15
Alison McKay was in prison with Mary Queen of Scots.
They were confined in a castle, on an island, in the middle of a Scottish lake called Loch Leven. They were guarded day and night by fifteen men-at-arms, more than enough to watch over two young women.
And they were going to escape.
Mary was indomitable. She did not have good judgement: Alison admitted to herself, in the darkest hours of the night, that just about every decision the queen had ever taken had turned out badly. But Mary never gave up. Alison loved that about her.
Loch Leven was a grim place. The house was a square tower of grey stone with small, mean windows to keep out the cold wind that blew hard across the water, even in summer. It was set in a compound less than a hundred yards across. Outside was a narrow strip of scrubland, then the lake. When the weather was stormy, the strip was submerged and the waves lashed the stones of the perimeter wall. The lake was broad, and it took half an hour for a strong man to row to the mainland.
This was a hard prison from which to escape, but they had to try. They were miserable. Alison had never imagined, until now, that boredom could drive her to contemplate suicide.
They had been raised in the glittering court of France, surrounded by people in gorgeous clothes and priceless jewels, invited every day to banquets and pageants and plays. Their everyday conversation had been of political plots and social intrigue. The men around them started wars and ended them; the women were queens and the mothers of kings. After that, Loch Leven was purgatory.
It was 1568. Alison was twenty-seven and Mary twenty-five. They had been at Loch Leven almost a year, and Alison had spent much of that time brooding about where they had gone wrong.
Mary’s first mistake had been to fall for and then marry Queen Elizabeth’s cousin Henry, Lord Darnley, a charming drunk who had syphilis. Alison had felt torn: happy to see Mary in love, but appalled by her choice of man.
Love quickly wore off, and when Mary became pregnant, Darnley murdered her private secretary, whom he suspected of fathering the child.
If there was a nobleman in Scotland even worse than Darnley it was, in Alison’s opinion, the quarrelsome and violent Earl of Bothwell, and Mary’s second mistake had been to encourage Bothwell to kill Darnley. Bothwell had succeeded, but everyone knew or guessed what had happened.
Neither Mary nor Alison had anticipated the reaction of the Scots. They were an upright nation, and Catholics and Protestants alike disapproved of this royal immorality. Mary’s standing with the Scottish people fell off a cliff.
Alison felt that a storm of bad luck was sweeping over them when Bothwell kidnapped them and forced Mary to spend the night with him. In other circumstances the nation would have been outraged by this attack on their queen, and would have rallied to her defence; but by then her reputation was stained, and Mary could not feel sure of popular support. Together they decided the only way to restore Mary’s respectability was for her to marry Bothwell, and pretend that he had not really raped her. Bothwell’s fed-up wife obtained a quickie divorce that was not recognized by the Catholic Church, and they were married immediately.
That was the third mistake.
Twenty-six outraged Scottish noblemen raised an army and overwhelmed the forces of Bothwell and Mary. They captured her, forced her to abdicate in favour of her one-year-old son, James, and imprisoned her here at Loch Leven – without her baby boy.
All these events were undoubtedly watched avidly by Queen Elizabeth of England. In principle, Elizabeth supported Mary as the incontestably rightful queen of Scotland; but in practice no rescue party appeared on the horizon. Elizabeth’s true attitude was probably that of someone who hears two drunks fighting in the street at night: it did not matter who won so long as neither tried to get into the house.
While Mary was with Darnley, Alison married a good Catholic, a man with hazel eyes and a mane of blond hair who reminded her of Pierre Aumande. He was kind and affectionate, but he expected Alison to serve him, not Mary, which she found difficult, even though she knew she should have anticipated it. She became pregnant but miscarried after four months. Soon afterwards her husband died in a hunting accident, and it was almost a relief to Alison to return to her familiar role as Mary’s dedicated right-hand woman.
And now this.
‘No one else has loved me the way you love me,’ Mary had said during one of the long, dark Scottish evenings at Loch Leven, and Alison had blushed with a vague but strong emotion. ‘My father died when I was a baby,’ Mary had said. ‘My mother mostly lived elsewhere. All three of my husbands have been hopelessly weak in their different ways. You’ve been mother and father and husband to me. Isn’t that strange?’ It had made Alison cry.
Their jailer was Sir William Douglas, owner of Loch Leven. Mary had a remarkable power to win affection, and Sir William had fallen for her. He acted like an obliging host entertaining a distinguished house guest. His daughters adored Mary – they found the notion of an imprisoned queen madly romantic – but his wife, Lady Agnes, was not seduced. Agnes had a strong sense of duty, and she remained insistently watchful.
However, Agnes had just given birth to her seventh child and was still confined to her room, which was one reason why this was the moment for an escape bid.
