Royal Road to Fotheringhay - By Jean Plaidy Page 0,1

he a poet?

Mary was raped by Bothwell. Those who would proclaim her an angel of virtue are ready to concede that. An important question is: When did the rape occur? Was it in the Exchequer House or later at Dunbar after the abduction? Was Mary herself in the plot to abduct her? If so, she and Both-well must have been in love before the staging of that extraordinary affair, and it is more than likely that the rape took place at the Exchequer House. Buchanan’s ribald account is clearly exaggerated. The story of Lady Reres being lowered into the garden in order to bring Bothwell from his wife’s bed to that of the Queen might have been written by Boccaccio and is too crude to be believed; but Mary was at the Exchequer House, and Bothwell’s servant did live next door. Why should not Buchanan’s story be founded on truth?

I have discarded, selected and fitted my material together with the utmost care and I hope I have made a plausible and convincing picture of Mary, the people who surrounded her, and the circumstances which made Fotheringhay the inevitable end of her royal road.

I have studied many works and am indebted in particular to the following:

History of France. M. Guizot.

History of England. William Hickman Smith Aubrey.

British History. John Wade.

Henri II. H. Noel Williams.

Feudal Castles of France. Anon.

Lives of the Queens of Scotland and English Princesses

(Vols. III, IV, V, VI, VII). Agnes Strickland.

Letters of Mary Queen of Scots (Vols. I and II),

with Historical Introduction and Notes by Agnes Strickland.

The Scottish Queen. Herbert Gorman.

The Love Affairs of Mary Queen of Scots. Martin Hume.

The Queen of Scots. Stefan Zweig.

John Knox and the Reformation. Andrew Lang.

The Life of John Knox. George R. Preedy.

Lord Bothwell. Robert Gore-Brown.

J.P.

Mary the Queen

ONE

THROUGH THE GREAT ROOMS OF THE CASTLE OF STIRLING five little girls were playing hide-and-seek. They were all in their fifth year and all named Mary.

She, whose turn it was to seek, stood against the tapestry, her eyes tightly shut, listening to the echo of running feet, counting softly under her breath: “Ten… eleven… twelve …”

It was fair now to open her eyes, for they would all be out of sight. She would count up to twenty and then begin to search. Livy would give herself away by her giggling laughter. She always did. Flem would betray herself because she wished to please and thought it wrong that her beloved Mary should not succeed immediately in everything she undertook. Beaton, the practical one, and Seton, the quiet one, would not be so easy.

“Fifteen… sixteen …”

She looked up at the silken hangings. They were soft and beautiful because they came from France. Her mother spoke often of France—that fairest of lands. Whenever her mother spoke of France a tenderness came into her voice. In France there was no mist, it seemed, and no rain; French flowers were more beautiful than Scottish flowers; and all the men were handsome.

In France Mary had a grandfather, a grandmother and six uncles. There were some aunts too but they were not so important. The uncles were all handsome giants who could do anything they wished. “One day,” her mother often said, “you may see them. I want them not to be ashamed of you.”

“Eighteen… nineteen… twenty …” She was forgetting the game.

She gave a whoop of warning and began the search.

How silent the rooms were! They had chosen this part of the castle for hide-and-seek because no one came here at this hour of the day.

“I am coming!” she called. “I am coming!”

She stood still, listening to the sound of her voice. Which way had they turned—to the left or to the right?

She wandered through the rooms, her eyes alert. Was that a shadow behind the stool? Was that a bulge behind the hangings?

She had now come into one of the bedrooms and stood still, looking about her. She was sure she had heard a movement. Someone was in this room. Yes, there was no doubt.

“Who are you?” she called. “Where are you? Come out. You are found.”

There was no answer. She ran about the room, lifting the curtains, looking behind the furniture. Someone was somewhere in this room, she felt sure.

She lifted the curtains about the bed and there was little Mary Beaton.

“Come out, Beaton,” commanded the little Queen.

But Beaton did not move. She just lay stretched out on her stomach, resting on her elbows, propped up on her hands.

Mary cried impatiently: “Come out, I said.”

Still Beaton did not move.

The color flamed