“Maitland of Lethington once received an ornament from you. He also sends it as a like token.”

Melville laid in her hand an oval piece of gold enamel. Engraved on it was Æsop’s mouse liberating the lion.

She smiled, remembering the occasion when she had given the trinket to Maitland. He had recently married her dear Mary Fleming, and she had been delighted to see Mary’s happiness.

Now she thought of Maitland who, such a short time ago, had passed by on the other side of the road.

“I am not impressed by these gestures,” she said. “They could mean nothing.”

Lindsay had come over to the bed, arrogant and impatient.

“Come,” he said, “it is time that your signature was put to this document.”

“I have not agreed to sign it,” Mary reminded him.

“Read the document!” Lindsay commanded.

“I refuse to look at it,” retorted Mary.

Lindsay’s eyes blazed in his dark face. “Madam,” he said quietly, but in tones which indicated that he meant every word, “you will rise from your bed without delay. You will be seated at yon table. There you will sign the deed of Abdication in favor of your son.”

“And if I refuse?”

Lindsay unsheathed his sword. The gesture was significant.

“You would murder me in cold blood!” demanded Mary.

“Madam, my blood grows hot with this delay. Come, rise from your bed.”

His sword was close to her throat and she saw the purpose in his eyes. She looked at Melville and Ruthven, but they would not return her gaze.

He means it! she thought. He has come here to say: Sign or die.

She looked about her helplessly; she was here on an island, far from any friends she might have had. The cry of wild fowl suddenly came to her ears. They would murder her as many had been murdered before. Perhaps they would bury her body under some stone slab in the courtyard, or under a stair that was little used.

Now that death was so near she longed to live; a greater desire than she had felt for Bothwell was with her now; she wanted to escape, to regain her throne, to punish these men who had dared degrade her royalty.

She reached for a robe. They had expelled Jane Kennedy and Marie Courcelles from the room, so there was no one to help her. Ruthven took the robe and put it around her shoulders; as he did so she detected a burning gleam in his eyes; he was sending her a message of some sort; she was not entirely sure what. Perhaps it was merely desire for her body. But somehow it gave her a small comfort.

She was out of bed and, because she was still weak, Melville gave her his arm. She felt his fingers on her wrist and she believed there was something reassuring in the touch.

It was Lindsay who was her enemy, Lindsay with his black flashing eyes and his ready sword.

The quill was put into her hand; she sat down and read the document. Once she had put her name to it she would no longer be the reigning Queen. Scotland would have a King—James Stuart, son of Mary Stuart and Darnley.

She wanted to shout her refusal but Lindsay was standing over her, his sword still drawn.

She signed the Abdication and threw down the pen. Then she was on her feet, facing Lindsay who with a slow smile of triumph was putting away his sword.

She felt hysteria overcoming her. She shouted: “I was forced to it. You held a sword at my throat and forced me to sign. Is that justice? Rest assured, my lord, that when I am free the first pleasure I shall allow myself will be to see your head severed from your body. And I tell you this: These documents to which, under duress, I have put my name, have no meaning. I signed under compulsion, and I do not consider my signature valid. Do not think that I am entirely friendless. I shall not always be your prisoner. And then . . . my lord . . . beware.”

Lindsay continued to smile as he murmured: “So you do not think you will long remain our prisoner? Lest there should be some meaning behind those words we must make sure that your jailors double their precautions. As one of those jailors, Madam, you may rest assured that I shall do my duty to Scotland.”

Ruthven said: “The Queen is ill. I will help her to her bed.”

He put an arm about Mary and held her firmly. His face was close to hers. He was undoubtedly trying to convey some message to her. Had she not felt so ill she would have understood, she was sure. Was he telling her that he was her friend?

She stumbled onto the bed; she felt sick and dizzy.

Vaguely she heard voices from afar—Ruthven’s and Melville’s.

“The Queen is fainting. Her maids should be sent to her.” And when she opened her eyes again she found that Lindsay, Ruthven and Melville had gone, and that Jane and Marie were at her bedside with her French apothecary.