Mary was still being guarded by Captain Drysdale and his men-at-arms. But today was Sunday 2 May, so the soldiers were enjoying the May Day revels – and drinking more than usual. Alison hoped they would become careless by late afternoon, when she and Mary planned to make their getaway.
It would be difficult, but they had collaborators.
Also resident at Loch Leven were Sir William’s handsome half-brother George, nicknamed Pretty Geordie; and Willie Douglas, a tall fifteen-year-old orphan who Alison thought was probably an illegitimate son of Sir William.
Mary had set out to win the heart of Pretty Geordie. She had been allowed to send for her clothes – although not her jewels – and she was able to dress well. In any case, George was no great challenge: Mary had always been alluring, and here on this tiny island she had no rivals. With such a small group of people in a confined space, romantic emotions could heat up fast. Alison guessed it was not difficult for Mary to play the game, for George was charming as well as good-looking. Mary’s feelings for him might even have been genuine.
Alison was not sure what favours Mary granted George: more than mere kisses, she assumed, for George was a grown man, but less than sexual intercourse, because Mary, with her besmirched reputation, could not risk the further disgrace of an illegitimate pregnancy. Alison did not ask Mary for the details. It was a long time since the happy days in Paris when they had been adolescent girls who told one another everything. But all that mattered now was that George was so badly smitten that he longed to play the part of the medieval knight and rescue his beloved from the castle of despair.
Alison herself had worked on young Willie. Again it was no great challenge, even though Alison was almost twice his age. Only just out of puberty, Willie would have fallen in love with any attractive woman who paid him attention. Alison needed only to talk to him, and ask him about his life, while standing a little too close to him; and to kiss him in a way that was almost sisterly, though not quite; and to smile when she caught him staring at her breasts; and to make arch remarks about ‘you men’ to bolster his courage. She had no need to grant sexual favours to this boy who was only just a man. In the deep recesses of her half-conscious mind she felt a tiny regret about this – something she was embarrassed to admit even to herself. But Willie succumbed easily, and was now her slave.
George and Willie had been smuggling Mary’s letters in and out of the prison for some months, but with difficulty. Escape would be much harder.
Mary could not cross the little compound without being seen, for it was home to about fifty people: as well as the family and the men-at-arms there were Sir William’s secretaries and a large staff of household servants. The gate was kept locked, and anyone who wanted to come and go had to get it unlocked or climb over the wall. Three or four boats were always pulled up on the beach, but Mary would need a strong accomplice to row her, and she could quickly be followed. Then, on the mainland, she would need friends with horses to whisk her away to a hiding place somewhere safe from pursuit.
There was such a lot that could go wrong.
Alison found it hard to sit still during the morning service in the chapel. She was desperate to escape, but she also feared the consequences if they were caught: she and Mary would probably be confined to one room, perhaps even forbidden those walks along the top of the perimeter wall which, though depressing, at least gave them fresh air and a distant sight of the world outside. Worst of all, they might be separated.
Mary was nothing if not bold, and she was ready to take the risk, as Alison was. But the penalty for failure would be dire.
After church there were May Day festivities. Willie excelled himself as Lord of Misrule, doing a hilarious drunk act while shrewdly remaining one of the few people on the island who was completely sober.
Pretty Geordie was on the mainland, and should by now be in the lakeside village of Kinross. It was his job to assemble horses and men to escort Mary and Alison away from there before they could be recaptured. Alison was frantic to know whether he had carried out his part of the plan. She was anxiously awaiting a signal from him.
Mary dined early in the afternoon with Sir William and the family, and Alison and Willie helped to serve. The dining room was on an upper floor of the square tower, with views from the little windows to the mainland; a necessary defensive feature. Alison had to stop herself constantly looking over the water.
At the end of the meal Willie left. The plan was that he would scramble over the wall and wait outside for a boat bringing a message from George saying that all was ready.
During the planning of the escape, young Willie had suggested that Mary should jump off the wall to the ground outside, a drop of seven feet that he did easily. As an experiment Alison had tried it, and had sprained her ankle. They could not risk Mary being slowed by an injury, so Willie’s suggestion had been dropped. Instead, they would have to leave by the gate, which meant getting hold of a key.
Alison, as a noblewoman as well as a servant, was permitted to join the others at table as they sat chatting after dinner, eating nuts and fruit, Sir William sipping wine. There was not much to talk about on Loch Leven, but conversation was the main form of entertainment for lack of much else.
It was Sir William’s mother, Lady Margaret, who glanced out of the window and noticed something on the far shore. ‘Who are those horsemen, I wonder?’ she said in a tone of mild curiosity.
