The Captive Queen of Scots - By Jean Plaidy Page 0,3
as Willie Douglas.
George had had an affection for the boy which dated from the day when he was about ten and Willie six. That was before George had discovered how much he hated the casual relationships of grown-up people which led to unorthodox results. He suspected now that Willie was the result of one of his brother William’s indiscretions; but that could not change his affection for the boy once it had been firmly founded.
As he seated himself at table Willie whispered to him: “Great days in store for Lochleven, eh, Geordie?” And he gave George a wink that made his pert, freckled face slightly more comical than it had been before, so that George could not help smiling.
The meal progressed; and when the night had fallen there came with it a return of that brooding tension.
DISMOUNTING, Mary could scarcely stand. The noise of those raucous voices was still echoing in her ears. Lord Lindsay, who was at her side, said in a tone which had an edge of roughness in it and was devoid of the respect due to a Queen: “The boat is waiting.”
“Boat! Then where are you taking me?”
“You will know in time.”
How dared they! She turned to Lindsay, and goaded out of her exhaustion, cried: “I’ll have your head for this, my lord.”
Lindsay did not reply.
Lord Ruthven who had come to stand beside her said gently: “It is only a short distance across the lake, Your Majesty.”
Mary turned to him eagerly for she fancied she heard a note of compassion in his voice. So desperately alone did she feel that any sign of friendship lifted her spirits.
Ruthven did not meet her eye; he was ashamed of his mission. She thought: He is so young. He is not yet grown cruel like so many of my Scottish lords.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said.
Young Ruthven looked uncomfortable, fearing, Mary suspected, that Lindsay would have heard his remark and accuse him of softness toward their victim.
It was young Ruthven who helped her into the boat, where she sat listening to the rhythmic suck of the water as the oars displaced it.
“My lord Ruthven,” she whispered at length, “where are they taking me?”
“To Lochleven, Your Majesty.”
“Lochleven! To the Douglases! Ah, I see. To Sir William—the half-brother of my half-brother, Moray. He will doubtless make a good jailor. And conducted there by Lindsay—his brother-in-law.”
“Your Majesty . . . ” The young man did not continue; he was turning his face away that she might not see his emotion.
She said softly: “Do not be ashamed, my lord Ruthven, to show pity for a poor woman who is surrounded by her enemies. She will not forget that you alone showed her compassion on this fearful night.”
Ruthven did not answer, perhaps because Lindsay, hearing the murmur of voices, had edged nearer to them.
There was silence now, broken only by the dipping of the oars.
Mary, dazed and exhausted, felt the years slipping away from her; the only way in which she could endure the present was to return to the past. Once before, long long ago, she had been in flight from her enemies; and then, as now, she had sat in a boat and been rowed to an island in a lake.
“Inchmahome!” she whispered; and found comfort in the name. Inchmahome . . . where she had lived for a short period of her childhood when it had been necessary to find a refuge from her enemies; and how pleasantly she had lived in that monastic community. Inchmahome . . . Lochleven. Oh, but there was a difference. Then her enemies had been the English, who had crossed the Border and inflicted defeats on the Scots, culminating in the disaster of Pinkie Cleugh. How much more tragic when there was strife among Scotsmen; when she was a prisoner of her own subjects!
“Inchmahome . . . .” she whispered. “If I could but go once more to Inchmahome!”
The monks she had known would be long since dead. But there would be others, gentle monks, who tended their gardens, who worked together in peace, away from the world of intrigue and ambition.
Ruthven whispered: “We are there, Your Majesty.”
She saw the dark shapes of people, and in the light of torches the gray shape of the castle loomed up before her. A fortress! she thought; my prison.
Sir William had come forward. He was bowing over her hand. So there were some who remembered that she was their Queen.