The Queen's Quair; or, The Six Years' Tragedy

‘I bore that with what face I could: he regarded me with the look of a wild hog that grates his tooth. Anon he said: “Master Baptist and I know each other of old. I believe I can give as good account of the reckonings between my staff and his back as——Well, this is unprofitable jesting. Now, let me understand. Your Grace charges me with—what in particular?”

‘“Oh, my lord,” cried she, with a bold face, “I make no charges. I did but put you a question: whether you had visited your Castle of Crichton these late days—your Castle of Crichton which you hold of me in chief?”

‘He shrugged his shoulders; and “Chi lo sa?” quoth he, with a happy laugh. “Let your Majesty and me confer upon these and other high matters of state when my head is on better terms with my stomach. I am a fasting man, no match for your Majesty. Your Majesty knows the Spanish saw, When the belly is full it saith to the head, Sing, you rascal? I crave your leave, then, to get my singing voice again.” He took it with bravery, as you perceive; and, having his liberty, went away singing to supper.

‘He stayed below stairs for the rest of the night, drinking and talking with Sir James Melvill and my lord of Livingstone—ribald and dangerous talk, for he had a lewd mind, and neither discretion nor charm in the uses to which he put his tongue. The Queen sat miserably in the dark far into the night, and went to bed without prayers. I heard her cry out to Mistress Sempill that she wished she lay where the King was, and Sempill answered, “Damn him, damn him!” Next day, with what grace she could muster, she created my lord Duke of Orkney. That was done before noon; by five o’clock of the evening he was ridden away for Borthwick and Dunbar, as he said, upon State business. In three days’ time she was to marry him, O Heaven!

‘Early in the morning—the morrow after his going—she sent for me to come up to her bedchamber; and so I did, and found her very worn in the face, her hand hot and dry to the touch. Commanding herself with great effort, speaking slowly, she told me that she could not continue to live unless she could deny once and for all the truth of Lethington’s tale. My lord would not help her. “You know his way of mockery,” says she. “He laughs to tease me: but to me this is no laughing matter. Mary Sempill has been at me ever since——” Here she fretted, muttering to herself, “I do not believe it—I do not—I do not,” fidgeting her hands under the bedclothes; then, breaking off short, she said that she wished me to ride to Crichton with her that very day. She would take Mary Sempill—because she would not remain behind—Erskine would bring an escort; there would be no danger. I said that I was ready to live or die for her, and that all my care was to save her from unhappiness. I asked her, Would she suffer Erskine and myself to go?

‘She stared at me. “Are you mad?” she asked. “Have you found me so patient, to sit at home in suspense? or so tame, to shirk my enemies? Nay, my child, nay, but I will prove Lethington a liar with my own eyes.” To be short, go she would and did; and we with her, as she had already contrived it.

‘The weather was hot—as hot as summer—and very still; riding as fast as we did, our bodily distresses saved our minds’. We had, as I reckon, some fifteen miles to go, by intricate roads, woodland ways, by the side of streams overhung with boughs, encumbered with boulders. The Queen was always in front, riding with Mistress Sempill: she set the pace, said nothing, and showed herself vexed by such little delays as were caused by Erskine sounding the banks for good fording-ground, or losing the road, as he once did, and trying a many before he could make up his mind. “Oh, you weary me with your Maybe yeas and Maybe nays!” she railed at him. “Why, man, I could smell my way to Crichton.” I believe her; for now I am sure that she had steeled herself for what she was to find there. I knew it not then: she allowed nothing of her mind to be seen. Nobody could be more secret than she when she saw fit.

‘That Castle of Crichton stands, as do most of them in these parts, on a woody bluff over a deep glen, out of the which, when you are in it, you can never see how near you may be to your journey’s end. Thus we wound our way at a foot’s pace along the banks of a small stream, in and out of the densest woodland—beautiful as a summer’s dream just then, with birds making vocal all the thickets, wild flowers at our feet, and blooming trees, wild cherry and hawthorn and the like, clouds come to earth and caught in the branches—and found a steep path to our right hand, and climbed it for half an hour: and lo! gaining the crest first, I saw before me, quite close, the place we sought—a fair tower of grey stone, with a battlemented house beside it, having an open gate in a barbican. Before the barbican was a lawn snowed with daisies, and upon that two white greyhounds, which sat up when they first saw us, and then crouched, their muzzles between their paws. But as we advanced, jumping up and barking together, they raced together over the turf, met us, and leapt upwards to the Queen’s hand. All beasts loved her, and she loved them.

‘There was neither guard nor porter at the gates. They stood open upon an empty court, beyond which we could see the hall doors: open, they, also. In the air all about us was the sound of bees, and of doves hidden in the woody slopes; but no noises of humankind were to be heard: we all sat there on our horses, and watched, and listened, like errant adventurers of old time come upon an enchanted lodging, a castle and hermitage in a forest glade.

‘Mistress Sempill broke silence. “’Tis not for us to enter—this still place,” she said. “Come your ways, madam; you have seen what there is to be seen.”

‘The Queen, as one suddenly awakened, called to me. “Baptist, dismount and help me down. I am going in.”

‘I obeyed, and helped Mistress Sempill after. Erskine would stay with the guard. We three went through the gateway, crossed the inner court, and passed the doors into the hall—a long dusky chamber with windows full of escutcheons and achievements, and between them broad sheets of ancient arras which flapped gently in a little breeze. The sunlight, coming aslant, broke the gloom with radiant blue bars—to every window a bar. As we peered about us, presently Sempill gave a short little cry, then called to me, “Baptist, Baptist, have a care for her.”

‘It was an old woman come out of a door in the panel to look at us—old, grey and wrinkled. I asked her, Was any other within? She shook her head, pointing at the same time to her mouth, within which, when she opened it wide, I saw the seared stump of her tongue, and perceived that she had been maimed of that organ. Sempill remarked it also, and was afraid. “Oh, come away, for God’s love!” said she: “there is witchcraft here”; and signed herself many times. But the Queen laughed, and went up to the mutilated hag, and, patting her shoulder, went by her through the door by which she had come in, and turned to beckon us after her. So we climbed a narrow stair, built in the thickness of the wall round and round a pillar. In the gallery above were doors to left and right, some open upon empty, fragrant chambers, some shut and locked. I believe that I tried them all the length of the gallery on one side; and so came at the farther end to a short passage on my right hand: at the end of that a low-pitched door ajar. Thither I went on tiptoe, with a strong sense that that room was occupied. I know not what had certified me, save some prescience which men have at times. So certain was I, at least, that when I was at the door I knocked. I was answered, “Enter.”

‘I entered not. I dared not do it. I sped back to the Queen, who now stood with Sempill at the head of this short passage. For the moment my nerve was clean gone: “Some one there—let us go away!”—Who knows what hissed foolishness I let fly?—“I urge you: let us go away.” But the Queen, rose-bright, keen as fire in the wind, threw up her head and flashed her eyes full upon me. “Stand aside, sir—I will go in.” She pushed by me and went into the room without ceremony. We had followed her with beating hearts.

