His sword was close to her throat and she saw the purpose in his eyes. She looked at Melville and Ruthven, but they would not return her gaze.

He means it! she thought. He has come here to say: Sign or die.

She looked about her helplessly; she was here on an island, far from any friends she might have had. The cry of wild fowl suddenly came to her ears. They would murder her as many had been murdered before. Perhaps they would bury her body under some stone slab in the courtyard, or under a stair that was little used.

Now that death was so near she longed to live; a greater desire than she had felt for Bothwell was with her now; she wanted to escape, to regain her throne, to punish these men who had dared degrade her royalty.

She reached for a robe. They had expelled Jane Kennedy and Marie Courcelles from the room, so there was no one to help her. Ruthven took the robe and put it around her shoulders; as he did so she detected a burning gleam in his eyes; he was sending her a message of some sort; she was not entirely sure what. Perhaps it was merely desire for her body. But somehow it gave her a small comfort.

She was out of bed and, because she was still weak, Melville gave her his arm. She felt his fingers on her wrist and she believed there was something reassuring in the touch.

It was Lindsay who was her enemy, Lindsay with his black flashing eyes and his ready sword.

The quill was put into her hand; she sat down and read the document. Once she had put her name to it she would no longer be the reigning Queen. Scotland would have a King—James Stuart, son of Mary Stuart and Darnley.

She wanted to shout her refusal but Lindsay was standing over her, his sword still drawn.

She signed the Abdication and threw down the pen. Then she was on her feet, facing Lindsay who with a slow smile of triumph was putting away his sword.

She felt hysteria overcoming her. She shouted: “I was forced to it. You held a sword at my throat and forced me to sign. Is that justice? Rest assured, my lord, that when I am free the first pleasure I shall allow myself will be to see your head severed from your body. And I tell you this: These documents to which, under duress, I have put my name, have no meaning. I signed under compulsion, and I do not consider my signature valid. Do not think that I am entirely friendless. I shall not always be your prisoner. And then . . . my lord . . . beware.”

Lindsay continued to smile as he murmured: “So you do not think you will long remain our prisoner? Lest there should be some meaning behind those words we must make sure that your jailors double their precautions. As one of those jailors, Madam, you may rest assured that I shall do my duty to Scotland.”

Ruthven said: “The Queen is ill. I will help her to her bed.”

He put an arm about Mary and held her firmly. His face was close to hers. He was undoubtedly trying to convey some message to her. Had she not felt so ill she would have understood, she was sure. Was he telling her that he was her friend?

She stumbled onto the bed; she felt sick and dizzy.

Vaguely she heard voices from afar—Ruthven’s and Melville’s.

“The Queen is fainting. Her maids should be sent to her.” And when she opened her eyes again she found that Lindsay, Ruthven and Melville had gone, and that Jane and Marie were at her bedside with her French apothecary.


* * *

MARY QUICKLY RECOVERED with the help of her maids and her apothecary. Her anger against those lords who had forced her to sign away her right was so intense that it was like a crutch to her weakness.

“The impudence!” she raved. “How dared they! Jane, Marie . . . Lindsay held the sword at my throat. Let him be sure that he shall not escape my fury.”

The maids exchanged glances. They were delighted to see their mistress’s animation. Anything was better than the listlessness she had displayed since her arrival at Lochleven, no matter what was the cause of it.

“I shall not be here forever,” Mary continued. “I have friends . . . .”

“Your Majesty must keep up your strength,” Jane warned her. “When the time comes to leave this dismal place you will have to be well.”

“You are right, Jane,” answered the Queen. “This is an end of my lethargy.”

They brought her food and she ate it. She called for a mirror and studied her face with more attention than she had bestowed on it since the beginning of her incarceration. She had lost her pallor and her delicately tinted complexion was regaining its beauty; her lovely mouth was no longer melancholy; slightly parted it disclosed her perfect white teeth; there was a sparkle, left by recent anger mingling with new-born hope, in the long, deeply-set hazel eyes; her chestnut hair, hanging over her shoulders, was regaining its luster.

She rose from her bed and walked a little, leaning on Jane’s arm. Then she stood at the window looking out over the lake. She could see the mainland, and caught glimpses of distant mountains and forests. It was such a small stretch of water which separated her from freedom that she wondered why she had felt so hopeless.

“Somewhere on that mainland,” she mused, “are friends who will help me.”

Dusk had fallen. Outside her window the sentinels patrolled. With the coming of night two others would take their places. Lindsay was determined that she should not escape.

She was feeling so much better. She believed she would soon be free. All her life she had recovered quickly from adversity because her optimism had been one of her strongest qualities and, she guessed, always would be. Rarely—and the days and nights which followed Carberry Hill was one of these periods—had she been completely bereft of hope. But to lose a kingdom, a lover and a beloved baby son at one stroke had been too much even for her resilient nature.

Now she could look back on her despair and say: There is always hope. There always must be hope. All through her life—except that gay and romantic period at the Court of France—there had been trouble. And even in France the insidiously powerful Catherine de’ Medici had been her enemy from the moment they had set eyes on each other.

So hope came now. Somewhere in Scotland there were friends waiting to help her. She believed she would find them.

