“You are being foolish, child,” she said. “Try to understand this. The worst thing that could happen to you would be for you to be taken to England.”

“Why?”

“Because if you went your life would be in danger.”

Mary caught her breath. She drew back in amazement.

It was the only way, thought the Queen-Mother. There was too much danger and the child must be made aware of it.

“The King of England has said that he wishes you to go to England to be brought up with his son.”

“You do not wish me to marry Edward?”

“I do not know … as yet.”

The Queen-Mother stood up and walked to the window. She looked across the country toward the south and thought of the aging monarch of England. He had demanded the marriage for his son, and that Mary be brought up in the Court of England as a future Queen of England. A good enough prospect… if one were dealing with any but the King of England. But there was a sinister clause in the agreement. If the little Queen of Scots died before reaching an age of maturity, the crown of Scotland was to pass to England. The royal murderer should never have a chance of disposing of Mary Stuart. How easy it would be! The little girl could fall victim to some pox… some wasting disease. No! He had murdered his second and fifth wives and, some said, was preparing to murder his sixth. He should not add the little Queen of Scots to his list of victims.

But how tell such things to a child of five years!

Marie de Guise turned back to the bed. “Suffice it that I shall not allow you to go to England. Now … to sleep.”

But Mary did not sleep. She lay sleepless in the elaborate bed—the bed with the beautiful hangings sent to her by her glorious uncles—and thought of that ogre, the King of England, who might come at any moment to carry her off by force.


NOW THE LITTLE QUEEN was aware of tension. She knew that the reason why she must never go beyond the castle walls without a strong guard was because it was feared she would be abducted.

She called the Marys together. Life was exciting. They must learn about it. Here they were shut up in Stirling Castle playing hide-and-seek, battledore and shuttlecock, reading, miming, playing games; while beyond the castle walls grown-up people played other games which were far more exciting.

One day when they were all at play, Flem, who happened to be near the window, called to them all. A messenger was riding into the courtyard, muddy and stained with the marks of a long ride, his jaded horse distressed and flecked with foam.

The children watched—five little faces pressed against the window. But the messenger stayed within the castle and they grew tired of waiting for him to come out, so they devised a new game of messengers. They took it in turn to be the messenger riding on a hobby horse, come from afar with exciting news concerning the King of England.

Later they were aware of glum faces about them; some of the serving men and women were in tears and the words Pinkie Cleugh were whispered throughout the castle.

Lady Fleming shut herself in her apartment and the five Marys heard her sobbing bitterly. Little Flem beat on the door in panic and called shrilly to be allowed to come in. Then Janet Fleming came out and looked blankly at the five little girls. Her own Mary ran to her, and Janet embraced her crying over and over again: “My child… my little Mary… I still have you.” Then she went back into her room and shut the door, taking Flem with her.

Mary, left alone with her three companions, felt the tears splashing on to her velvet gown. She did not understand what had happened. She was wretched because her dear Aunt Janet and little Flem were in some trouble.

“What is Pinkie?” she demanded; but even Beaton did not know.

It was impossible to play after that. They sat in the window seat huddled together, waiting for they knew not what.

They heard a voice below the window, which said: “They say Hertford’s men are not more than six miles from the castle.”

Mary knew then that danger was close. Hertford, her tutors had told her, was the Lord Protector of England who ruled until Edward—that boy who might very well be her husband one day—was old enough to do so himself, for King Henry had died that very year. To Mary, Hertford was the monster now; he was the dragon breathing fire who would descend on the castle like the raiders on the Border and carry the Queen of Scotland off to England as his prize.

That was a strange day—a queer, brooding tension filled the castle. Everyone was waiting for something to happen. She did not see her mother that evening and her governess was not present when she went to her apartment for the night.

At last she slept and was awakened suddenly by dark figures about her bed. She started up, thinking: He has come. Hertford has come to take me to England.

But it was not Hertford. It was her mother, and with her were the Earl of Arran, Lord Erskine and Livy’s father, Lord Livingstone, so that she knew this was a very important occasion.

“Wake up,” said her mother.

“Is it time to get up?”

“It is an hour past midnight, but you are to get up. You are going away on a journey.”

“What! At night!”

“Do not talk so much. Do as you are told.”

This must be very important, for otherwise even her mother would not have talked to her thus in the presence of these noble lords. She had to be a little girl now; she had to obey without question. This was no time for ceremony.

Lady Fleming—her eyes still red with weeping—came forward with her fur-trimmed cloak.

“Quickly,” said Lady Fleming. “There is no time to be lost. If your lordships will retire I will get my lady dressed.”

While Mary was hustled into her clothes she asked questions. “Where are we going? Why are we going now? It’s the night… the dead of night…”

“There is no time for questions.”

It should have been an exciting adventure, but she was too tired to be conscious of most of that journey. She was vaguely aware of the smells of the night—a mingling of damp earth and misty air. Through the haze of sleep she heard the continued thudding of horses’ hoofs. Voices penetrated her dreams. “Pinkie… Pinkie…. Hertford close on our heels. Cattle driven over the Border. Rape… murder… fire… blood.”