Alison froze. How could George be so careless? He was supposed to keep his men out of sight! If Sir William became suspicious, he could easily lock Mary in her room, and then the plan would be wrecked. Surely it could not have failed already?
Sir William looked out and frowned. ‘No reason for them that I know of.’
Mary rose to the occasion brilliantly. ‘I must speak to you, Lady Margaret, about your son James, my brother,’ she said in a challenging voice.
That got everyone’s attention. Lady Margaret in her youth had been one of the many mistresses of Mary’s father, King James V. She had borne his illegitimate son James Stuart, the half-brother Alison had met at St Dizier with the enigmatic Ned Willard, when the two young men had tried to persuade Mary not to return to Scotland. For Mary to raise this topic was not good manners.
Embarrassed, Lady Margaret said: ‘James is in France.’
‘Visiting Admiral Coligny – the hero of the Huguenots!’
‘Madam, there is nothing I can do about James, as you surely know.’
Mary kept everyone looking at her instead of out of the window. Indignantly she said: ‘I have been fond of him. I made him earl of Moray!’
Margaret was intimidated by this suddenly angry young queen. Sounding nervous, she said: ‘And I know how grateful he is for your kindness.’
No one was looking out of the window now.
‘Then why has James plotted against me?’ Mary cried. Alison knew that her anger, though calculated, was genuine. ‘Since I was brought here, he has forced me to sign abdication papers, he has crowned my baby son as King James VI, and he has made himself regent. He is now king of Scotland in all but legitimacy!’
The Douglases felt sorry for Mary, but they undoubtedly approved of what James Stuart had done, and they looked awkward – which was fine, Alison thought, for they had forgotten about the horsemen on the shore.
Sir William tried to be pacific. ‘Of course this is not how you would wish it, madam,’ he said to Mary. ‘On the other hand, your child is king and your brother is regent, so the arrangement has a degree of legitimacy that cannot be denied.’
Alison stole a glance out of the window. There was no sign of horsemen now. She imagined that George might have angrily told them to get away from the shore. Perhaps they had been in Kinross for an hour or two and were getting restless, letting discipline slip. But the semblance of normality had been restored.
The crisis was over, but it had underlined how chancy the whole plan was, and it left her feeling even more edgy.
Mary seemed to run out of patience. ‘I feel tired, after the May Day festivities,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’m going to rest.’
Alison went with her. Outside the door, a dark and narrow spiral staircase of stone led up and down to other floors. They climbed to the queen’s quarters.
Mary was not in the least tired. She was excited and jittery, constantly getting up from her chair to go to the window, then returning and sitting down again.
Alison checked their disguises, folded in a trunk under Mary’s gowns. They had got hold of coarse home-made wool-and-linen kirtles of the kind worn over petticoats by the many serving women at the castle, complete with the type of headdress known as a Flemish hood, which covered the hair and made it difficult for others to see the face except from directly in front. Servants sometimes wore stout leather boots that were so hard Mary and Alison could not even walk in them, but, fortunately, the women also used their mistresses’ cast-off silk and satin slippers. For weeks Alison and Mary had been wearing old shoes whenever they were alone, to make them look shabby enough to have been handed down.
Their main problem was Mary’s height. That could not be disguised. No other woman on the island was anywhere near so tall. Alison could hardly imagine that they could get away with it.
She put the disguises away again.
They had to be patient for another hour then, at six o’clock, Mary’s supper was brought to her room.
As usual, it was served to her by Sir William, a courtesy by a jailer to his royal prisoner. Alison left the room and went looking for Willie to find out what was happening. Outside, a holiday game of handball was in progress, soldiers versus servants, with supporters cheering each side. Alison noticed that Drysdale, who was supposed to keep a close eye on Mary, was captain of the soldiers’ team. That was good, she thought; he was distracted.
Willie was coming across the courtyard towards her, looking excited. ‘It’s come!’ he whispered, and showed her a pearl earring.
This was the signal from George on the mainland. The earring meant all was ready for Mary’s escape. Alison was thrilled. But Willie had been less than discreet. ‘Close your fist!’ she hissed at him. ‘We don’t want anyone asking questions.’
Fortunately, the people in the courtyard were intent on the game.
‘Sorry,’ said Willie. He closed his fingers around the jewel then passed it to Alison with a display of casualness.
Alison said: ‘Now, slip over the wall and sabotage all the boats but one.’
‘I’m ready!’ he said, pulling aside his coat to reveal a hammer hanging from his belt.
Alison returned to Mary’s quarters. Mary had not eaten much. Alison could imagine why. She herself was so tense that she could not have swallowed food. She handed Mary the jewel, saying: ‘Here’s the earring you lost. One of the boys found it.’
