The Memoirs of Mary Queen of Scots (18 page)

I made my way up the rickety, half-ruined stairway that led to the top of the tower just as the sun was dipping below the horizon of Lochleven. Clinging to the railing with one hand I clutched a small lantern in the other, its feeble light gleaming dully against the old stones of the tower, stones that had been put there, so Geordie had told me, by builders two hundred years earlier.

Dusk came early at that time of the year, the soldiers of the watch changed at six o’clock each evening and I hoped that they would be busy settling into their evening routine and would not scrutinize the top of my tower too closely, knowing that the light was failing and that before long it would be difficult for anyone to send or receive signals.

Not that I was under suspicion. Up to that time I had not been a difficult captive, rather the opposite. When I had first come to the island Sir William had inspected my quarters every few days to see what I did there, and to uncover any escape attempts I might try to make, but in recent months he had come much less often, and he did not interfere with Geordie’s goings and comings from the lake shore, even though he knew very well that his brother was doing errands for me.

I suspected, though I did not know it for certain, that Sir William hoped that I might marry Geordie; the regent was known to approve the match and the Douglas family would surely benefit. For though my Scottish throne had been taken from me, I had strong (albeit disputed) rights as heir to the English throne and if Queen Elizabeth did not marry and have children, I might well succeed her. If Geordie married me he might one day become King of England—something Sir William would be very glad to see happen.

I grasped the loose handrail and pulled myself up the final step. My body had become unwieldy now that the time of my delivery was near, I moved much more slowly than usual and going up and down stairs was a challenge. However, I managed to heave my bulk up onto the leaden roof of the tower and took my first eager look out across the lake, its color faded to a dull gray in the crepuscular light.

There was a small rowboat, painted black so as to be difficult to see, hovering near the shore of the island, partly screened by a line of trees. A tiny flame flickered in the bow, then disappeared.

Jamie! It had to be Jamie! I squinted in an effort to see who it was, to assure myself that it was indeed Jamie and not some spy hoping to entrap me. I could not make out the face of the person in the boat, but his body had the strong, compact shape of Jamie’s body and I trusted that I was indeed looking at my husband. I grinned and held up my lantern for the briefest of moments.

As I watched, the boat began to move away, back toward the shore. I stayed where I was until I could no longer make out its contours in the dimness. Then I made my way back down the stairs.

My little Marie-Elizabeth came into the world just before dawn on a cold November morning. I had been in labor all night, and for such a small baby she certainly gave me a lot of pain and trouble! The midwife helped me through it all, dosing me with opiates to ease my pain and prevent my crying out. Mine was the second baby she had
delivered, for Margaret had just given birth to her son a few days earlier and the midwife was still in attendance on her, making sure she was healing and that the boy was thriving.

I had been certain my little one would be a girl, just as I had been sure of the names I wanted her to have: Marie for my mother and Elizabeth for the English queen, who I hoped would be a benefactor to us both in the future. She was perfect in every way, slim and long-limbed like me, with a small tuft of soft light hair and blue eyes and a tiny red mouth.

Because her birth had to be kept secret, I had no wetnurse. I nursed her myself, and did my best to keep her from crying by rocking her in my arms and singing to her. She slept beside Margaret’s boy Edward—named for his father—in a cradle Geordie brought from the village, a beautiful hand-wrought cradle woven out of reeds from the lake. There they were, two tiny infants together. I watched over their cradle by the hour, often with Margaret beside me. We said our rosaries over them and prayed for their good health and happiness.

I loved looking at my daughter—but I knew that I would have to part from her, and soon. She belonged with Grandmamma Antoinette, who could guard the secret of her birth and make sure she grew up protected from the danger and turmoil that swirled around me.

We had only six days together, Marie-Elizabeth and I. Six days for me to hold her in my arms, feed her, talk and sing to her, smell her sweetness and tell her how much I loved her. Then, on the seventh day, as Margaret and I had agreed, she wrapped my darling child in our warmest blanket and put her in the laundry basket that Geordie took to the village. They set out in Geordie’s rowboat, and once again I went to the top of the tower to watch them start out across the lake, praying for my daughter’s safety and hoping that it would not be long before I would see her again.

All that long winter my arms felt empty, and I longed to feel my dear baby girl within them again. I missed my little boy too, of course, but I had become used to seeing him only rarely—and if the truth be told (I know this is a terrible thing to confess), I loved him less because he was Henry’s child, conceived by force, and being raised by my enemies. It is a hard thing to write, but it is true. I strive not to hide the truth from myself—when I perceive it.