‘She had not gone far—was not a yard from the door; nor do I marvel at it, nor need you. For by the open window sat the Countess of Bothwell at needlework, making, as I saw in a moment, a child’s shift. If God the Father of all, who framed women nobly and urged them cast their hearts in the dust to make soft the ways of men—if He, I say, pausing in His vast survey, might have discerned this dear woman now, with the wound upon her still raw and bleeding whence she had torn that generous heart—naked, emptied, betrayed; ah, and face to face with that other woman also, not less injured, not less the vessel of a man’s beastly convenience—I dare swear He would repent Him of His high benevolence, and say, “Tush, I have planned amiss. The waste is divine, the waster shall be crowned with the glory of the Magdalene, that Mary whom I would no more condemn. But what shall be done with him for whom these women spent so vainly?” Thus, it might well be, would God reason with Himself. Yet who am I, poor bastard of a dead mother (spending she, too, with little avail) to interpret the reproaches of the Almighty?

‘For an age of suspense, as it seemed to me, the Queen stood where we had found her—a yard from the door, perfectly still, but not rigid. No, but she was like a panther, all lithe and rippling, prest for a pounce, and had her eyes set fast upon the other. I was in a muck of fear, and Sempill muttering fast to herself her “O Christ, keep us all! O Christ, save her!” and the like, what time the Countess, affecting to be unaware, crossed one knee over the other and bent diligently to her needlework. The time seemed a slow hour, though I know not how long it may have been, before the Queen began to move about the room.

‘I know what made her restless: it was curiosity. At first she had only had eyes for the lady; now she had seen what she was at work upon. Yes, and she had been at the same proud task herself not long since. I am certain that she was just then more curious than enraged. At least, instead of attacking as she was wont, with her arrows of speech leaping forward as she went, she said nothing, and began to walk the room restlessly, roaming about; never going near the window, but looking sidelong towards it as she passed to and fro: bright spots in her cheeks, her hands doubled, biting her lips, longing, but not yet resolved, to know all. The storm, which was not far off, gathered strength as she walked: I saw her shake her head, I saw a tear gleam and settle on her shoulder. And so at last she clenched her teeth, and stood before Lady Bothwell, grinning with misery.

‘“O woman,” she said, snarling, “what are you making there?”

‘The Countess looked up, then down: the far-searching eyes she had! “I am making,” said she, “a shift for my fair son that is to be—my lord’s and mine.”

‘“You make for a bastard, woman,” said the Queen; and the Countess smiled wisely.

‘“Maybe I do, maybe. But this child of mine, look you, in my country we call a love-child.”

‘The Queen reeled as if she were sick-faint, and had Sempill beside her in a moment, flaring with indignation.

‘“Come you with me, madam,” cried she; “come you with me. Will you bandy words with a——?”

‘She was not suffered to get out her word. The Queen put her away gently, saying, “No, no, you shall not call her that, lest she may ask you some home questions.”

‘But the Countess was not offended. “Why should she not? What harm in a name? Call me as you will, ma’am, I shall never forbid you.”

‘“Have you no shame?” cried Sempill. “And you divorced on your own motion?”

‘The Countess replied to the Queen, as if it had been she that spoke. “O, madam, if divorce stands not in your way, shall it stand in mine? You have given him your body, as I did mine; and the Church cannot gainsay me that. But I’ll have you remember that when I got my child I was a wife; and when you get yours you’ll be none, I doubt.”

‘At this spiteful speech the Queen, in her turn, smiled. She was far from that sort of recrimination. Presently she began in a new and colder tone—remembering her errand. “Why are you here?” she asked the Countess.

‘She was answered, “It is my lord’s pleasure.”

‘“He is very clement, I think,” said the Queen.

‘The Countess made no reply; and Sempill, who knew whether clemency had moved my lord or not, did all she could to prevent the Queen from knowing it also. Unfortunate lady! She gave her new suspicions.

‘“You do not answer me, mistress,” she said, in her high peremptory way. “I said that my lord is clement, and you make no reply. You will tell me these are your jointure-lands, I suppose? Let be for that. Tell me now this—How are you here?”

‘The Countess hereupon, and for the first time, looked her in the face, her own being venomous beyond a man’s belief.

‘“How am I here? Just as you may have been at Dunbar, madam—as his kept woman, just.”

‘“You lie! You lie!” cried the Queen. “Dear God, she is a liar! Take back your lies—they hurt me.”

‘She pressed her side with all her might. I thought that Sempill would have struck the cruel devil. But she never flinched.

‘“No, no, I am no liar, madam,” she answered. “You are his woman, and so am I. Eh, there’s been a many and a many of us—a brave company!”

‘The Queen was tussling with her breast, but could get no breath. I thought she was frightened at the sudden revelation, or confirmation, of how she stood: she faltered—she cast about—and then she said:

‘“I know that you lie, and I know why you lie. You hate me bitterly. This is mere malice.”

‘“It is not malice,” says the Countess; “it is the bare truth. Why should I spare you the truth—you of all women?”

‘“You hate too much, you hate too much! I have accorded with you—we have kissed each other. I tried to serve you. It is not my fault if my lord—if my lord——O Jeannie!” she said, with a pitiful gesture of stretched-out arms—“O Jeannie, have mercy upon me—have a thought for my sorrow!”

‘She came nearer as she spoke, so near that the two could have touched; and then the Countess, who had sat so still, turned her head a little back, and (like a white cat) laid her ears flat and struck at last.

‘“Woman,” she said, “when you raked my father out of his grave, and spat upon his dead corse, what thought had you for his flesh and blood? What mercy upon their sorrow?”

‘The Queen, when she had understood her, wiped her eyes, and grew calmer. “I had no thought for you then, nor durst I have any. Princes must do justice without ruth; and he was a rebel, and so were you all. Your brothers Huntly and Adam have read me better.”

‘“Ay,” said the Countess, “the greedy loons! They put your fingers in their mouths and suck sweetness and solace—like enough they will read you well. But I am not of their fashion, you must know.” Stiffening herself, she spoke swiftly: “And if you could dishonour a dead old man whom you vow you had once loved, what wonder if I dishonour you whom I have always hated?”

‘The Queen smiled in a sweet, tired way, as if she was sorry for this woman. “Do you so hate me, Jeannie?”

‘And the Countess answered her: “Ay, worse than hell-fire for my dead father’s sake, and for my brother John’s, whom you slew. And so I am well content to be here, that you should see me unashamed, owner without asking of what you long for but can never have; and that I should see you at my feet, deeply abased.”

‘If her tongue had been a blade and her will behind it as the hand of one who lived for cruelty, she could not have got her dear desire more utterly than by these slow-stabbing words. Content to be here! Yea, lascivious devil that she was, I could see that she was rolling in her filthy comfort. But, by heaven, she was redeemed by the fading breath of the most unhappy lady that ever moaned about the world.

‘The Queen, I tell you, went directly to her—went close to her, without thought of fear or sickening of disgust. And she took the wicked white face between her hands and kissed the poisonous lips. And she said: “Hate me no more, Jeannie Gordon, for now I know that we are sisters in great sorrow, you and I. If we are not loved we must needs be unhappy; but in that we have loved, and do still love, we are not without recompense. So we must never rend each other; but you, poor lover, must kiss me, your sister, as now I do you.”