Mary knew what it meant. ‘I’m so glad!’ she said, beaming.
Sir William looked out of the window and grunted in surprise. ‘What is that foolish boy doing with the boats?’ he said in a tone that combined fondness with exasperation.
Alison followed his gaze. Willie was on the foreshore, kneeling in one of three boats that were drawn up on the beach. What he was doing was not obvious to a distant observer, but Alison knew he was making a hole in the hull so that the boat could not be used to pursue escapers. Alison suffered a moment of pure panic. She had no idea what to do. She turned to Mary and mouthed: ‘Willie!’
Mary knew what Willie was supposed to do to the boats. Once again she showed her ability to think fast in an emergency. ‘I feel terribly faint,’ she said, and slumped in her chair with her eyes closed.
Alison realized what she was up to and played along. ‘Oh, dear God, what’s wrong?’ she said, putting on a frightened voice.
She knew that Mary was faking, but Sir William did not. Looking fearful, he came at once to Mary’s side. If she died in his care he would be in trouble. The regent, James Stuart, would be obliged to deny that he had connived at her murder, and to demonstrate his sincerity he might well have Sir William executed. ‘What is it, what has happened?’ Sir William said.
Alison said: ‘She should have strong wine to revive her. Sir William, do you have some canary?’
‘Of course. I’ll fetch it at once.’ He left the room.
‘Well done,’ Alison said quietly to Mary.
Mary said: ‘Is Willie still at it?’
Alison looked out of the window. Willie was doing the same thing in a different boat. ‘Hurry up, Willie!’ she murmured. How long did it take to make a hole in a boat?
Sir William returned with a steward carrying a jug of wine and a goblet. Alison said: ‘My hands are shaking. Sir William, will you hold the cup to her lips?’
Sir William obliged, taking the opportunity to put a hand tenderly behind Mary’s head, and did not think to look out of the window.
Mary took a sip, coughed, and pretended to revive a little.
Alison made a show of touching her forehead and feeling her pulse. ‘You’ll be all right now, your majesty, but perhaps you should retire for the night.’
‘Very well,’ said Mary.
Sir William looked relieved. ‘Then I’ll leave you,’ he said. ‘Good night, ladies.’ He glanced out of the window. Alison looked too. Willie was no longer on the beach. It was not possible to see whether he had succeeded in holing the boats.
Sir William left without making any comment.
The steward cleared the table and went out, then Alison and Mary were alone. Mary said: ‘Did we get away with it?’
‘I think so. Sir William may forget what he saw from the window: he’s been drinking all afternoon, and he must be at least a little fuddled by now.’
‘I hope suspicion doesn’t make Sir William vigilant. Willie still has to steal the key.’
Sir William kept the gate key close at hand. When someone went to the mainland or came back, he would either open the gate himself or entrust the key to a guard for a few minutes only. Otherwise no one needed to leave the compound: there was nothing outside apart from the boats.
Mary and Alison had to get out of the compound, and Alison’s experiment had established that they could not climb over the wall, so they had to unlock the gate. Willie had assured Alison and Mary that he would be able to steal the key without Sir William noticing. They were dependent on him.
‘We should be dressed and ready,’ said Alison.
They took off their costly gowns and put on the rough kirtles, then changed their shoes for old worn ones. The Flemish hoods covered their heads and usefully concealed Mary’s distinctive auburn hair.
Now all they could do was wait.
Sir William liked Willie to serve his supper. His fondness for the orphan boy was what led everyone to speculate that they were father and son. But Willie’s loyalty had been undermined by Alison.
She imagined that right now, one floor down, Willie was putting down and picking up plates and napkins and jugs. Perhaps the key lay on the table next to Sir William’s wine goblet. She visualized Willie dropping a napkin over the key then picking up both. Would he get away with it? How drunk was Sir William? They could only wait and see.
If the plan worked, Mary’s escape would be a political earthquake. She would disavow the abdication papers she had been forced to sign and claim her rightful throne. Her half-brother James would assemble a Protestant army, and Mary’s Catholic supporters would rally – those of them who had not lost faith in her. The civil war would be renewed. Mary would be cheered by her brother-in-law the King of France, who was fighting a similar long-running civil war with the Huguenots. The supportive Pope would be glad to annul her marriage with Bothwell. Speculation about possible husbands for her would be renewed in every royal court from Rome to Stockholm. The European balance of power would shift seismically. Queen Elizabeth of England would be furious.
All that depended on Willie Douglas, aged fifteen.
There was a tap at the door, soft but insistent. Alison opened it. Willie stood there, beaming, holding a big iron key.
He stepped inside and Alison closed the door.
Mary stood up. ‘Let’s go at once,’ she said.