All that long winter too I felt my hopes rising within me, knowing that Jamie was near (I often saw his boat at dusk, and we signaled to one another, though he was never able to come ashore because of the risk that he might be captured) and that Grandmamma Antoinette and Marie-Elizabeth were living at the Poor Clares mansion in the village across the lake.

And I had another reason to hope. For wonder of wonders—or perhaps not really so wondrous, given the swift and unpredictable ebb and flow of Scottish loyalties—the tide of popular favor had once more turned, and my people, lords and commoners alike, were returning their loyalty to me. Not all of them, to be sure: my brother the regent and the others who had forced me to abdicate still had many Scots on their side. But my party, if I can call it that, was
swelling its ranks once again, according to the messages I received from Cristy Ricarton.

And so, for the first time since my captivity on Lochleven began, I began to think seriously of how I might escape from the island and take refuge in a secure fortress where my own army (the same army that had melted away the previous year) could protect me and defend my cause.

I had a secure fortress in mind: Cristy Ricarton’s castle, which I knew to be a thick-walled, battlemented fortress, only a few miles from Lochleven village. If only I could get there, I would be safe.

As it happened, there was a death on the island early in May, when I had been there for the better part of a year. Sir William Douglas’s steward, a Catholic cousin of his named Duncan, fell over and died during a feast and his wake was held the following day.

Boatloads of mourners began arriving early in the morning to attend the wake, and more boats went back and forth from the island to the village throughout the day for meat pies and bannocks, black buns and crowdie and tayberries and venison and whisky for the many guests. Duncan had been a much loved man, and the mourning, like the drinking that went along with it, was vocal and prolonged, with speeches and sung laments and dancing far into the night.

I waited until dark and then, after a hurried word with Margaret and another with Geordie—ever eager to help me in any way he could—I slipped on my plainest skirt, bodice and sleeves and tied a cloth cap over my hair to hide my golden-red curls. I borrowed Margaret’s scuffed slippers and, with a basket over my arm and a small knife, went out of the tower and down to the lakeside where the acacias grew. It was essential that each mourner have a sprig of acacia to throw into the grave, and the trees were being stripped bare of their branches in order to supply the tributes.

Hundreds of men and women thronged the open space between the main tower where Sir William and his relatives lived and the smaller tower that was allotted to me and my household. The singing,
fiddle-playing and buzz of talk made for a confused scene as I moved inconspicuously among the gathered folk, keeping my head lowered, intent on reaching the little copse of trees by the lakeside. Once I reached it I began cutting small branches to fill my basket—while watching for Geordie and his rowboat. No one, it seemed, was watching me, for the guards were as intent on their mourning as the visitors from the village, and I could not see Sir William anywhere.

Before long Geordie appeared and I climbed into the rowboat, concealing myself beneath the thwarts and holding my breath out of sheer apprehension as he skillfully rowed the little vessel out onto the lake, the oars scarcely making a sound as they dipped in and out of the dark water.

Freedom! I thought as I lay in the bottom of the boat, listening for voices, for pistol shots, for anything that might signal my recapture. Soon I will have my freedom once again, and my dignity and my authority, and then let us see what my brother the regent can do! I was filled with excitement, and could not wait for the boat to touch the shore. When I felt the bump of our landing I wriggled free and, with Geordie’s help, stepped out onto wet sand that did not belong to Sir William Douglas, but to lords and villagers faithful to me, their anointed queen.

I threw my arms around Geordie and kissed him, and let him lead me to where our horses awaited us.

I should have gone to France. I know it now, I shall regret it forever. I should have gone, then and there, as soon as Geordie and I came in sight of the gates of Cristy Ricarton’s castle, and saw that it was surrounded by soldiers.

I should have gone, but I was stubborn, and so we turned our horses around and went back to the lakeside village, to the mansion where the Poor Clares lived, instead. Where my grandmother Antoinette was staying, with my little Marie-Elizabeth.

Even though, once we reached it and I embraced my little girl and my dear grandmother with a fervor I cannot describe, I found myself unwelcome.

“What can you be thinking, child?” Grandmamma cried when she saw me. “You must not be seen here! There are soldiers everywhere. Your escape is known. Your only hope is to flee to France as quickly as you can. Now, tonight. Go!”

But I did not leave. Instead I went inside my grandmother’s small, sparsely furnished suite, and made myself at home—after telling Geordie to guard the door, of course.

“There is no need to go. No one knows who you are, grandmamma,
or who Marie-Elizabeth is. The soldiers, if they come, will not look for me here. Now then, where is Jamie?”

“He did not expect you. He is off on a raid, on the
Black Messenger,
with his friend Red Ormiston.”

