She was sunk in melancholy and would do nothing to rouse herself.

Now the night and days began to merge one into another and she lost count of them. Her French apothecary came to her bedside with potions for her to drink, but she would not touch them.

“Madame,” he declared, “you will die if you will not try to save yourself from death.”

“Let me die,” she answered. “I should be happier dead than a prisoner in Lochleven Castle.”

She lay in a haze of memories; she was happiest when she could not remember where she was, and that was often the case. She thought she was in France, the petted idol of the Court there, beloved of Henri Deux and his mistress the dazzling Diane de Poitiers; the adored wife of young François Deux; the hope of all her Guise relations. Through that dream the figure of Catherine de’ Medici moved like a menacing ghost, sending her back to Scotland when those who loved her were dead, sending her to unhappy marriage with Darnley, to the nightmare of his death—but to Bothwell. She must always remember that when she came back to Scotland she came to Bothwell. And then to Carberry Hill and Lochleven.

Lady Douglas came to her bed and tried to coax her to eat. But she had no desire to speak with Lady Douglas. Sir William came in the company of Lindsay and Ruthven; she turned her head away and would not even look at them.

Once a young man, whose looks proclaimed him to be a Douglas, came to her bedside and stood looking down at her.

He whispered: “Your Majesty, if there is some commission with which you would entrust me, gladly would I perform it.”

But she could not answer him because the expression on his face brought a lump to her throat; so she had closed her eyes, and when she opened them he had gone.

On another occasion a boy had stood at the end of her bed watching her . . . a strange boy, with a pert, freckled face. He had said with a broad accent: “Hello, Queen.” And she believed he must have been part of a dream, for suddenly he winked at her and was gone.

So the days passed in a melancholy haze.

Jane remonstrated with her. “Your Majesty, it is fourteen days since we came to Lochleven and you have scarcely eaten or drunk in all that time. You must rouse yourself. What if my lord Bothwell were to come for you? How could you escape with him, weak as you are?”

“I could not stand, could I, Jane,” she said. “There is no strength left in my limbs.”

“Your Majesty,” implored Jane, “before it is too late save yourself . . . for Scotland and your son who needs you.”

Those words kept repeating themselves in Mary’s mind. Save yourself . . . Save yourself for Scotland and your son who needs you.

The next day she ate a little; and the following day a little more.

Word went through the castle: “The Queen is beginning to take an interest in her surroundings. After all, she has decided to live.”

George Douglas lay on the grass, his eyes never straying long from those windows which were hers. He had thought of her continually ever since he had heard that they were bringing her to his home. He had pictured her as he had so often heard her described—beautiful beyond imagining; gowned in rich cloth of gold, velvet and silver, a crown on her head. He had remembered all he had heard about her romantic life; her early flight to France where she had become Queen; her three marriages, all ending in tragedy. He had heard the scandals which had been whispered about her when Darnley had been murdered. They called her adulteress, murderess, but he did not believe them. He had always believed her to be a deeply wronged woman, and since she was also beautiful she had become the center of his dreams of chivalry.

He was misunderstood in this rough country where men such as Bothwell were looked up to, where cold passionless men like his half-brother Moray were those whom others were ready to call their leaders.

When he had seen the Queen disheveled after her ordeal, almost demented, her gown tattered, her lovely features spattered with mud, his feeling had been more intense than he had imagined they ever could be. He loved the sick and lonely woman more than he ever could the Queen in her crown and royal robes. He was excited almost beyond endurance, because she was here in his brother’s castle, within his reach, and because she was a friendless prisoner and it might be in his power to help her.

During the last weeks he had sought excuses to go into her apartment. She had been unaware of him, lying listless in her bed, her eyes closed; and he had been afraid that, since she clearly no longer wished to live, she would die.

Once she had opened her eye and seen him and he had looked at her with such yearning that he believed he aroused some response in her. He had been begging her not to die, for if she died he wished to die also. He was young and of little account in the castle where his mother and brother ruled, and where Moray was considered to be the most important person in Scotland, but he was fierce in his desire to help her; he wanted to give his life for her. Willingly would he do so and count himself blessed. That was what he had tried to tell her.

Did she understand? Was it coincidence that a few days later he had heard that the Queen was taking a little nourishment?

“Hi, watchdog!”

George turned quickly and glared at young Willie, who had crept up silently and flung himself down on the grass beside him.

“Where did you come from?” demanded George, embarrassed to have been caught by this alert boy gazing at the Queen’s windows. “And your doublet is filthy.”

Willie grimaced, and wriggled his bare toes as though in ecstasy.

“She does not notice my filthy doublet, Geordie watchdog. Why should she look at me when handsome Geordie’s near?”

George leaped up to cuff the boy but Willie was even quicker on his feet. He stood some little distance away and, placing his hands as though he held a lute, rolled his eyes like a lovesick troubadour in the direction of the Queen’s windows.

“You go to the kitchens. There’ll be work for you there, Willie Douglas.”

“Doubtless, doubtless,” cried Willie. “But there’s other than scullion’s work for me in the castle when we’ve a Queen living with us.”