‘I ask myself here—and others have asked me—was this sudden alteration in her Majesty that old sweet guile of hers, inveterate still and at work? Was it possible that, even now, she could stay and stoop to cajole this indurate woman, to woo her with kisses, kill her with kindness? I like not to consider: many there be, I know, who do believe it, Mistress Sempill being one. Who am I to judge that deep, working heart more narrowly than by what appears? Such questions are too nice; they are not for my answering. Candour compels me to record them; but I can only report what I saw and heard.

‘I heard the Countess give a throttled cry, as she struggled like one caught in a fire; but the Queen kissed her again before she could free herself. When at last she had flung away, with crying and a blenched face—she who had been so hard before was now in a state of wild alarm, warning off our lady with her fighting hands. “No, no, no! Touch me not—defile not yourself. Oh, never that—I dare not suffer you!”

‘“What, am I so vile?” says the poor Queen, misunderstanding her in this new mood. The Countess burst out into passionate weeping, which hurt her so much (for she was no tearful woman by nature) that she writhed under the affliction as if the grief within was tearing at her vitals. She shrieked, “Ah, no! Not you—not you—but I. Oh, you torture me, brand me with fire!” I could not guess what she meant, save that she was beaten, and her wicked passion with her.

‘She sat up and stared at our Mistress, her face all writhen with grief. “Listen, listen—this is the truth as God knows it. That man who stands between us two and Heaven is your ruin and mine. For I love him not at all, and have consented to him now, degrading myself for hatred’s sake. And for you, who have loved him so well, he has no care at all—but only for your crown and royal seat; for he loves me only—and so it has always been.”

‘The Queen could only nod her head. Mary Sempill said sternly: “Woman, you do well to lash yourself at last; for none can hurt you beside yourself. Now, may God forgive you, for I never will.”

‘“Oh, Mary,” says the Queen, “what have you or I to do with forgiveness of sins? Alas, we need it for ourselves. And she is in as bad a case as I am.” Then, “Come to me now, Jeannie,” she said; and most humbly that wicked, beaten woman crept up to her late enemy. The Queen embraced and comforted her. “Farewell, Jeannie,” said she, “and think as well of me as you can. For I go on to I know not what—only I do think it will be unhappiness—and we shall never meet again.” With sublime calm she turned to us, weeping behind her. “Come, my children, let us go our ways.”

‘This is the most terrible secret sorrow which broke her heart, and ends my plea for pity upon her who loved so fondly. My breath and strength are done; for I had them from her alone, and with her high heart’s death dies my book.’

Honest, ingenuous, loyal Des-Essars! seeing, maybe, but in a glass darkly; seeing, certainly, not more than half—thou wert right there. If thy mistress beat the woman at last, it was with her fading breath. She knew herself beaten to the dust by the man.

CHAPTER IX
THE BRIDE’S TRAGEDY

The heart being an organ of which we have opinions more gallant than practical, Des-Essars should perhaps have judged wiselier that his Secret of Secrets was what broke the Queen’s spirit. There he had been right, for from this day onwards to the end of her throned life the tragedy is pure pity: she drifts, she suffers, but she scarcely acts—unless the struggles of birds in nets can be called acts. After her spirit went rapidly her animal courage; after that her womanly habit. She was like to become a mere tortured beast. And as I have no taste for vivisection, nor can credit you with any, I shall be as short as I can.

Silent all the long way home from wooded Crichton to the sea, it might seem as if she had been hardening herself by silent meditation for what she knew must take place. She saw nothing of Bothwell that night—she was not yet ready for him; but she did what had to be done with Mary Sempill.

When that loyal soul came late into the bedchamber to bid her good-night, she found her mistress in bed, calm and clear in mind. Forewarned in some measure, as she stooped over to kiss her, the Queen did not as usual put out her arms to draw her friend nearer, but lay waiting for the kiss, which hovered, as it were, above her; and before it could come she said, ‘Do you kiss me, Mary? Wait while I tell you something. I am to be married to my lord come the day after to-morrow.’

Sempill, prepared or not, started back, on fire. ‘You’ll never do it. You’ll never dare to do it.’

‘I shall dare to do it, if I dare avouch it.’

Sempill was trembling. ‘I cannot endure it, cannot face it—most wicked! Oh, my dear love and my friend, you that have been all the world to me in times bygone, never go so far from me that I cannot follow you!’

The Queen bit her lip, and wrinkled her eyes where the tears were brimming, drowning her sight. ‘I must, I must—I cannot go back. Oh, have mercy upon me! Oh, Mary——’

Sempill hid her face. ‘I cannot see it done. I cannot know of it. I am—I do my best to be—an honest woman. These things be far from me—unholy things. As Christ is my Saviour, I believe He will pardon you and me all our sins of the hot blood. But not of the cold blood—not of the dry!’ She changed suddenly, as if struck chill. ‘Why, you will be an harlot!’ she said.

The Queen turned over in her bed and faced the wall.

Sempill went down on her knees. ‘I conjure you—I beseech you! Madam, I implore you! By your mother’s bliss and your father’s crown imperial, by the great calling of your birth! By Christ’s dear blood shed for you and all, by the sorrows of Our Lady—the swords in her heart—the tears that she shed; by her swooning at the Cross—I implore, I implore!—make not all these woes to be in vain. By your young child I conjure you—by my own upon earth and the other in my womb—by all calm and innocent things—oh, put it from you: suffer all things—even death, even death!’

There was no response. She rose and stood over the bed. ‘We have loved much, and had sweet commerce, you and I. Many have had sweetness of you and left you: Beaton is gone, Fleming is alienate. You drive me to go their way, you drive me from you. For if you do this, go I must. Honour is above all—and yon man, by my soul, is as foul as hell. Turn to me, my Mary, look at me once, and I shall never leave you till I die.’

She did not stir nor utter a sound; she lay like a log. Mary Sempill, with a sob that shook her to pieces, and a gesture of drowning hands, went out of the room, and at midnight left the palace. Those two, who had been lovers once and friends always, never met again in this world.

What the Queen’s motives may have been I know not, whether of desperate conviction that retreat was not possible, or of desperate effort to entice the man to her even at this last hour: let them go.[11] She held to her resolve next day; she faced the remnant of her friends, all she had left; lastly, she faced the strong man himself, and like a doll in his arms suffered his lying kisses upon her lips. And she never reproached him, being paralysed by the knowledge of what he would have done if she had. To see him throw up the head, expose the hairy throat, to see him laugh! She could not bear that.

On this day, the eve of her wedding, she found out that her courage had ebbed. Things frightened her now which before she would have scoffed at. A May marriage—hers was to be that: and they who feared ill-luck from such gave her fears. A Highland woman became possessed in the street, and prophesied to a crowd of people. She said that the Queen would be a famous wife, for she would have five husbands, and in the time of the fifth would be burned. ‘Name them, mother—name them!’ they cried; and the mad creature peered about with her sly eyes. ‘I dinna see him here, but the third is in this town, and the fourth likewise!’ ‘The fourth! Who is he?’ ‘He’s a Hamilton, I ken that fine, and dwells by Arbroath. I doubt his name will be Jock.’

