withdrawn, Mary rose and dressed hastily. Darnley had changed sides completely now that she had inspired him with fear and had promised him a return to her favor. After the child was born they would live as husband and wife again. He had learned a bitter lesson, Mary said; she hoped that in future they would trust each other.

She had satisfied him that the lords who held them prisoners represented but a small proportion of the population. Had he forgotten what had happened when they had married and Moray had believed he would raise all Scotland against her? Who had mustered the stronger force then? She assured him that all he had to do was escape with her from the palace and join Bothwell and Huntley, who were mustering their forces at this very time. Darnley would be a fool if he did not join her, for her friends would have no mercy on him if he did not. Those with whom he had temporarily cast in his lot would have no further use for him either.

So, trembling, Darnley agreed to deceive the lords, who were feasting and congratulating themselves in Douglas House; he would escape with Mary from Holyrood and ride away.

“NOW,” said the Queen.

She was wrapped in a heavy cloak. She stood up firmly. The child was quiet now; it was almost as though it shared the suspense.

“Down the back staircase,” said Mary. “Through the pantries and the kitchens where the French are. The French will not betray us… even if they see us. We can rely on their friendship.”

With wildly beating hearts they crept down the narrow staircase, through the kitchens and underground passages to one of the pantries, the door of which opened onto the burial ground.

Darnley gasped. “Not that way!” he cried.

“Where else?” demanded Mary contemptuously. “Will you come or will you stay behind to share David’s fate?”

Darnley still hesitated, his face deathly pale in the moonlight. He was terrified of going on, yet he had no alternative but to follow her, and as he stumbled forward he all but fell into a newly made grave.

He shrieked, and Mary turned to bid him be silent.

“Jesus!” she cried, looking down into the grave. “It is David who lies there.”

Darnley’s limbs trembled so that he could not proceed. “It’s an omen!” he whispered.

In that moment Mary seemed to see anew the terrified eyes of David as he had been dragged across the floor. Angrily she turned on her husband: “Mayhap, it is,” she said. “Mayhap David watches us now… and remembers.”

“No… no,” groaned Darnley. “’Twas no fault of mine.”

“This is not the time,” said Mary, turning and hurrying forward.

He followed her across the grisly burial ground, picking his way between the tombs and shuddering as he caught glimpses of half-buried coffins.

On the far edge of the burial ground Erskine was waiting with horses. Silently they mounted, Mary riding pillion with Erskine.

“Make haste!” cried Darnley, now longing above all things to put as great a distance as possible between himself and the grim graveyard. He imagined David’s ghost had been startled from his grave and caused him to stumble there. Terror overwhelmed him—terror of the dead and of the living.

They rode on through the quiet night, but Erskine’s horse with its royal burden could not make the speed which Darnley wanted.

“Hasten, I say!” he cried impatiently. “’Tis dangerous to delay.”

“My lord, I dare not,” said Erskine.

“There is the child to consider,” cried Mary. “We go as fast as is safe for it.”

“They’ll murder us if they catch us, you fools!” cried Darnley.

“I would rather be murdered than kill our child.”

“In God’s name that’s folly. What is one child? If it should die this night, there’ll be others to replace it. Come on, man. Come on, I say. Or I’ll have you clapped in jail as soon as we are out of this.”