George did not answer; he lay down on the grass once more and leaning on his elbows propped his face in his hands, this time making sure that he was looking, not toward the castle, but over the lake.

Willie watched him for a while; then he said: “There’s always fishing boats on the lake, Geordie.”

“And what if there are?”

“Nobody takes much notice of ’em, Geordie. They come and go between the island and the mainland.”

“Be silent,” said George fearfully and he rose to his feet again.

Willie hopped back a few paces assuming the posture of a troubadour.

George went after him, and Willie sped away, laughing over his shoulder. Down the slope he went to the shores of the lake, George in pursuit; but before George could catch him Willie was running into the lake where George, for fear of spoiling his sturtop boots, could not follow.

Willie stood, the water about his knees, still playing the troubadour.

Watching him in exasperation George’s eye was caught by a boat which was setting out from the mainland. As his keen eyes picked out the figures in the boat, he saw that they were not fishermen nor ferrymen, but strangers—grand personages with a look of the Court about them.

“Visitors for the Queen,” he said; and Willie turned to look.

Willie came out of the water to stand beside George; and forgetful of all else they stood side by side watching the approaching boat.

SIR ROBERT Melville, Scottish ambassador to the Court of Elizabeth of England, stepped ashore and looked at the castle of Lochleven.

A strong fortress, he thought. As impregnable as could be found in Scotland. She would not find it easy to break out of this place.

Melville’s feeling were mixed. He would have been far more sorry for the Queen if she had not acted so foolishly over Bothwell. It was natural that a suave diplomatist should hate the fellow—rough, vulgar Borderer that he was; and the fact that Mary could have become so besotted about him lowered her in her ambassador’s estimation. From the moment he had heard of the marriage, Melville had been ready to ally himself with her enemies.

She had been good to him, he was ready enough to admit. Because he had strongly opposed her marriage to Darnley it had been necessary at one time to take refuge in England; but Mary was not a woman to bear grudges; she had pardoned him and, because of his knowledge of the English had agreed that he should become her ambassador to Elizabeth.

He had been revolted by the murder of Darnley and had planned then to retire from politics, but Mary had insisted that he return to the English Court in the role of her ambassador; and as an escape from Scotland, Melville had done so.

Now he came to her with a mission—a most unpleasant one which he did not relish but which he was reluctantly obliged to admit was a just one.

Sir William Douglas was waiting to greet him as he alighted. With him were Lindsay and Ruthven; Lady Douglas came forward and her son George whom Melville had seen on the bank as the boat ran ashore, hovered in the background.

“Welcome to Lochleven,” said Lady Douglas. “I have had apartments made ready for you.”

“My lady is gracious,” murmured Melville.

As they walked toward the castle, Sir William said: “I believe you will agree that it would be well for us, with my lords Lindsay and Ruthven, to talk in private for a while before you visit the Queen’s apartments.”

Melville said he thought this would be desirable. So Sir William turned to his mother and asked that wine should be sent to his small private chamber, and there he would confer with the visitor.

While Lady Douglas summoned one of her daughters and bade her give orders in the kitchen, Sir William went into the castle with Lindsay, Ruthven and Melville.

Left there in the sunshine, George felt shut out. Something important was about to happen and he knew that it threatened the Queen.

He felt angry with his powerlessness, with his youth and lack of experience. Why could he not enter the castle in the company of those men? Why could he not know what was said between them?

Someone was tugging his coat, and he turned to find Willie beside him.

“Do ye think they’re planning to murder her in her bed?” he whispered.

“Be off with you.”

“There’s murder in their minds, depend upon it,” whispered Willie. “What are you going to do about that, eh, Geordie Douglas?”

George was silent. What could he do? There must be something.


* * *

THE QUEEN was lying on her bed when Melville entered. Jane was seated by the bed reading to her mistress while Marie sat at the window looking over the lake. She had seen the arrival of Melville, so the Queen was not surprised when he came in.

“Your Majesty.” Melville knelt by the bed and kissed the delicate hand.

“You see me indisposed,” Mary told him.

“Which grieves me sorely.”

“It is comforting that someone is moved by my plight. You have been in the castle for more than an hour, my lord. Did it take you so long to find me.”

Melville spread his hands. “I had to make sure that you were well enough to receive me.”

“And confer with your friends. I fear they are your friends, Melville. In which case you can be no friend to me.”

“Your Majesty, forgive me, but that is not so. Your welfare is my greatest concern.”

“You should tell me why you have come. I have been through such miseries that I tire easily.”

Melville looked at Jane and Marie significantly.

“What you have to say is for my ears alone?” said Mary quickly. “Very well. Jane and Marie, you may leave us.”

When they had gone, Melville said: “I would have Your Majesty know that I merely bring you a message from the Confederate Lords. That which I have to say to you is none of my doing. I am merely the messenger.”

“I see that you bring me evil tidings, and I pray you do not keep me in suspense. I have suffered so much that I can doubtless endure a little more.”

“Your Majesty, it is the wish of the Confederate Lords that you sign a formal abdication in favor of your son James.”

“Abdicate!” She had visualized so much that was evil, but not this. “James,” she whispered. “He is but a baby, being little more than a year old.”