Lord John! The Lord of Arbroath—why, yes, she had given him a great horse. They rehearse this tale at dinner, and see Bothwell grow red, and hear the Queen talk to herself: ‘Will they burn me? Yes, yes, that is the punishment of light women. Poor souls, they burn for ever!’

She carried the thought about with her all day, and at dusk was much agitated when they lit the candles. About supper-time Father Roche, asking to speak with her, was admitted. He told her that his conscience would not permit him to be any longer in her service. Bothwell had refused to be married with the mass: in Father Roche’s eyes this would be no marriage at all. She was angry for a second in her old royal way—her Tudor way; moved towards him swiftly as if she would have quelled him with a forked word; but stopped mid-road and let her hands unclench themselves. ‘Yes, yes, go your ways—you will find a well-trodden road. Why should you stop? I need you no more.’ He would have kissed her hands, but she put them behind her and stood still till he had gone. Then to bed, without prayers.

At ten o’clock of the morning she was married to him without state, without religion. There was no banquet: the city acted as if unaware of anything done; and after dinner she rode away with him to Borthwick. Melvill, Des-Essars, Lethington went with her, Mary Seton and Carwood. Bothwell had his own friends, the Ormistons and others of mean degree.

With tears they put her to bed; but she had none. ‘I would that I might die within the next hour,’ she said to Des-Essars; and he, grown older and drier suddenly—‘By my soul, ma’am, it should be within less time, to do you service.’

She shook her head. ‘No, you are wrong. He needs me not. You will see.’ She sent him away to his misery, and remained alone in hers.

It cannot be known when the Earl went up. He stayed on in the parlour below, drinking with his friends so long as they remained above-board, talking loudly, boasting of what he had done and of what he should do yet. He took her back to Edinburgh within a few days, moved thereto by the urgency of public affairs.

Those who had not seen her go, but now saw her return, did not like her looks—so leaden-coloured, so listless and dejected, so thin she seemed. The French Ambassador—Du Croc, an old friend and a sage—waiting for audience, heard a quarrel in her cabinet, heard Bothwell mock and gibe, depart with little ceremony; and then the Queen in hysterics, calling for friends who had gone—for Livingstone, for Fleming.

Carwood came in. ‘O madam, what do you lack?’

‘My courage, my courage.’

Carwood, with a scream—‘God’s sake, ma’am, put down that knife!’

‘The knife is well enough,’ says she, ‘but the hand is numb. Feel me, Carwood: I am dead in the hand.’

Du Croc heard Carwood grunt as she tussled. ‘Leave it—leave it—give it me! But you shall. You are Queen, but my God to me. Leave it, I say——’ The Queen began to whimper and coax for the knife—called it her lover. Carwood flung open the window and threw it on to the grass.

No doubt the worst was to be feared, no doubt Bothwell had reason to be nervous. At the council-board, to which he ordered her to come, he told her what was before her. The lords were in league, clustered about the Prince: he was not ashamed to tell her in the hearing of all that she was useless without the child. Dejected, almost abject as she was become, she quailed—shrinking back, with wide eyes upon him—at this monstrous insult, as if she herself had been a child struck to the soul by something more brutish than your whips. Lord Herries rose in his place—‘By the living God, my lord, I cannot hear such talk——’ Bothwell was driven to extenuate. ‘My meaning, madam, is that your Majesty can have no force in your arm, nor can your loyal friends have any force, without the Prince your son be with you. You know very well how your late consort desired to have him; and no man can say he was not wise. Believe me, madam—and these lords will bear me out—he is every whit as necessary to your Majesty and me.’

Huntly, on the Queen’s left, leaned behind her chair and spoke in a fierce whisper: ‘You forget, I think, that you speak to the Queen, and of the Queen. The Prince hath nothing but through her.’

‘By God, Geordie,’ he said, whispering back, but heard everywhere, ‘and what have I but through her? I tell you fairly we have lost the main unless we can put up that cockerel.’

The Queen tried to justify herself to her tyrant. ‘You know that I have tried—you know that my brother worked against me——’

‘And he was wise. But now he is from home; we must try again.’

She let her head sink. ‘I am weary—I am weary. Whom have we to send? Do you trust Lethington?’

This was not heard; but Lethington saw Bothwell’s eye gleam red upon him.

‘Him? I would as soon go myself. If he wormed in there, do you suppose we could ever draw him out again?’

‘No,’ she said aloud, ‘I am of your mind. Send we Melvill, then.’

He would not have Melvill: he chose Herries.

They sent out Lord Herries on a fruitless errand; fruitless in the main sense, but fruitful in another, since he brought back a waverer. This was the Earl of Argyll, head of a great name, but with no head of his own worth speaking about. He might have been welcome but for the news that came with him. All access to the Prince had been refused to Herries the moment it was known on whose behalf he asked it. The Countess of Mar mounted guard over the door, and would not leave until the Queen’s emissary was out of the house. There was more than statecraft here, as Herries had to confess: witchcraft from the Queen was in question, from the mother upon the child. The last time she had been to see him, they said, she had given him an apple, which he played with and presently cast down. A dog picked it up, ran under the table with it and began to mumble it. The dog, foaming and snaping, jerked away its life. ‘Treason and lies!’ roared Bothwell, who was present; ‘treason heaped on lies! Why, when was your Majesty last at Stirling?’ He had forgotten, though she had not.

‘It was the night before you took me at Almond Brig,’ she said; and, when he chuckled, broke out with vehemence of pain, ‘You laugh at it! You laugh still, O Christ! Will you laugh at my graveside, Bothwell?’ She hid her head in her arm and wept miserably. It was grievous to see her and not weep too. Yet these were no times in which to weep.

On the same day in which Lord Lindsay departed, to join the Lords at Stirling, Huntly also, most unhappily, asked leave to go to his lands. The Queen used him bitterly. She could be gentle with any other and move their pity: with him she must always be girding. ‘Do you turn traitor like your father? Have you too kept a dagger for my last hours?’ He did not break into reproaches, nor seek to justify himself, as he might have done—for no one had tried to serve her at more peril to himself. He said, ‘Madam, I have tried to repair my faults committed against you,’ and turned away with a black look of despair. He went north, as she thought, lost to her: it was Bothwell who afterwards told her that he had gone to summon his kindred against the war which he saw could not be far off. So scornful are women to those who love them in vain—that should surely have touched her, but did not. Lord John Hamilton took Huntly’s empty place, too powerful an ally to be despised.

The Earl of Argyll came and went between Stirling and Edinburgh, very diligent to accommodate the two cities, if that might be. He dared—or was fool enough—to tell the Queen that all would be well if she would give up the King’s murderers. She replied: ‘Go back to Stirling, then, and take them. I do give them up. It is there you shall find them.’ Whether he knew this to be truth or not, for certain he did not report the message to the Earl of Morton. It would have fared ill with him if he had.