I was crushed, but I realized that I had no reason to expect Jamie to be waiting for me in the village. I had not been able to send word to him in advance about my escape. I had made the decision to leave the island too quickly for that.

“Are you aware that he raids the English ships? Sometimes the French ones too?”

“I know he has been outlawed—even though as my husband, he is rightfully King of Scots.”

Grandmamma’s disapproving features softened at this, and she chuckled. “King Jamie, is it? I admit that he is quite a man, dear, and he has been very good to us these past months, but I hardly see him as a king!”

“Oh, grandmamma, I don’t want to quarrel with you! I am so glad to see you! I have missed you so much!” I embraced her again, and was alarmed to feel her trembling. Then I realized, she was not trembling, she was weeping.

“Stubborn girl!” she said through her tears, her voice breaking. “You must leave! I tell you this for your own protection! For the protection of your child!”

“Grandmamma, things are changing. My subjects are giving me their loyalty once again. Cristy Ricarton has written to me, telling me of all the lords, all the important commoners, and even bishops, who are swearing to defend me and restore me to my throne!”

“And all these men, will they fight for you? I know what is being said, what is being whispered—perhaps better than your friend Ricarton. I have been here in Scotland quite a while now. My servants overhear the village gossip, and watch what is happening. From what they tell me I know for certain that you will never be safe anywhere but in France.”

Marie-Elizabeth began to cry, and I picked her up and rocked her in my arms as we talked. My grandmother was relentless. She continued to press me to ride on, that very night, toward the seacoast where I might find a ship to take me to Calais.

“Listen, my dear, your brother-in-law King Charles remembers you very well and likes you, even favors you. You remember him as a boy, but he is a grown man now. It displeases him that you have been so ill-used in your kingdom of Scotland. He invites you to return to your own true country, where your family is. You still have your dower lands there, and the income from them; Charles will add to those lands, if only you will return. Think, my dear, of the secure future you can give your little girl, and perhaps your son too one day, surrounded by loving relations, far from the dangers of constant warfare and strife. A life of ease in the beautiful French countryside.”

“Tell me, grandmamma, if the king is so concerned about me, why hasn’t he sent any soldiers to help me? Not a single one!”

“And have the English helped you? No! They have been sending money and men to your enemies in Scotland! At least King Charles has not done that!”

We continued to quarrel, while I rocked my daughter and Geordie stood guarding the door. In the end my grandmother realized that she could not dislodge my stubbornness, and I rested on her bed, with Marie-Elizabeth’s cradle beside me.

It was the last full night’s rest I was to have. For from the day following my escape from Lochleven onward my life became a chaos of jangled emotions and frustrated hopes. I literally had nowhere to lay my head (the Poor Clares mansion being invaded and ransacked by soldiers soon after I left), so while I tried to gather what troops I could, intent on fighting my brother James and his forces, I was always in hiding and never at my ease. I did have supporters—and oh! it was so good to hear my people cheering for me again, instead of shouting curses at me—but no sooner did they assemble to fight for my cause than they fell to quarreling among themselves, and when I tried to do
battle against my brother’s men my ragtag forces could not mount an attack. There may have been treachery among my commanders, or it may have been that the dire fate that has haunted me since I was born put an end to my futile efforts. I will never know.

Had Jamie been there to guide me I might even then, in defeat, have listened to him and chosen the wiser course—the course my grandmother saw so clearly. But Jamie was at sea, and I could not seek his counsel.

So in the end, beaten and abandoned by all but a few dozen of my loyal men, I simply fled for my life, southward through the rough border country, fearing pursuit from hour to hour and snatching what sparse food and sleep I could.

I sent a messenger to my cousin Elizabeth with a hastily scrawled note. “After God, I have no hope save in you.” In my distracted state I imagined that my only chance to preserve my life, to prevent my enemies from capturing me and locking me up again, was to reach the safe haven of England, where my royal cousin would shelter me.

Such is the blind hope born of weariness and despair, fed on daydreams and the imaginings of half-starved nights sleeping on the wet ground, wrapped in some kind soldier’s plaid. I was tired and hungry, bone-weary from the effort of crossing streams where there were no bridges and riding down through pathless glens where the way was blocked by trees and scrub and it took hours to go a single mile. My stomach rebelled at the crowdie and haggis, the oatmeal and sour milk that were all I had to sustain myself. My mind too rebelled: I saw, with the terror of the beast mortally pursued by the hunters, that there was no safe place for me.

It was with infinite relief that at last, toward evening on the sixteenth of May in the year 1568, I embarked on a boat half the size of the
Black Messenger
and sailed in her across the wind-swept waters of the Solway Firth, out of Scotland and into my cousin’s domain. Into England.