“The Queen!”

“She sends for me to bring her safely back to Scotland.”

“For you! So she too!”

He laughed. “Anna, you are a fool. You see passion everywhere. This is a command from a queen to a subject.”

“But why you… why you?”

“Because her mother knew she could trust me. She knew I hated the English. Mayhap this Queen knows that I shall serve her well for the reason that I am a Borderer and a natural enemy of those on the other side. There is hardly a man in Scotland of any standing who is not in the pay of the English. Lord James himself… Maitland… anyone you can name. But I have never taken a bribe from them. I have taken their cattle and I have taken their women. I am their enemy and they know it. The Queen knows it. So she now asks me to arrange her safe passage, and, my dear Anna, I go with all speed.”

“The Queen will reward you,” said Anna.

“Doubtless.”

“And when she does, you will do the right thing by our child? You will do the right thing by me?”

He sighed deeply. “Who knows, Anna? Who knows?”

Now her eyes began to blaze again with anger, and he laughed. As he had told her, he liked her thus; and it would be a long time before he saw her again.


IT WAS AUGUST. Through the French countryside passed a brilliant cavalcade at the head of which in a magnificent carriage decorated with cloth of gold and silver and bearing the arms of Guise and Lorraine rode the great Duke and his brother, the Cardinal. There followed in a beautiful chariot Mary Stuart; and behind her came her four Marys with a company of French noblemen, poets and musicians.

Mary knew that at Calais she would say good-bye to those two uncles who had been her guardians since she had set foot in France, but their three brothers, Mary’s uncles, Claude the Duc d’Aumale, François the Grand Prior of Lorraine, and René the Marquis d’Elboeuf, were to accompany her to Scotland. She was glad of this; her uncle René she liked particularly because he had a gay nature and it was a comfort to have him with her.

She was conscious all the time of Henri de Montmorency, the Sieur d’Amville, who made it his delight to be at her side and gratify her smallest wish. He had introduced to her notice a very personable young man who played the lute with charm and wrote verses which fell not far short of those of Ronsard. This was Pierre de Chastelard, and she had made up her mind that she would reward that young man with a good post when they reached Scotland. She liked him; he was so gay and charming; and she was fond of poets. Unfortunately he was a Huguenot, she had heard; but then, so was Henri de Montmorency, and she would not let a persons religious opinions interfere with the friendship she felt.

She was a little happier than she had feared she would be, and that was due to the people who were going with her. She looked around the company. There were many familiar faces.

She was glad to see Lord Bothwell’s among them. She was not sure of her feelings regarding him as a person; he was certainly rather crude but he gave such an impression of strength and power that when she contemplated the journey before her and all its perils, she was glad to know that he was with the expedition.

He had come promptly at her summons; he had arranged for her departure with Lord Eglinton. She trusted them both, for their loyalty and their knowledge of the sea.

Flem had said that Bothwell should travel in the galley with Mary and themselves, but Mary would not have it.

“No,” she said, “suffice it that he is with the party.”

“But,” persisted Flem, “Your Majesty says that you feel safer because he is of the party.”

“Safer, yes—but it is enough that he is in one of the galleys. He will be at hand to save us from our enemies. And in my galley I wish to have those about me whom I love… my dearest friends and those who delight me with their company.”

“And he does not?”

“He is a Scotsman of rough speech, and we shall see enough of such in the months to come. I wish to enjoy cultured society for as long as I can. Only you, my four darlings, and my dear uncles and a few of our chosen friends shall sail in the first galley. The others may follow, and among them the Border Earl.”

Flem sighed, causing Mary to smile. “You seem to have a fondness for him,” she teased. “Have a care. I have heard that his reputation is quite shocking.”

“It is simply that he has an air of being able to subdue anyone… including the Queen of England.”

“He has a blustering manner, it is true,” agreed Mary, “but he shall not subdue the Queen of Scotland. No! He shall travel in one of the accompanying vessels with others like himself.”

And so it was arranged.