Before he could come back, a baffled but honest intermediary, Lethington had fled the Court and taken his wife with him. He went out, as he said, to ride in the meadows; he did ride there, but did not return. His wife slipt away separately, and joined her man at Callander; thence, when Lord Livingstone sent them word that he could not harbour the Queen’s enemies, they went on to Lord Fleming’s, Mary’s father’s house, and finally to Stirling. It was a bad sign that the gentle girl, flying like a thief at her husband’s bidding, should write no word, nor send any message to the Queen; it was a worse to the last few faithful that the Queen took no notice. All she was heard to say was that Fleming could not be blamed for paying her merchet.

Mercheta Mulicrum, Market of Women—the money-fee exacted by the lord of the soil before a girl could be wed, clean, to the man who chose her! Livingstone had paid it, Beaton had paid it; she, Queen Mary, God knows! had paid it deep. She shook her head—and was Fleming to escape? ‘No! but Love—that exorbitant lord—will have it of all of us women. And now’s for you, Seton!’

She looked strangely at the glowing, golden-haired girl before her; the green-eyed, the sharp-tongued Mary Seton, last of her co-adventurers of six years agone. Fair Seton made no promises; but all the world knows that she alone stayed by her lady to the long and very end.

Returned from Stirling, my Lord of Argyll, with perturbed face, disorderly dress, and entire absence of manners, broke in upon the Queen’s privacy, claiming secret words. The lords were prepared for the field. They intended an attack upon the lower town by land and water; they would surround Holyroodhouse, seize her person.

She flamed. ‘You mean my husband’s. It is him they seek.’

He did not affect to deny it. She sent for Bothwell and told him all.

Bothwell said: ‘You are right. They want me. Well, they shall not have me so easily. You and I will away this night to Borthwick. Arbroath will be half way to us by now, and the Gordons not far behind. Let Adam go and hasten his brother. Madam, we should be speedy.’

She took Seton with her—having no other left; she took Des-Essars. Arthur Erskine was to captain Holyroodhouse. Bothwell had, perhaps, half a dozen of his dependents. They went after dark, but in safety.

There, at Borthwick, they stayed quietly through the 8th and 9th of June: close weather, with thunder brewing.

No news of Huntly, none of the Hamiltons. Bothwell was out each day for long spells, spying and judging. He opened communication with Dunbar, got in touch with his own country. At home sat the Queen with her two friends, very silent.

What was there to say? Who could nurse her broken heart save this one man, who had no thought to do it, nor any heart of his own, either, to spare for her? Spited had he been by Fortune, without doubt. He had had the Crown and Mantle of Scotland in his pair of hands; having schemed for six years to get them, he had had them, and felt their goodly weight: and here he was now in hiding, trusting for bare life to the help of men who had no reason to love him. Where, then, were his friends? He had none, nor ever had but one—this fair, frail woman, whom he had desired for her store, and had emptied, and would now be rid of.

If his was a sorry case, what was hers? Alas, the heart sickens to think of it. With how high a head came she in, she and her cohort of maids, to win wild Scotland! Where were they? They had received their crowns, but she had besoiled and bedrabbled hers. They had lovers, they had children, they had troops of friends; but she, who had sought with panting mouth for very love, had had husbands who made love stink, and a child denied her, and no friend in Scotland but a girl and a poor boy. You say she had sought wrongly. I say she had overmastering need to seek. Love she must; and if she loved amiss it was that she loved too well. You say that she misused her friends. I deny that a girl set up where she was could have any friends at all. She was a well of sweet profit—the Honeypot; and they swarmed about her for their meat like house-flies; and when that was got, and she drained dry, they departed by the window in clouds, to settle and fasten about the nearest provand they could meet with: carrion or honeycomb, man’s flesh, dog’s flesh or maid’s flesh, what was it to them? In those days of dreadful silent waiting at Borthwick, less than a month after marriage, I tell you very plainly that she was beggared of all she had in the world, and knew it. The glutted flies had gone by the window, the gorged rats had scampered by the doors. So she remained alone with the man she had risked all to get, who was scheming to be rid of her. Her heart was broken, her love was murdered, her spirit was gone: what more could she suffer? One more thing—bodily terror, bodily fear.

CHAPTER X
THE KNOCKING AT BORTHWICK

The 10th of June had been a thunderous day, and was followed by a stifling night. In the lower parlour where the Queen lay the candles seemed to be clogged, the air charged with steam. Mary Seton sat on the floor by the couch, Des-Essars, bathed in sweat, leaned against the window-sill. In the hall beyond could be heard Bothwell’s voice, grating querulously to young Crookstone and Paris about his ruined chances. He was not laughing any more—was not one, it was found, to bear misfortunes gaily. His tongue had mastered him of late, and his hand too. He had nearly killed Paris that morning with one smashing blow.

There came a puff of wind, with branches sweeping the window, the pattering, swishing sound as of heavy rain. ‘Thank God for rain! Baptist, the window, lest I suffocate. The rain will cool the air.’ He set it wide open, and leaned out. There was no rain at all; but the sky was a vaporous vault, through which, in every part, the veiled moon diffused her light. He saw a man standing on the grass as plainly as you see this paper, who presently, after considering him, went away towards the woods. It might have been one of their own sentries, it might have been any one: but why did it make his heart beat? He stayed where he was, watching intently, considering with himself whether he should tell the Queen, or by some ruse let my lord have warning without her knowledge. Then, while he was hammering it out, she got up and came to the window, and leaned over him, her hand on his shoulder.

‘Poor prisoners, you and I, my Baptist.’

He turned to her with burning eyes. ‘Madam, there can be no prison for me where you are; but my heart walks with yours through all space.’

‘My heart,’ she said, ‘limps, and soon will be bedridden; and then yours will stop. You are tied to me, and I to him. The world has gone awry with us, my dear.’

Very nervous, on account of what he had seen, he had no answer ready. Thought, feeling, passion, desire, were all boiling and stirring together in his brain. The blood drummed at his ears, like a call to arms.

Suddenly—it all came with a leap—there was hasty knocking at the hall doors, and at the same instant a bench was overturned out there, and Bothwell went trampling towards the sound. Des-Essars, tensely moved, shut the windows and barred the shutters over them. The Queen watched him—her hands held her bosom. ‘What is it? Oh, what is it?’

‘Hush, for God’s sake! Let me listen.’

Mary Seton opened the parlour door, as calm as she had ever been. They listened all.

They heard a clamour of voices outside. ‘Bothwell! Bothwell! Let us in.’

‘Who are ye?’

‘We are hunted men—friends. We are here for our lives.’

Bothwell put his ear close to the door; his mouth worked fearfully, all his features were distorted. Heavens! how he listened.

‘Who are ye? Tell me that.’

‘Friends—friends—friends!’

He laughed horribly—with a hollow, barking noise, like a leopard’s cough. ‘By my God, Lindsay, I know ye now for a fine false friend. You shall never take me here.’

For answer, the knocking was doubled; men rained blows upon the door; and some ran round to the windows and jumped up at them, crying, ‘Let us in—let us in!’ Some glass was broken; but the shutter held. Mary Seton held the Queen close in her arms, Des-Essars stood in the doorway with a drawn sword. Bothwell came up to him for a moment. ‘By God, man, we’re rats in a drain—damned rats, by my soul! Ha!’ he turned as Paris came down from the turret, where he had been sent to spy.