Willie said: ‘They’re still at table. Sir William is asleep over his wine, but Lady Margaret is talking to her granddaughters. They might see us, through the open door, as we go down.’ The spiral staircase went past the doors to each floor of the castle.
Alison said: ‘But this is a good time – the soldiers are still playing handball.’
Mary said decisively: ‘We have to take chances. We’ll go.’
Willie looked woebegone. ‘I should have closed the dining-room door. I never thought of it.’
Alison said: ‘Never mind, Willie. You’re doing wonderfully well.’ She gave him a soft kiss on the lips. He looked as if he had gone to heaven.
Alison opened the door, and they went out.
Willie led the way, followed by Mary, with Alison last. They tried to tread softly on the stone of the spiral staircase, hoping not to attract attention. Both women pulled their hoods forward as they approached the open door to the dining room. Light spilled from the doorway, and Alison heard low female voices. Willie went past without looking in. Mary put her hand to her face as the light fell on her. Alison waited to hear a shout of alarm. She walked past the door and went on down the stairs after the others. She heard a peal of laughter, and imagined Lady Margaret chortling scornfully at their pathetic attempt to disguise themselves; but it seemed her amusement had some other cause. They had not been noticed; or, if Lady Margaret had happened to glance up, perhaps she had seen nothing more remarkable than a few servants passing the doorway on some errand.
They went outside.
It was just a few steps from the tower door to the compound gate, but it seemed more. The courtyard was full of people watching the game. Alison spotted Drysdale, hitting the ball with his two hands clamped together, concentrating hard.
Then Willie was at the gate.
He put the iron key into the big lock and turned it. Alison kept her back to the crowd, hiding her face, but that meant she could not tell whether anyone was looking at them. It took an effort of will to resist the temptation to look back over her shoulder. The massive timber gate creaked noisily as Willie pushed it open: did anyone hear that sound over the cheering? The three fugitives stepped through. No one came after them. Willie closed the gate behind them.
‘Lock it,’ said Alison. ‘It may slow them down.’
Willie locked the gate, then dropped the key into the barrel of the cannon that stood beside the entrance.
No one had seen them.
They ran down to the beach.
Willie took hold of the one undamaged boat and pushed it into the shallows, then held it with its keel just touching the shore. Alison clambered in, then turned to help Mary. The queen stepped into the boat and sat down. Willie pushed it off from the beach, jumped in, and started to row.
Alison looked back. There was no sign that they had been missed: no one on the ramparts, no one leaning out of the castle windows, no one running down to the beach.
Was it possible that they had escaped?
The sun had not yet set, and a long summer evening stretched ahead. The breeze, though stiff, was warm. Willie pulled strongly at the oars. He had long arms and legs, and he was motivated by love. All the same, their progress across the wide lake seemed agonizingly slow. Alison kept looking back, but there was no pursuit yet. Even if they realized the queen had gone, what could they do? They would have to mend one of the remaining boats before they could give chase.
She began to believe they were free.
As they approached the mainland, Alison saw the figure of a man she did not recognize, waiting on the shore. ‘Hell,’ she said. ‘Who’s that?’ She was possessed by a terrible fear that they had come this far only to be trapped again.
Willie looked over his shoulder. ‘That’s Alistair Hoey. He’s with George.’
Alison’s heartbeat slowed again.
They reached the shore and jumped out of the boat. Alistair led them along a path between houses. Alison heard horses stamping and snorting impatiently. The escapers emerged onto the main road through the village – and there was Pretty Geordie, smiling in triumph, surrounded by armed men. Horses were saddled ready for the fugitives. George helped Mary onto her mount, and Willie had the joy of holding Alison’s foot while she swung herself up.
Then they all rode out of the village to freedom.
*
EXACTLY TWO WEEKS later, Alison was convinced that Mary was about to make the greatest mistake of her life.
Mary and Alison were at Dundrennan Abbey, on the south coast of Scotland, across the Solway Firth from England. Dundrennan had been the grandest monastery in Scotland. The monasteries had been secularized, but there was still a magnificent Gothic church and an extensive range of comfortable quarters. Mary and Alison sat alone in what had been the abbot’s luxurious suite of rooms, grimly contemplating their future.
Everything had gone wrong for Queen Mary – again.
Mary’s army had met the forces of her brother, James Stuart, at a village called Langside, near Glasgow. Mary had ridden with her men, and had been so brave that they had had to restrain her from leading the charge, but she had been defeated, and now she was on the run again. She had ridden south, across bleak windswept moorland, burning bridges behind her to slow pursuit. One miserable evening Alison had cut off all Mary’s lovely auburn hair, to make her less easily recognizable, and now she was wearing a dull brown wig. It seemed to complete her wretchedness.
