The Captive Queen of Scots - Plaidy Jean (читать книги онлайн бесплатно без сокращение бесплатно txt) 📗

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.

“I and my household will do our best to make Your Majesty’s stay at Lochleven comfortable,” he told her.

And there was she who had been Margaret Erskine, who was now Margaret Douglas—the beauty who had been her father’s mistress and was her brother James’s mother.

Margaret curtsied.

“Welcome to Lochleven, Your Majesty.”

Mary answered: “I am so tired. Take me to my bed.”

“Your Majesty would like to rest before taking a little food?”

“The thought of food sickens me. I want only to rest.”

“Then come this way.”

So Mary entered the castle of Lochleven, knowing that she entered a prison. But she was too weary to care. There was only one thing she craved now. Rest. Quiet, that she might shut out the memory of those cruel faces which had leered at her, that she could for a while forget the words which had been shouted at her. Oblivion. That was what at this moment she needed more than anything in the world. She was aware of faces as she passed on her way through the quadrangle to the southeast tower. They looked almost ghostly in the lights of the cressets on the castle walls.

There was one which held her attention for a few seconds; it was the face of a young man with a gentle mouth and eyes which betrayed his sympathy as he looked at her. Perhaps she half smiled at him; she was not sure. But the face did have the power—exhausted as she was—to hold her attention for that short moment.

There was one other, she noticed—a young boy with a mischievous expression; his alert eyes were fixed on her and she could not read what thoughts were going on behind them.

These faces became mingled with the hazy impressions of that grim and fearful night.

She had entered the room which had been made ready for her and, without waiting for her servants to prepare her, she threw herself upon the bed and in a few seconds had lost all consciousness of where she was.

The Queen was sleeping the sleep of complete exhaustion.

WHEN SHE awoke it was daylight and for some moments she could not remember where she was. As she looked at the lofty yet gloomy chamber, she was aware of a certain odor; it was not unpleasant and she wondered where she had smelled it before. It was faint yet haunting; and it was when she realized what it was, that memory came flooding back. It was the dank smell of lake water which could take her back in time to that period of her childhood which she had spent at Inchmahome. She remembered then that she was a prisoner in Lochleven.

She raised herself on her elbow and, looking about her, saw that the room was sparsely furnished in the Scottish manner. She would never grow accustomed to it. Yet in this castle, in this very tower were those rooms which she herself had furnished, for in the past she had lodged here when on hawking or hunting expeditions, and because her visits were so frequent she had hung her own tapestries on the walls and had her own bed installed. Why then was she brought to this dismal room? It must be to impress on her that she was no longer an honored Queen, but a prisoner.

The sound of tramping feet was audible, and glancing through the window she saw the sentinel pacing up and down. So they had determined to guard her well. She could trust Lindsay for that. At the thought of that dark bearded face her anger began to rise; and the hideous memories came back. If she did not restrain her thoughts she would be living it all again—the absolute hell of that night in the Provost’s House, that walk to Holyrood House and the ride through the darkness to Lochleven. Nothing could be worse, and she hoped never to be called upon to live through the like again.

She thought of Bothwell then and she was sick with longing for him. It was a wild sensual yearning, a mad desire for the man who had first awakened sexual knowledge in her and taught her that she was a voluptuous woman. He would come for her surely. But he must be reasonable. Bothwell had never loved her as she had loved him. It was her crown he had wanted; many of his mistresses had beautiful bodies to offer him; but she was the only one who had a crown. He had not denied this when she had taunted him with it; he was too sure of himself to lie. Yet at the end he had been tender.

He will come for me, she told herself. He must come. Then he will take that black Lindsay by the beard and throw him into the lake.

A woman rose from a chair not far from the bed. Mary had not noticed her until that moment.

This was Jane Kennedy, one of her maids of honor.

“So they have allowed you to remain with me,” she said.

“Yes, Your Majesty. And Marie Courcelles is with us. We shall do our best to serve you. Your French apothecary is here also. So if there is anything you need . . . ”

“There is only one thing I need, Jane: my freedom. And that is something they have determined to take from me.”

“It will not always be so. Shall I see about food for Your Majesty?”

“I am not hungry and the thought of food nauseates me. What hour is it?”

“It is well after noon.”

“Then I have slept long.”

“Your Majesty was quite exhausted. And still is, I’ll swear.”

Mary put her hands to her face. “Oh, Jane, how do I look? I am filthy. There is the grime of Carberry Hill on me . . . and the Provost’s house . . . .”

“I will fetch water.”

“Help me up first.”

Jane did so but when Mary stood she felt sick and dizzy.

“You should rest, Your Majesty. I pray you, lie still while I bring the water.”