The house, Paris said, was certainly surrounded. The torches made it plain that these were enemies. He had seen my lord of Morton on a white horse, my Lords Hume and Sempill and some more.

They all looked at each other, a poor ten that they were.

‘Hark to them now, master,’ says Paris. ‘They have a new cry.’

Bothwell listened, biting his tongue.

‘Murderer, murderer, come out! Come out, adulterous thief!’ This was Lindsay again. There was no sound of Morton’s voice, the thick, the rich and mellow note he had. But who was Morton, to call for the murderer?

Paris, after spying again, said that they were going to fire the doors; and added, ‘Master, it is hot enough without a fire. We had best be off.’

Bothwell looked at the Queen. ‘My dear, I must go.’

She barely turned her eyes upon him; but she said, ‘Do you leave me here?’ Scathing question from a bride, had a man been able to observe such things.

He said, ‘Ay, I do. It is me they want, these dogs. You will be safe if they know that I am away—and I will take care they do know it. I go to Dunbar, whence you shall hear from me by some means. Crookstone, come you with me, and come you, Hobbie. Paris, you stay here.’

‘Pardon, master,’ says Paris, ‘I go with your lordship.’

Pale Paris was measured with his eye. ‘I’ll kill you if you do, my fine man.’

‘That is your lordship’s affair,’ says Paris with deference; ‘but first I will show you the way out. There are horses in the undercroft.’

Bothwell lifted up his wife, held her in his arms and kissed her twice. ‘Fie, you are cold!’ he said, and put her down. She had lain listless against him, without kissing.

He turned at once and followed Paris; young Crookstone followed him. It seems that he got clear off in the way he intended, for the noises outside the house ceased; and in the grey of the morning, before three o’clock, all was quiet about the policies. They must have been within an ace of capturing him: in fact, Paris admitted afterwards that they were but a bowshot away at one time.

The Queen sent Seton for Des-Essars at about four o’clock in the morning. Neither mistress nor maid had been to bed.

He found her in a high fever; her eyes glowing like jet, her face white and pinched; the stroke of her certain fate drawing down her mouth. She said, ‘I have been a false woman, a coward, and a shame to my race.’

‘God knows your Majesty is none of these.’

‘Baptist, I am going to my lord.’

‘Oh, madam, God forbid you!’

‘God will forbid me presently if I do not. It should have been last night—I may be too late. But make haste.’

They procured a guide of a sort, a wretched poltroon of a fellow, who twice tried to run for it and leave them in Yester woods. Des-Essars, after the second attempt, rode beside him with a cocked pistol in his hand. From Yester they went north by Haddington, for fear of Whittingehame and the Douglases. As it was, they had to skirt Lethington, and the Secretary’s fine grey house there in the park; but the place was close-barred—nothing hindered them. They passed unknown through Haddington, the Queen desperately tired. Sixteen hours in the saddle, a cold welcome at the end.

Bothwell received them without cheer. ‘You would have been wiser to have stayed. Here you are in the midst of war.’

‘My place was by your side.’

The mockery of the thing struck him all at once. This schemed-for life of his—a vast, empty shell of a house!

‘Oh, God, I sicken of this folly!’ He turned from her.

She had nothing to say, could hardly stand on her feet. Seton took her to bed.

A message next day from Huntly in Edinburgh. Balfour held the castle; all the rest of the town was Grange’s. Morton, Atholl, and Lethington were rulers. Atholl had Holyroodhouse; Lethington and his wife were with Morton. He himself, said Huntly, would move out in a day or two and join the Hamiltons at Dalkeith. Let Bothwell raise the Merse and meet them. He named Gladsmuir for rendezvous, on the straight road from Haddington to the city, five miles by west of Haddington.

Bothwell read all this to the Queen, who said nothing. She was thinking of a business of her own, as appeared when she was alone. She beckoned up Baptist.

‘There’s not a moment to be lost. Find me a messenger, a trusty one, who will get speech with Mary Fleming.’

‘Madam,’ says Baptist, ‘let me go.’

‘No, no: I need you. Try Paris—no! my lord would never spare him. And he would deny me again. Do you choose somebody.’

‘What is he to say to her, ma’am?’

‘He shall speak to her in private. She knows where my coffer is—my casket.’

Ah! this was a grave affair. Des-Essars made up his mind at once. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘let me advise your Majesty. Either send me, or send no one. If you send me I will bring the casket back. That I promise. If you send no one—if you do not remind her—it will slip her memory.’

The Queen’s eyes showed her fears. ‘Remember you, Baptist, of my casket. If Fleming were to betray me to Lethington——’ No need to end.

‘Again I say, madam, send me.’

She thought; but even so her eyes filled with tears, which began to fall fast.

‘Dearest madam, do you weep?’

‘I cannot let you go. Do not ask me—I need you here.’

He leaned to her. ‘Alas, what can I do to help your Majesty?’

She took his hand. ‘Stay. You are my only friend. The end is not far. Have a little patience—stay.’

‘But your casket——’

She shook her head. ‘Let all go now. Stay you with me.’

‘Certainly I will stay with you,’ he said. ‘It will be to see you triumph over your enemies.’

And again she shook her head. ‘Not with a broken heart!’ Then in a frightened whisper she began to tell him her fears. ‘Do you know what they make ready for me? The stake, and the faggot, and the fire! Fire for the wife that slew her husband. Baptist, you will never forsake me now! This is my secret knowledge. Never forsake me!’ She hid her face on his shoulder and cried there, as one lost.

Bothwell burst into the room: they sprang apart. He was eager, flush with news. ‘We march to-morrow with the light. My men are coming in—in good order. Be of good cheer, madam, for with God’s help we shall pound these knaves properly.’

‘How shall God help us, my lord,’ said she, ‘who have helped not Him?’

‘Why, then, my dear,’ cries he with a laugh, ‘why, then, we will help ourselves.’

CHAPTER XI
APPASSIONATA

Grange, that fine commander, got his back to the sun and gave the lords the morning advantage. ‘We shall want no more than that,’ he told Morton; ‘by ten o’clock they will be here, and by noon we shall be through with it.’

‘Shall we out banner, think you?’ says Morton.

‘Nay, my lord, nay. Keep her back the now.’ Grange was fighting with his head, disposing his host according to the lie of the ground, and his reserves also. He took the field before dawn, and had every man at his post by seven o’clock. There was a ground mist, and the sea all blotted out: everything promised great heat.