She wanted to go to England, and Alison was trying to talk her out of it.
‘You still have thousands of supporters,’ Alison said brightly. ‘Most Scots people are Catholic. Only upstarts and merchants are Protestant.’
‘An exaggeration, but with some truth,’ Mary said.
‘You can regroup, assemble a bigger army, try again.’
Mary shook her head. ‘I had the larger army at Langside. It seems I cannot win the civil war without outside help.’
‘Then let us go back to France. You have lands there, and money.’
‘In France I am an ex-queen. I feel too young for that role.’
Mary was an ex-queen everywhere, Alison thought, but she did not say it. ‘Your French relations are the most powerful family in the country. They might assemble an army to back you, if you ask them personally.’
‘If I go to France now, I will never return to Scotland. I know it.’
‘So you’re determined . . .’
‘I will go to England.’
They had had this discussion several times, and each time Mary came to the same conclusion.
She went on: ‘Elizabeth may be a Protestant, but she believes that a monarch who has been anointed with holy oils – as I was when I was nine months old – rules by divine right. She cannot validate a usurper such as my brother James – she is in too much danger of being usurped herself.’
Alison was not sure how precarious Elizabeth’s position was. She had been queen for ten years without serious opposition. But perhaps all monarchs felt vulnerable.
Mary went on: ‘Elizabeth must help me regain my throne.’
‘No one else thinks that.’
It was true. All the noblemen who had fought at Langside and had accompanied Mary on her flight south were opposed to her plan.
But she would make up her own mind, as always. ‘I’m right,’ she said. ‘And they’re wrong.’
Mary had always been wilful, Alison thought, but this was almost suicidal.
Mary stood up. ‘It’s time to go.’
They went outside. George and Willie were waiting in front of the church, with a farewell party of noblemen and a small group of servants who would accompany the queen. They mounted horses and followed a grassy track alongside a stream that ran, gurgling and chuckling, through the abbey grounds towards the sea. The path went through spring-green woodland sprinkled with wild flowers, then the vegetation changed to tough gorse bushes splashed with deep-golden-yellow blossoms. Spring blooms signalled hope, but Alison had none.
They reached a wide pebble beach where the stream emptied into the sea.
A fishing boat waited at a crude wooden jetty.
On the jetty, Mary stopped, turned, and spoke directly to Alison in a low voice. ‘You don’t have to come,’ she said.
It was true. Alison could have walked away. Mary’s enemies would have left her alone, seeing no danger: they would think a mere lady-in-waiting could not organize a counter-revolution, and they would be right. Alison had an amiable uncle in Stirling who would take her in. She might marry again: she was certainly young enough.
But the prospect of freedom without Mary seemed the most dismal of all possible outcomes. She had spent her life serving Mary. Even during the long empty weeks and months at Loch Leven she had wanted nothing else. She was imprisoned, not by stone walls, but by her love.
‘Well?’ said Mary. ‘Will you come?’
‘Of course I will,’ Alison said.
They got into the boat.
‘We could still go to France,’ Alison said desperately.
Mary smiled. ‘There is one factor you overlook,’ she said. ‘The Pope and all the monarchs of Europe believe that Elizabeth is an illegitimate child. Therefore she was never entitled to the throne of England.’ She paused, looking across the twenty miles of water to the far side of the estuary. Following her gaze Alison saw, dimmed by haze, the low green hills of England. ‘And if Elizabeth is not queen of England,’ said Mary, ‘then I am.’
*
‘SCOTTISH MARY HAS arrived in Carlisle,’ said Ned Willard to Queen Elizabeth, in the presence chamber at White Hall palace.
The queen expected Ned to know such things, and he made it his job to have answers ready. That was why she had made him Sir Ned.
‘She’s moved into the castle there,’ Ned went on, ‘and the deputy governor of Carlisle has written to you asking what he should do with her.’
Carlisle was in the far north-west corner of England, and close to the Scottish border, which was why there was a fortress there.
Elizabeth paced the room, her magnificent silk gown rustling with her impatient steps. ‘What the devil shall I tell him?’
Elizabeth was thirty-four. For ten years she had ruled England with a firm hand. She had a confident grasp of European politics, navigating those treacherous tides and undercurrents with Sir William Cecil as her pilot. But she did not know what to do about Mary. The queen of the Scots was a problem with no satisfactory solution.
‘I can’t have Scottish Mary running around England, stirring up discontent among the Catholics,’ Elizabeth said with frustration. ‘They would start saying she is the rightful queen, and we’d have a rebellion to deal with before you could say transubstantiation.’
