Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (135 page)

"She ought to have used codes in the letters to Bothwell!" crowed
Glen-cairn. "Where were they when she needed them?"

"Oh, passion put them out of her head," laughed Atholl. "Can you
imagine writing about 'my heart, my blood, my soul, my care, you
promised we should be together all night at our leisure' and having to
think, 'let's see, I substitute 2 for y, and a for r, and so on."

The men howled with laughter, and Atholl fell on the bed. He grabbed a
pillow and embraced it passionately. Then he rolled over on top of it
and began thrusting at it, while crying in falsetto, "Oh, my Lord
Bothwell, oh, oh, stop, stop, oh, oh, don't stop...."

"Where do you suppose it first happened?" asked Erskine suddenly. "Was
it here?"

"This chamber has had a surfeit of evil, so perhaps it was," said
Maitland. "I cannot help but think that it was a doomed day that she
ever set foot in it. Almost as if it dragged her down into evil,
instigated it."

Morton folded a tapestry neatly and put it down to take away later.
"Oh, come now. You can't imply that if she had just used Falkland
Palace or Edinburgh Castle for her main residence, things would have
been different?"

"I know not what I imply. I only know there is something overwhelming
about the events that have happened in here." Maitland turned to the
window, the one overlooking the courtyard. The people were still out
there, hoping for excitement of some sort. "This is where she listened
to the music the people played for her when first she arrived." He
shook his head. "It seems that she tried."

"Lust undid her," said Morton righteously.

"It is not that simple." Maitland glared at him. "A marriage ceremony
turned the lust into legal wedlock. If lust alone could bring a person
down, there's not a one of us that wouldn't also be imprisoned in
Lochleven."

"Only the Lord James would still be free!" said Mar, trying to regain
the lightheartedness that Maitland was ruining.

"Not even Knox would escape," chimed in Atholl. "He wears out his
young wife, so I hear. And when he was courting, he dan died himself
up like a French whore himself!"

"Look!" Morton was prying open the locked drawers of the painted
chests,

and extracting jewel chests, also locked. He broke the locks and
dumped the contents out on the velvet table cover.

They were all there: her personal jewellery, her watches and rings and
brooches and necklaces; her heirlooms, the Great Harry and the rope of
black pearls. In reverent awe, Morton looped the pearls over his
paw-like hands, holding them up. They were so long he had to spread
his arms out as far as they could go to stretch them out to their full
length.

"I remember her wearing these. God, how she treasured them!" said
Erskine.

"And now they are ours. Or, rather, Scotland's," said Morton, licking
his lips. "Think of the money they will fetch."

Suddenly Maitland had an idea. "I know one person who likes pearls
even more than our own Queen," he said. "The Queen of England! I'll
warrant she will pay well for them. We must offer them to her!"

"Break open this one!" cried Douglas, jerking the velvet cover off the
curved silver box. Eagerly Morton took his hammer and chisel to it.
The top sprang open.

Little silk-wrapped packets were inside. Morton had trouble handling
things that small. Finally he managed to unwind the silk on one and
out tumbled a miniature. It fell on the floor and shattered before he
could catch it. Annoyed, he picked up the pieces and tried to fit them
together. "It appears to be a miniature of Francois," he said.

The rest of them proved to be miniatures of her French family, of
Darnley, and of Elizabeth. The ones of Darnley and Elizabeth were
greeted with embarrassed silence.

"Why would she keep these?" asked Glencairn.

"She is crafty," said Morton. "You notice there isn't one of
Bothwell." He pocketed the miniatures and returned to the jewel
table.

While Morton was gloating over the jewels, the rest of them
systematically emptied the drawers and trunks. Then Glencairn rolled
his eyes.

"The Papist chapel!" he suddenly cried. "It must be destroyed!"

"Yes!" cried Douglas. "The heart and soul of her affront, the Papist
chapel! The one that we tried to destroy that first Sunday!" Together
they rushed out of the apartments and ran down the gallery, hunting for
the chapel.

They rounded a corner and there it was, its doors open, not even
pretending to be anything else, not even having the modesty to hide
itself, but instead, flaunting itself like the Whore of Babylon! With
a yell, the two men tore into it, ripping down the hangings,
overturning the altar, opening the tabernacle where the sacred hosts
were kept, and scattering them all over the floor. Then Glencairn had
an idea. Scooping up handfuls of them, he tossed them out the window
to the waiting crowd. They surged forward, cheering, catching the
sacred bread, pelting each other with it.

"Get rid of this abomination!" cried Douglas, kicking at the carved
wood of the altar base. Glencairn was yanking down the ivory carvings,
smashing the saint statues, and breaking the stained glass. In a few
minutes the entire chapel was nothing but debris.

"Knox would be proud!" Douglas said. "He always said, "Cut down the
tree, else the birds will return to nest in the branches again." This
tree is down!"