They were to be seen, a waiting host, when the Queen crested Carbery Hill and watched her men creep round about; with Erskine beside her she could make them out—arquebusiers, pikemen, and Murrays from Atholl on the lowest ground (Tillibardine leading them), on either wing horsemen with spears. They had a couple of brass field-pieces in front. One could see the chiefs walking their horses up and down the lines, or pricking forward to confer, or clustering together, looking to where one pointed with his staff. There was Morton on his white horse, himself, portly man, in black with a steel breastplate—white sash across it—in his steel bonnet a favour of white. White was their badge, then; for, looking at them in the mass, the host was seen to be spattered with it, as if in a neglected field of poppies and corncockles there grew white daisies interspersed. The stout square man in leather jerkin and buff boots was Grange—on a chestnut horse; with him to their right rode Atholl on a black—Atholl in a red surtout, and the end of his fine beard lost in the white sash which he too had. Who is the slim rider in black—haunting Atholl like a shadow? Who but careful Mr. Secretary Lethington could have those obsequious shoulders, that attentive cock of the head? Lethington was there, then! Ah! and there, by one’s soul, was Archie Douglas’s grey young head, and his white minister’s ruff, where a red thread of blood ought to be. Glencairn was there, Lindsay, Sempill, Rothes—all those strong tradesmen, who had lied for their profit, and were now come to claim wages: all of them but the trader of traders, the white-handed prayerful man, the good Earl of Moray, safe in France, waiting his turn.

So prompt as they stood down there in the grey haze, all rippling in the heat; without sound of trumpet or any noise but the whinnying of a horse; without any motion save now and then, when some trooper plunged out of line and must pull back—that thing of all significant things about them was marked by the Queen, who stood shading her eyes from the sun atop of Carbery Hill. ‘Oh, Erskine!’ she said, ‘oh, Bothwell! they have no standard. Against whom, then, do we fight?’

Bothwell, exasperated by anxiety, made short answer: ‘It is plain enough to see what and who they are. They are men—desperate men. They are men for whom loss means infamous death. For, mark you well, madam, if Morton lose this day he loses his head.’

‘Ay,’ she gloomed, ‘and many more shall lose theirs. I will have Lindsay’s and Archie’s—and you shall have Lethington’s.’

‘I would have had that long ago, if you had listened to me. And now you see whether I was right or wrong. But when women take to ruling men——’

She touched his arm. ‘Dear friend, for whom I have suffered many things, do not reproach me at this hour.’ The tears were in her eyes—she was always quick at self-pity.

But he had turned his head. ‘Ha! they need me, I see. Forgive me, madam, I must have a word with Ormiston.’ He saluted and rode down to meet his allies. Monsieur Du Croc, the French Ambassador, approached her, hat in hand. He was full of sympathy; but, with his own theories of how to end this business, could not give advice.

Sir James Melvill, watching the men come up, shook his head at the look of them. ‘No heart in their chance—no heart at all,’ he was heard to say.

The Queen’s forces deployed across the eastern face of Carbery Hill in a long line which, it was clear, was not of equal strength with the lords’. It became less so as the day wore; for had you looked to its right you would have seen a continual trickle of stooping, running men crossing over to the enemy. These were deserters at the eleventh hour; Bothwell rode one of them down, chased him, and when he fell drove his horse over him and over in a blind fury of rage, trampling him out of semblance to his kind. It stayed the leak for a while; but it began again, and he had neither heart nor time to deal with it. Where were the Hamiltons who should have been with her? Where, alas, were the Gordons? In place of them the Borderers and Foresters looked shaggy thieves—gypsies, hill-robbers, savage men, red-haired, glum-faced, many without shoes and some without breeches. The tressured Lion of Scotland was in Arthur Erskine’s hold: at near ten o’clock Bothwell bade him display it. It unfurled itself lazily its full length; but there was no breath of air. It clung about the staff like so much water-weed; and they never saw the Lion. No matter; it would be a sign to that watchful host in the plain: now let us see what flag they dare to fly. They waited tensely for it, a group of them together—the Queen with her wild tawny hair fallen loose, her bare thin neck, her short red petticoat and blue scarf; Bothwell biting his tongue; Ormiston, Des-Essars, sage Monsieur Du Croc.

They saw two men come out of the line bearing two spears close together. At a word they separated, backing from each other: a great white sheet was displayed, having some picture upon it—green, a blot like blood, a wavy legend above. One could make out a tree; but what was the red stain? They talked—the Queen very fast and excitedly. She must know what this was—she would go down and find out—it was some insult, she expected. Was that red a fire? Who would go? Des-Essars offered, but she refused him. She chose Lord Livingstone for the service, and he went, gallantly enough—and returned, a scared old optimist indeed. However, she would have it, so she learned that they had the King lying dead under a tree, and the Prince his son praying at his feet—with the legend, ‘Judge and avenge my cause, O Lord!’ The red was not a fire, but the Prince’s robe. The Queen cried out: ‘Infamy! Infamy! They carry their own condemnation—do you not see it?’ If anybody did, he did not say so.

Monsieur Du Croc had his way at last, and was allowed to carry messages between the hosts. The burden of all that he brought back was that the lords would obey the Queen if she would give up the murderers, whom they named. The offer was ludicrous, coming from Morton—but when she ordered Du Croc back to expose it, he fairly told her to read below the words. They had come for Lord Bothwell. ‘I will die sooner than let him be touched,’ said she. ‘Let some one—Hob Ormiston, go you—fetch Grange to speak with me.’ Hob went off, with a white scarf in his held-up hand; and the Queen rode half-way down the hill for the parley. The great banner dazzled her: it was noticed that she bent her head down, as one rides against the sun.

Grange came leisurely up towards her—a rusty man of war, shrewd, terse, and weathered. He could only report what his masters bade him: they called for the surrender of the murderers. She flamed and faced him with her royal anger. ‘And I, your sovereign lady, bid you, Grange, go over there and bring the murderers to me. Look, there goes one on his white horse! And there shirk two after him, hiding behind him—the one with a grey head, and the other with a grey face. Fetch you me those.’

‘Bah!’ snarled Bothwell, ‘we talk for ever. Let me shoot down this dog.’ A Hepburn—quiet and sinewy—stepped out of the ranks with a horse-pistol. Grange watched him without moving a muscle; but ‘Oh!’ cried the Queen, ‘what villainy are you about?’ She struck down the pistol-arm,—as once before she had struck down Fawdonsyde’s.

Bothwell, red in the face, said, ‘Let us end this folly. Let him who calls for me come and fetch me. I will fight with him here and now. Go you, Grange, and bring my Lord Morton hither.’

‘No need for his lordship, if I will serve your turn, Earl of Bothwell,’ says Grange.

But Bothwell said, ‘Damn your soul, I fight with my equals. None knows it better than you.’ He would have no one below an Earl’s rank—himself being now, you must recollect, Duke of Orkney and Zetland—and it should be Morton for choice.

Grange, instructed by the Queen, rode back. They saw Morton accost him, listen, look over the valley. He called a conference—they talked vehemently: then Morton and Lindsay pricked forward up the hill, and stopped within hailing distance.

‘You, Bothwell,’ cried Morton, ‘come you down, then; and have at you here.’

The Queen’s high voice called clearly back. ‘He shall never fight with you, murderer.’

Lindsay bared his head. ‘Then let him take me, madam; for I am nothing of that sort.’

‘No, no, Lindsay,’ said Bothwell; ‘I have no quarrel with you.’

The Earl of Morton had been looking at Bothwell in his heavy, ruminating way, as if making up his mind. While the others were bandying their cries, the Queen’s voice flashing and shrieking above the rest, he still looked and turned his thoughts over. Presently—in his time—he gave Lindsay his sword and walked his horse up the hill to the Queen’s party. He saluted her gravely. ‘With your gracious leave, madam, I seek to put two words into my Lord Bothwell’s ear. You see I have no sword.’