Cecil, the lawyer, said: ‘You don’t have to let her stay. She is a foreign monarch on English soil without your permission, which is at least a discourtesy and could even be interpreted as an invasion.’
‘People would call me heartless,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Throwing her to the Scottish wolves.’ Ned knew that Elizabeth could be heartless when it suited her. However, she was always sensitive to what the English people would think of her actions.
Ned said: ‘What Mary wants is for you to send an English army to Scotland to help her regain her rightful throne.’
‘I haven’t got the money,’ Elizabeth said quickly. She hated war and she hated spending money. Neither Ned nor Cecil was surprised at her instant rejection of this possibility.
Cecil said: ‘Failing your assistance, she may ask her French relatives to help her. And we don’t want a French army in Scotland.’
‘God forbid.’
‘Amen,’ said Cecil. ‘And let’s not forget that when she was married to Francis they called themselves king and queen of France, Scotland, England and Ireland. She even had it on her tableware. Mary’s French family have ambitions without limit, in my opinion.’
‘She’s a thorn in my foot,’ Elizabeth said. ‘God’s body, what am I to do?’
Ned recalled his encounter with Mary seven years ago at St Dizier. She was striking-looking, taller than Ned and beautiful in an ethereal way. He had thought she was brave but impulsive, and he had imagined she might make decisions that were bold but unwise. Coming to England was almost certainly a wrong move for her. He also remembered her companion, Alison McKay, a woman of about his own age, dark-haired and blue-eyed, not as beautiful as Mary but probably wiser. And there had been an arrogant young courtier with them called Pierre Aumande de Guise: Ned had disliked him instantly.
Cecil and Ned already knew what decision Elizabeth must make. But they knew her too well to try to tell her what to do. So they had taken her through the available choices, letting her rule out the bad ones herself. Now Cecil assumed a casual tone of voice as he put to her the option he wanted her to decide on. ‘You could just incarcerate her.’
‘Here in England?’
‘Yes. Let her stay, but keep her prisoner. It has certain advantages.’ Cecil and Ned had made this list together, but Cecil spoke as if the advantages had only just occurred to him. ‘You would always know where she is. She would not be free to foment a rebellion. And it would weaken the Scots Catholics if their figurehead were captive in a foreign country.’
‘But she would be here, and the English Catholics would know it.’
‘That is a drawback,’ Cecil said. ‘But perhaps we could take steps to prevent her communicating with malcontents. Or with anyone else, come to that.’
In practice, Ned suspected, it might be difficult to keep a prisoner totally incommunicado. But Elizabeth’s mind went in a different direction. ‘I would be quite justified in locking her up,’ she mused. ‘She has called herself queen of England. What would Felipe do to a man who said he was the rightful king of Spain?’
‘Execute him, of course,’ said Cecil promptly.
‘In fact,’ Elizabeth said, talking herself into doing what she wanted to do, ‘it would be merciful of me merely to imprison Mary.’
‘I think that’s how it would be seen,’ Cecil said.
‘I think that’s the solution,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Cecil. What would I do without you?’
‘Your majesty is kind.’
The queen turned to Ned. ‘You’d better go to Carlisle and make sure it’s done properly,’ she said.
‘Very good, your majesty,’ said Ned. ‘What shall I say is the reason for detaining Mary? We don’t want people to say her imprisonment is unlawful.’
‘Good point,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I don’t know.’
‘As to that,’ said Cecil, ‘I have a suggestion.’
*
CARLISLE WAS A formidable fortress with a long defensive wall pierced only by a narrow gateway. The castle was made of pinkish-red local sandstone, the same as the cathedral that stood opposite. Within the wall was a square tower with cannons on its roof. The guns were all pointed towards Scotland.
Alison and Mary were housed in a smaller tower in a corner of the compound. It was just as stark as Loch Leven, and cold even in June. Alison wished they had horses, so that they could go for rides, something Mary had always loved and had missed badly at Loch Leven. But they had to content themselves with walking, escorted always by a troop of English soldiers.
Mary decided not to press her complaints to Elizabeth. All that mattered was that the queen of England should help her regain her Scottish throne.
Today they expected the long-awaited emissary from Elizabeth’s court. He had arrived late last night and retired immediately.
Alison had managed to get messages to Mary’s friends in Scotland and as a result some clothes and wigs had arrived, though her jewellery – much of it given to her by King Francis II when she was queen of France – was still in the Protestant grasp of her half-brother. However, she had been able to make herself look royal this morning. After breakfast they sat in the mean little room they inhabited at the castle, waiting to hear their fate.
They had discussed Elizabeth night and day for a month, talking over her religious convictions, her beliefs about monarchy, her reputed learning, and her famously imperious personality. They had tried to guess what decision she would make: would she help Mary regain her throne, or not? They had reached no conclusion – or, rather, they had reached a different conclusion every day. But now they would find out.