When Mary stepped into the galley a sense of foreboding had come to her. She looked very lovely, dressed in her mourning costume. Her veil was full and held in place on each shoulder; her headdress was the shape of a scallop shell and set with pearls, and about her neck was a collar of pearls. Her flowing gown was of cloth of silver and most becoming with its sleeves full from the elbow to shoulder and tight from elbow to wrist; the ruff of point lace set off her face to perfection.

Her uneasiness was enhanced by the terrible accident which took place before her eyes. The sails had not been completely unfurled and the royal galley had not left the harbor when a ship, entering the port, capsized suddenly and all aboard were drowned, as no help could reach them in time.

Mary cried out to those aboard to turn back, to do something; but the galley could not turn around and there was nothing to be done but watch the struggling bodies in the water or turn shuddering away.

It was a bad omen, said everyone; this meant bad luck for the Queen of Scots.

Mary walked up and down the deck, her eyes fixed on the land she was leaving. She longed to move out of sight of those shores, yet she dreaded the moment when she would no longer see them.

She could not forget the terrible screams of those drowning men. She explored the galley in the hope of turning her mind to other things, but her sadness was not relieved by the sight of the slaves, with their shaven heads and despairing faces, who worked at the oars. She could not bear to look at their naked backs which were marked by the lash. She thought of them, sweating over the oars when the wind was against them; she thought of them exposed to the cruel weather, with the chains about their legs; they were such sad creatures that they must have longed continually for death.

Impetuously she called the Captain to her and said: “The galley slaves shall not be whipped while I am aboard. No matter what happens … no matter what, I say… the lash shall not be used. Do you hear me?”

The Captain was amazed and about to protest; but she had turned away, and those who were near saw the tears streaming down her cheeks.

As it grew dark her Marys begged her to leave the deck and go to her cabin, which had been decorated in a manner fitting a Queen; but she could not bear to turn her eyes from the last glimpse of that land which she loved.

“It is now, my dear France,” she said, “that I have lost you, for the envious darkness like a black veil conceals you from my eyes which are thus deprived of their chief desire. Adieu then, my beloved France! I lose sight of you and I shall never see you again.”

“Dearest Majesty,” pleaded Seton, “meat and drink await you. You must sleep. You can do no good waiting here.”

But Mary shook her head. She turned to the Captain and said: “Set up a bed for me here.”

“Here, Madame, on the poop gallery?”

“Yes, here,” she commanded. “For when it is again light it may still be possible to see the shores of France. I must not be deprived of a last glimpse of them.”

So the bed was set up on the poop gallery, and Mary lay down while her women drew the curtains.

“As soon as the first glimmer of light is in the sky you must awaken me,” she ordered.

The wind died down during the night so that when the dawn came the galley was still close to the French coast.

It was Flem who awakened Mary, and the young Queen started up from her bed, her eyes red from last night’s weeping, her sorrow returning as she remembered where she was.

The curtains about her bed were drawn back and, looking out, she saw the receding land of France.

She wept afresh.

“It is over,” she said. “Farewell beloved land which I shall behold no more. Farewell, France!”

Thus she remained until there was no longer sight of land.

The perilous journey to Scotland had begun.

Mary the Woman

ONE

ALTHOUGH IT WAS AUGUST WHEN MARY FIRST SAW LEITH again after all her years in France, a thick sea mist hid the countryside. The French shivered in the cold damp air; they looked at each other and shrugged. It seemed that all the warnings about this dismal land were by no means exaggerated.

The foreboding in Mary’s heart deepened as she stepped ashore. Her thoughts involuntarily went to Calais and that glittering cavalcade which had accompanied her. How different was her arrival in her own country!

There was no one to greet her as she stepped ashore. She was aware of a bunch of fisherfolk, their rags scarcely covering their bodies, their faces scored with weather. There was no welcome; there was only curiosity. One ragged boy came up boldly to stare at her. A child who might have been boy or girl touched her gown, laughed, and ran back to the group of fishermen and women.