Jane had been right when she had said she must build up her strength. Lying in bed and refusing food was folly. Once she felt quite well again her natural gaiety would return. And when she had recovered her high spirits, her belief in her destiny, she would be happy again. Scotland would be hers once more. And Bothwell?

Now that she was calmer she could look back with a clearer vision at that turbulent period of her life. With him she had reached an emotional climax which she had never attained before. Through him she had known a savage joy and a savage despair. There would never be another like him, and she knew that if he came back tomorrow she would be entirely his slave. Should she say the slave of her own body’s desires? With him she had experienced sensations which she had not known existed: Erotic bliss which never seemed to be without its companions—humiliation and despair.

She had experienced enough of those two to wonder whether anything was worth the price.

Since she had made herself realize that she was a Queen with a Kingdom to fight for, Bothwell’s image had faded a little. Let that suffice. And in due course, if and when he came back to her, it might be that he would find a different woman, a clever woman, a woman of some judgment who, while she welcomed him as her husband, would ask him to remember that she was his Queen.

But Bothwell was far away—she knew not where. And she was a prisoner in Lochleven. Her first duty was to escape, and if she were to break out of this fortalice she would need all her wits to do so. She would not achieve that end by dreaming sensual dreams of Bothwell.

She rose from her bed and wrapped her robe about her. She was growing stronger and now able to walk about the room without the aid of Jane’s or Marie’s arm.

While she was wondering whether they would increase her guards now that she was able to leave her bed, she realized with a little shock that the door of her room was being slowly and cautiously opened.

Startled, she drew her robes more tightly about her and, seeing who the intruder was, she cried: “Ruthven!”

Ruthven came into the room hesitantly. He stood before her and dropped to his knees.

“Your attitude has changed, my lord, since you came here with those fellow-traitors.”

He lifted his eyes to her face and now she understood the expression in them. It angered her, yet at the same time she felt exultant. In the extremity of her grief she had forgotten the power she had always possessed to make men her slaves.

Ruthven rose to his feet.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “if you could but know how I have suffered for my part in this!”

Mary turned from him and took a seat by the window.

Ruthven said: “Your Majesty, do not show yourself to the guard. It would be well if we were not seen . . . together.”

“You have something to tell me?” she asked, rising and moving away to a part of the room which could not be seen from outside. Ruthven brought a stool and she sat down.

“I can go back and forth between the mainland and the castle, Your Majesty,” he said.

She wanted to laugh aloud. Had she not known that some way of escape would be offered her?

“And I have friends on the mainland . . . .” she murmured.

“Seton, Fleming, Herries . . . .” he said.

“Huntley,” she added. “Bothwell.”

“They are in the North, Your Majesty. There are others nearer . . . not far from this island, on the mainland across the water.”

“And you have a plan for helping me to escape from this prison?”

“Not . . . yet, Your Majesty. I wished to talk to you of such a plan.”

“Tell me one thing first. Why have you changed sides?”

Ruthven was silent. He was a connection of Darnley’s and had joined those nobles who had determined to avenge the murder. He had been against the Queen at Carberry Hill. Her adversaries had considered him sufficiently her enemy to put him in charge of her—with Lindsay—on the ride from Edinburgh to Lochleven. And now he was ready to be a traitor to his friends for her sake.

She must be cautious. But because there had been so many men ready to serve her she asked the question of Ruthven merely that he might confirm what she believed she knew.

“It has caused me much pain to see Your Majesty treated in this way.”

“You gave no sign when Lindsay had his sword at my throat.”

“Had he attempted to harm you I should have killed him. I stifled my anger because I thought I could serve you better in secret.”

“And how do you plan to serve me?”

“By obeying your orders.”

“How can I trust you?”

Ruthven took a step toward her. She was amazed when he lifted her from her stool and, putting his lips against hers, kissed her violently.

She tried to draw away in anger, but she was so weak that she found herself powerless in his arms.

“You . . . are insolent,” she panted.

“I love you,” said Ruthven. “I have fought against this without avail. I will bring you out of this prison. I will set you on the throne. They speak true when they say you are the most desirable woman in Scotland. I would say in the whole world . . . .”

“I command you to release me,” she cried.

But he laughed at her. He had heard rumors of the manner in which Bothwell had swept away her protests. She was a Queen, it was true; but she was completely feminine. It was her submission to Bothwell which had brought her to her present state. She was not meant to be a lonely monarch like Elizabeth beyond the Border. She was meant to be a woman first. It was merely by chance that she was also a Queen.

Bothwell had conquered; so would he.

His impatient hands were on her robe, and she cried in panic: “Jane! Marie! Where are you?”

But now his hand was over her mouth. It was meant to be like that scene in Buchanan’s House, when Bothwell had come to her unannounced and torn her garments from her quivering body. But it was so different. The memory of Bothwell was vivid; and this was no Bothwell.

“Mary,” he cried breathlessly, “do not bring them here. That would spoil our plans. If it were known that you and I were lovers . . . ”

With a great effort she held him off and, although he still kept his arms about her, their faces were no longer close. “You insolent fool!” she said. “Do you think that I would take you for my lover? Do you think you merely have to break into my room and insult me, to have me begging for your favors? You must be mad, Lord Ruthven. And if you do not take your arms from about me I shall shout for help. I shall tell Master Lindsay what you have done . . . what you have said to me.”