Elizabeth’s messenger was a little older than Alison, almost thirty, she guessed. He was slim, with a pleasant smile and golden-brown eyes. His clothes were good but unostentatious. Looking closely, Alison was surprised to recognize him. She glanced at Mary and saw a slight frown, as if she, too, was trying to place him. As he bowed low to the queen and nodded to Alison she remembered where they had met. ‘St Dizier!’ she said.
‘Seven years ago,’ he said. He spoke French: he knew, or had guessed, that Mary was most comfortable in this tongue, Scots being her second language and English a distant third. His manner was polite but relaxed. ‘I’m Sir Ned Willard.’
Alison thought his careful good manners cloaked a dangerous toughness, like a velvet scabbard for a sharp-edged sword. She spoke warmly in an attempt to soften him. ‘Sir Ned, now!’ she said. ‘Congratulations.’
‘You’re very kind.’
Alison remembered that Ned had pretended to be merely a clerk to James Stuart, a pretence that had been revealed when he spoke so challengingly to Pierre Aumande.
Mary said: ‘You tried to persuade me not to go to Scotland.’
‘You should have taken my advice,’ he said unsmilingly.
Mary ignored that and got down to business. ‘I am the queen of Scotland,’ she said. ‘Queen Elizabeth won’t deny that.’
‘No, indeed,’ said Ned.
‘I was illegally imprisoned by traitors among my subjects. Again, I feel sure my cousin Elizabeth will agree.’
They were not quite cousins, of course, but more distantly related: Elizabeth’s grandfather, King Henry VII of England, was Mary’s great-grandfather. But Sir Ned did not quibble.
Mary went on: ‘And I came here to England of my own free will. All I ask is the chance to speak to Elizabeth in person, and to beg for her assistance.’
‘I will certainly give her that message,’ said Ned.
Alison suppressed a groan of disappointment. Ned was prevaricating. That was bad news.
Mary bristled. ‘Give her the message?’ she said indignantly. ‘I expected you to bring me her decision!’
Ned was not flustered. Perhaps it was not the first time he had had to deal with an angry queen. ‘Her majesty can’t make such a decision immediately,’ he said in the calm tones of reason.
‘Why not?’
‘Other matters must be resolved first.’
Mary was not to be fobbed off that easily. ‘What matters?’
Ned said reluctantly: ‘The death of your husband, Lord Darnley, the king consort of Scotland and the cousin of Queen Elizabeth, remains . . . unexplained.’
‘That is nothing to do with me!’
‘I believe you,’ said Ned. Alison suspected he did not. ‘And her majesty Queen Elizabeth believes you.’ That was not true either. ‘But we must establish the facts to the satisfaction of the world before you can be received at Elizabeth’s court. Her majesty hopes that you, as a queen yourself, will understand that.’
This was rejection, Alison thought, and she wanted to weep. The murder of Darnley was not the real issue; it was a pretext. The plain fact was that Elizabeth did not want to meet Mary.
And that meant she did not want to help Mary.
Mary came to the same conclusion. ‘This is cruelly unjust!’ she said, standing up. Her face reddened, and tears came to her eyes. ‘How can my cousin treat me so coldly?’
‘She asks you to be patient. She will provide for all your needs meanwhile.’
‘I do not accept this decision. I shall sail to France. My family there will give me the help Elizabeth denies me.’
‘Queen Elizabeth would not want you to bring a French army to Scotland.’
‘Then I shall simply go back to Edinburgh, and take my chances against my treacherous half-brother, your friend James Stuart.’
Ned hesitated. Alison saw that his face was a little pale, and he clasped his hands behind his back as if to stop himself fidgeting uneasily. The wrath of a queen was a dreadful sight. But Ned held all the cards. His voice, when he spoke, was strong and his words were uncompromising. ‘I’m afraid that will not be possible.’
It was Mary’s turn to look fearful. ‘What on earth can you mean?’
‘The queen’s orders are that you shall remain here, until the English courts can clear you of complicity in the murder of Lord Darnley.’
Alison felt tears come to her eyes. ‘No!’ she cried. This was the worst possible outcome.
‘I’m sorry to bring you such unwelcome news,’ he said, and Alison believed he meant it. He was a kind man with an unkind message.
Mary’s voice was shaky. ‘So Queen Elizabeth will not receive me at court?’
‘No,’ said Ned.
‘She will not let me go to France?’
‘No,’ he said again.
‘And I may not return home to Scotland?’
‘No,’ Ned said for the third time.
‘So I am a prisoner?’
‘Yes,’ said Ned.
‘Again,’ said Mary.