The Queen looked at once to her husband. He nodded, gave his sword to Huntly, and said, ‘I am ready for you.’ They moved ten yards apart; Morton talked and the other listened.

‘Bothwell, my man,’ he said, ‘there’s no a muckle to pick between us, I doubt—I played one card and you another; but I have the advantage of ye just now, and am no that minded to take it up. Man!’ he chuckled, ‘ye stumbled sorely when ye let them find for the powder!’

‘Get on, get on,’ says Bothwell, drawing a great breath.

‘I will,’ Morton said. ‘I am here to advise ye to make off while you can. Go your ways to Dunbar, and avoid the country for a while. I’ll warrant you you’ll not be followed oversea. All my people will serve the Queen—have no fear for her. Now, take my advice; ’tis fairly given. I’ve no wish to work you a mischief—though, mind you, I have the power—for you and I have been open dealers with each other this long time. And you brought me home—I’m not one to forget it. But—Lord of Hosts! what chance have you against Grange?’ He waited. ‘Come now, come! what say you?’

Lord Bothwell considered it, working his strong jaw from side to side: a fair proffer, an honourable proffer. He looked at the forces against him—though he had no need; he knew them better men than his, because Grange was a better man than he. That banner of murder—the cry behind it—the Prince behind the cry, up on the rock of Stirling: in his heart he knew that he had lost the game. No way to Stirling—no way! But the other way was the sea-way—the old free life, the chances of the open water. Eh, damn them, he was not to be King of Scots, then! But he had known that for a week. He turned his head and saw the sea like molten gold, and far off, dipped in it, a little ship with still sails—Ho! the sea-way!

‘By God, Morton,’ he said, ‘you may be serving me. I’ll do it.’

‘Go and tell her,’ says Morton; and they both went back to the Queen.

Both took off their bonnets. Bothwell said: ‘Madam, we must avoid blood-shedding if we may, and I have talked with my lord of Morton. He makes an offer of fair dealing, which I have taken. I have a clear road to Dunbar, thence where I will. All these hosts will follow you if I am not there. They pay me the compliment of high distrust, you perceive. After a little, I doubt not but you shall see me back again where I would always be. Madam, get the Prince in your own hands: all depends upon him. And now, kiss me, sweetheart, for I must be away.’

She heard him—she understood him—she believed him. She was curious to observe that she felt so little. Her voice when she answered him had no spring in it—it was worn and thin, with a little grating rasp in it—an older voice.

‘It may be better so. I hate to shed good blood. Whither shall I write to you? At Dunbar? In England? Flanders?’ There had been a woman in Dunkirk—she remembered that.

He was looking away, answering at random, searching whom he should take with him, or on whom he could reckon to follow him if he asked. ‘I will send you word. Yes, yes, you will write to me. You shall know full soon. But now I cannot stay.’

Morton had returned to his friends.

‘Paris, come you with me. Ormiston, are you for the sea? No? Stay and be hanged, then. Hob? What, man, afraid? Where is Michael Elliott? Where is Crookstone? What Hepburn have I?’ He collected six or eight—both the Ormistons decided for him—Powrie and Wilson, Dalgleish, one or two more.

He took the Queen’s hand gaily. ‘Farewell, fair Queen!’ he said; and she, ‘Adieu, my lord.’ He leaned towards her: ‘One kiss, my wife!’ but she drew back. ‘Your lips are foul—you have kissed too many—no, no.’ ‘I must have it—you must kiss me’—he pressed against her. For a while she was agitated, defending herself; but then, with a sob, ‘Ay, take what you will of me,’ she said—‘it is little worth.’ He got his cold kiss, and rode fast through his scattering host. This going of his was the Parthian shot. He had beaten her. Desire was dead.

The Queen sat still—with a face like a rock. ‘Has he gone?’ she asked Des-Essars in a whisper.

‘Yes, thank God,’ said he.

She shook herself into action, gathered up the reins, and turned to Erskine. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘we will go down to them now.’

She surrendered to the Earl of Atholl, who, with Sempill and Lindsay, came up to fetch her. Followed by one or two of her friends—Des-Essars, Melvill, Du Croc, and Livingstone—she rode down the hill from her host and joined the other. Grange cantered up, bareheaded, to meet her, reined up short, took her hand and kissed it. Many followed him—Glencairn, Glamis, young Ruthven. Each had his kiss; but then came Archie Douglas smelling and smiling for his—and got nothing. She drew back from him shuddering: he might have been a snake, he said. Lethington was not to be seen. The host stood at ease awaiting her; the white banner wagged and dipped, as if mocking her presence. ‘Take that down,’ she said, with a crack in her dry throat; but no one answered her. She had to go close by the hateful thing—a daub of red and green and yellow—crowned Darnley crudely lying under a tree, a crowned child kneeling at his feet, spewing the legend out of his mouth. She averted her eyes and blinked as she passed it: an ominous silence greeted her, sullen looks; one or two steady starers showed scornful familiarity with ‘a woman in trouble’; one said ‘Losh!’ and spat as she passed.

She was led through the Murrays, Humes, and Lindsays; murmurs gathered about her; all eyes were on her now, some passionate, some vindictive, some fanatic. On a sudden a pikeman ran out of his ranks and pointed at her—his face was burnt almost black, his eyes showed white upon it. ‘Burn the hure!’ he raved, and when she caught her breath and gazed at him, he was answered, ‘Ay, ay, man. Let her burn herself clean. To the fire with her!’

Her fine heart stood still. ‘Oh!’ she said, shocked into childish utterance, ‘oh, Baptist, they speak of me. They will burn me—did you hear them?’ Her head was thrown back, her arm across her face. She broke into wild sobbing—‘Not the fire! Not the fire! Oh, pity me! Oh, keep me from them!’

‘Quick, man,’ said Atholl, ‘let us get her in.’ Orders were shortly given, lieutenants galloped left and right to carry the words. The companies formed; the monstrous banner turned about. Morton bade sound the advance; between him and Atholl she was led towards Edinburgh. ‘If Erskine is a man he will try a rescue,’ thought Des-Essars, and looked over his shoulder to Carbery Hill—now a bare brae. The Queen’s army had vanished like the smoke.

So towards evening they came to town, heralded by scampering messengers, and met by the creatures of the suburb, horrible women and the men who lived upon them—dancing about her, mocking obscenely, hailing her as a spectacle. She bowed her head, swaying about in the saddle. Way was driven through; they passed under the gates, and began to climb the long street, packed from wall to wall with raving, cursing people. They shook their fists at her, threw their bonnets; stones flew about—she might have been killed outright. The cries were terrible—‘Burn her, burn her! Nay, let her drown, the witch!’ Dust, heat, turmoil, a brown fetid air, hatred and clamour—the houses seemed to whirl and dizzy about her. The earth rocked; the people, glued in masses of black and white, surged stiffly, like great sea waves. Pale as death, with shut eyes and moving, dumb lips, she wavered on her seat, held up on either side by a man’s arm. Des-Essars prayed aloud that a stone might strike her dead.