The other four men were awaiting them back at the door of the
apartments, their arms laden with embroideries, jewels, plate,
paintings, hangings. "Take what you wish, and let us go," they told
the chapel-smashers.

In the midst of Maitland's bundle of spoils lay the ivory crucifix from
the wall. He meant to send it to Mary at Lochleven. It was an old
one, from France, and doubtless had some personal meaning for her.

"Morton, you mean to send the Queen her miniatures, do you not?" he
said. "They are worth nothing, and I cannot imagine that you will
derive any pleasure from contemplating the likeness of the Lord
Darnley."

Morton glared at him. Next he would want him to give up the ruby
tortoise if he had seen him pocket it. "Of course," he said
indignantly.

FIFTY-NINE

It seemed there was no awakening for Mary. The sea-dreams of Bothwell
blended into other dreams, dreams of Stirling Castle and a man who was
half Lord James and half Darnley, dreams of the fierce wind there and
pony races from long ago. Lord Lindsay's wife kept watch over her
until her attendants arrived two days later, rowed across the choppy
waters of the lake and carrying bundles of clothes and prayer books and
medicines.

"She has been like this since her arrival," said Lady Lindsay softly,
showing them the Queen, still lying in bed. "She has not eaten or
roused herself." She sounded genuinely concerned.

Mary Seton made her way over to the bedside and stood silently looking
down at her mistress, whom she had seen in so many circumstances and
over so many years. She saw how white and almost bloodless the Queen's
face was, how still she was lying. She seemed to be in a state deeper
than sleep.

Seton knelt down beside the bed and took Mary's hand in hers. It was
cold. She squeezed it and tried to bring some warmth into it. She
brushed back the tangled hair and massaged her temples.

"Your Majesty," she whispered close to her ear. "We are come to help
you."

Mary gave no indication that she heard her, and her eyes stayed tightly
closed.

"It is so damp in here," said Seton, "and it feels so cold, even though
outside in the sun it is warm. Can we have a fire, please?"

Lady Lindsay nodded. "And you may have any food you wish; we have
offered broth and bread and soup, but she has refused to eat. My
mother says it is because she has made a vow not to touch food until
she be reunited with her husband, but that is fanciful. She has called
his name in her sleep, but she has not eaten because she is ill. When
they brought her here, she had not lived normally for days, and it had
taken its toll."

Lady Lindsay left the chamber to ask about the wood, and Seton turned
to jane Kennedy and Claud Nau. "Perhaps it is merciful that she cannot
hear or think for now. She has heard too much already."

The faithful attendants kept the fire burning to keep the chill at bay,
and dutifully offered their mistress food every few hours when she
seemed to be awakening. In the meantime they paced the quarters,
unpacking the few things they had brought, trying to make the chamber
as comforting as possible. Seton hung up the crucifix which Maitland
had quietly given her to take along.

Days passed, days in which news from the outside flew over the waters
of the loch like the wheeling water fowl. The Lords had taken one of
Bothwell's servants in the act of recovering some of Bothwell's
treasure and papers; the bold warrior had sent him straight into the
nest of his enemies, like a gull diving for fish. The papers were
incriminating, especially to the Queen. Meanwhile, Bothwell was still
at liberty at least the Lords had kept their promise to the Queen not
to harm him and trying to raise another army to rescue the Queen. He
had gone to the Borders, and to the west, talking to the Hamiltons and
others.

Then, suddenly, the Lords put a thousand-crown price on his head, at
the instigation of Knox and the Kirk, who declared it shameful that the
scoundrel was allowed to roam unpunished. A few days later they issued
a call for him to appear at the Tolbooth on July twenty-second to
answer to the threefold charge of murdering the King, kidnapping the
Queen, and forcing her into unlawful marriage with him, or be branded
an outlaw and forfeit of all titles and property. By that time he had
quitted Dunbar and journeyed north, still attempting to raise troops.

The French evidenced interest in obtaining custody of the baby Prince,
as did the English, both claiming to be acting on their duties as the
child's godparents.

All these things were whispered in the little tower room, out of
earshot of the Queen. No communication from Bothwell succeeded in
penetrating the stout de fences around his captive wife.

When Mary finally swam up into consciousness, she saw the familiar
crucifix on the wall, floating there against the grey stone. It seemed
to reach out and tell her she was safe and at home. She closed her
eyes again and drifted, waiting to sink back into that place where she
had come to belong. But now she did not sink down, but only floated
near the surface; it was as if the depths did not want to take her
back. She could hear voices, not the wavering voices in dreams, but
real voices: hushed, tender, insistent.

"I think the boat is returning...."

"We must get this cloth mended.. .."A soft woman's voice.

"The letter said there may be an envoy from London." An accented man's
voice.

The voices were familiar, but none of them was his voice; he was not
nearby. There was no one else she wanted to talk to. She kept her
eyes shut and lay still, praying to be taken back down into those
cushiony velvet depths where there were no demands, no passage of time,
no recognition.