Words to make a grown-up person shudder, but to a child of five they were little more than words.

Now she was in a boat and she heard the sound of oars dipping into water. It became suddenly calm and peaceful as though there was no longer the desperate need for haste.

The violent bump of the boat as it touched land awakened her thoroughly. “Where are we?” she cried.

“Hush… hush!” she was told. “Maman is here.” That was her mother talking to her as though she were indeed a baby.

She was taken up and placed in the arms of someone clothed in black. Over his head was a cowl. He might have frightened her had his eyes not been gentle and his voice kind.

“Sleep, little one,” he said. “Sleep on, little Queen. You have come safely to Inchmahome.”

Inchmahome! The melodious word took the place in her dreams of Pinkie Cleugh and blood… murder… rape. Inchmahome… and peace.


IT SEEMED TO MARY that she lived for a long time in the island monastery. At first there was much she missed, but it was not long before her four Marys arrived on the island to bear her company. Lady Fleming stayed with her, and because there was need to comfort her aunt, Mary herself was comforted. Lord Fleming had been killed at the terrible battle of Pinkie Cleugh. He was one of fourteen thousand Scots who had died that day.

Mary wept bitterly. First Beaton’s uncle and now Flem’s father. And both had been killed. There had been no need for either of them to die. “Why,” she demanded angrily of Lady Fleming, “could they not all love each other and be friends?”

“It is the accursed English!” cried Lady Fleming. “They want Scotland for their own. They have killed my Malcolm. I hate the English.”

“But it was not the English who killed Cardinal Beaton,” said Mary.

“They were behind that murder too. They are a heretic people.”

Mary put her arms round her governess and reminded her that she had five sons and there was big James to be Lord Fleming now.

Janet Fleming took the lovely face in her hands and kissed it. “When you grow up,” she said, “many will love you. You have that in you which attracts love. There will be men to love you …”

Janet’s eyes brightened and her sorrow lifted a little, for she could not help knowing that there would still be men to love Janet Fleming too. It was true that she was no longer young but her appeal seemed ageless. She had been born with it and it did not diminish at all. Here in the monastery she would let her grief subside; her wounds would heal and when she again went into the world she would be her jaunty pleasure-loving self, attracting men perhaps because she herself was so easily attracted by them.

So they were able to comfort each other, and the brief rest on the peaceful island was something they were both to remember in the years to come and look back upon with a certain longing.

Mary grew accustomed to the life of the island. She had soon, with her little friends about her, made a miniature court for herself. She was watched with delight—even by the monks—for in her black silk gown, ornamented by the brilliant tartan scarf, held together by the gold agraffe which was engraved with the arms of Scotland and Lorraine, her lovely hair loose about her shoulders, she was a charming sight.

At first the monks in their musty black had not attracted her; she had been startled to come upon them gliding through the cold bare rooms. But when she grew to know them she found a gentleness in them which appealed to her. They answered her only when she spoke to them, but they did not speak even to each other unless it was absolutely necessary.

It was like a world of which she had dreamed—a strange world shut in by granite walls. The bells rang continually, for life on the island in the lake of Menteith was divided into periods, by the bells. Mary went daily with her four friends to the great room with the stained-glass windows; there she prayed to the saints and confessed her sins.

Her curiosity had to be satisfied, and she and the four Marys could not be content until they had wheedled the secret from Lady Fleming.

“Why are we here, Aunt Janet?” asked Mary.

“It is a rest for me… after what I suffered.”

“Did they take me out of bed at midnight for that?” asked Mary scornfully.

“It is because of the English,” said Beaton.

“Hertford’s men came close to the castle,” added Mary. “We heard of that.”

Poor Janet! She could never be discreet. “Well, I do know,” she admitted, “but nothing would prise it from me.” But the five Marys could, and in a short time Janet was saying: “If I tell you, you must never mention it to anyone… anyone at all.”

She admitted that they had been sent to Inchmahome to escape the English. “Your mother has plans for you,” she added.

“What plans?” demanded Mary.

“Plans made with the French, so they say.”

“With my uncles?”

“They send messengers to her continually. There are some, my little Queen, who would like to see you sent to England, but your mother has other plans.”

Lady Fleming could not be induced to say what these plans were, so the five little girls, who knew her well, decided that she did not know and that it was no use pestering her further.

When Mary was in her room, which was as bare as a cell, she knelt before the little altar there, but instead of praying she was thinking about plans with the French.

She rose from her knees and studied the ornament her mother had given her and which she always wore to fasten her scarf. Her mother had explained the significance of the emblems on the ornament. The silver eagles were of Lorraine, the double cross was of Jerusalem; and the lilies were of Anjou and Sicily. This was the emblem of Guise and Lorraine. Her mother had said: “Always remember the emblem when you are afraid or when you are about to do something shameful. It is the emblem of Guise and Lorraine.”

And Guise and Lorraine was France! What had Lady Fleming meant by plans made with the French?

Wherever I go, said Mary to herself, I shall take my four Marys with me. I shall never, never be parted from them.