* * *

MARY QUICKLY RECOVERED with the help of her maids and her apothecary. Her anger against those lords who had forced her to sign away her right was so intense that it was like a crutch to her weakness.

“The impudence!” she raved. “How dared they! Jane, Marie . . . Lindsay held the sword at my throat. Let him be sure that he shall not escape my fury.”

The maids exchanged glances. They were delighted to see their mistress’s animation. Anything was better than the listlessness she had displayed since her arrival at Lochleven, no matter what was the cause of it.

“I shall not be here forever,” Mary continued. “I have friends . . . .”

“Your Majesty must keep up your strength,” Jane warned her. “When the time comes to leave this dismal place you will have to be well.”

“You are right, Jane,” answered the Queen. “This is an end of my lethargy.”

They brought her food and she ate it. She called for a mirror and studied her face with more attention than she had bestowed on it since the beginning of her incarceration. She had lost her pallor and her delicately tinted complexion was regaining its beauty; her lovely mouth was no longer melancholy; slightly parted it disclosed her perfect white teeth; there was a sparkle, left by recent anger mingling with new-born hope, in the long, deeply-set hazel eyes; her chestnut hair, hanging over her shoulders, was regaining its luster.

She rose from her bed and walked a little, leaning on Jane’s arm. Then she stood at the window looking out over the lake. She could see the mainland, and caught glimpses of distant mountains and forests. It was such a small stretch of water which separated her from freedom that she wondered why she had felt so hopeless.

“Somewhere on that mainland,” she mused, “are friends who will help me.”

Dusk had fallen. Outside her window the sentinels patrolled. With the coming of night two others would take their places. Lindsay was determined that she should not escape.

She was feeling so much better. She believed she would soon be free. All her life she had recovered quickly from adversity because her optimism had been one of her strongest qualities and, she guessed, always would be. Rarely—and the days and nights which followed Carberry Hill was one of these periods—had she been completely bereft of hope. But to lose a kingdom, a lover and a beloved baby son at one stroke had been too much even for her resilient nature.

Now she could look back on her despair and say: There is always hope. There always must be hope. All through her life—except that gay and romantic period at the Court of France—there had been trouble. And even in France the insidiously powerful Catherine de’ Medici had been her enemy from the moment they had set eyes on each other.

So hope came now. Somewhere in Scotland there were friends waiting to help her. She believed she would find them.

Jane had been right when she had said she must build up her strength. Lying in bed and refusing food was folly. Once she felt quite well again her natural gaiety would return. And when she had recovered her high spirits, her belief in her destiny, she would be happy again. Scotland would be hers once more. And Bothwell?

Now that she was calmer she could look back with a clearer vision at that turbulent period of her life. With him she had reached an emotional climax which she had never attained before. Through him she had known a savage joy and a savage despair. There would never be another like him, and she knew that if he came back tomorrow she would be entirely his slave. Should she say the slave of her own body’s desires? With him she had experienced sensations which she had not known existed: Erotic bliss which never seemed to be without its companions—humiliation and despair.

She had experienced enough of those two to wonder whether anything was worth the price.

Since she had made herself realize that she was a Queen with a Kingdom to fight for, Bothwell’s image had faded a little. Let that suffice. And in due course, if and when he came back to her, it might be that he would find a different woman, a clever woman, a woman of some judgment who, while she welcomed him as her husband, would ask him to remember that she was his Queen.

But Bothwell was far away—she knew not where. And she was a prisoner in Lochleven. Her first duty was to escape, and if she were to break out of this fortalice she would need all her wits to do so. She would not achieve that end by dreaming sensual dreams of Bothwell.

She rose from her bed and wrapped her robe about her. She was growing stronger and now able to walk about the room without the aid of Jane’s or Marie’s arm.

While she was wondering whether they would increase her guards now that she was able to leave her bed, she realized with a little shock that the door of her room was being slowly and cautiously opened.