Willie approached lightheartedly, and as he did so Sir William shot out an arm and gripped his shoulder.
“What do you know of this attempt of the Queen’s to escape?”
“Oh,” said Willie, “I know a lot. I saw her go out. She looked like the others . . . only taller. I saw her get into the boat and them row her away.”
“I mean how much did you know before it happened?”
Willie looked puzzled. “What should I have known before it happened, Sir William?”
“You knew there was a plot for her escape, did you not?”
“I reckon there’s been lots of plots.”
Sir William went on: “You gamble with the soldiers. Where do you find the money?”
“An odd job here and there brings its reward,” said Willie, slightly less truculent than usual.
Sir William took the boy by the shoulders and shook him until his freckled face was scarlet. “George Douglas gave you the money, did he not? You have been to see George Douglas on the mainland. You keep him informed of what is happening in the castle, do you not?”
Willie was silent. Sir William, who was not a violent man, was now a frightened one, and Willie’s stubborn silence alarmed him further.
He threw the boy across the room. Willie fell, knocking his head against a table. He felt the warm blood on his face, and as he picked himself up he was looking for the door. But Sir William was not prepared to let him go. He strode toward him and said in a quiet voice: “If you do not tell me all you know, I will give you the severest whipping you have ever had in your life.”
“It’s that I don’t know much, Sir William,” Willie began, but Sir William struck him again and this was no light blow. Willie felt as though the floor was coming up to meet him. He clenched his teeth together, and unfortunately Sir William noticed this and knew it meant that Willie was determined to let no secrets escape him.
“You’ve been seeing George Douglas,” he said. “You’ve been acting as a spy in the castle. The reward of spying is death. Did you know?”
Willie did not answer.
“What other plans are there?” Sir William demanded.
Willie whispered: “I don’t know, Sir William.”
“You’ve been seeing George though. George gave you the money?”
Willie thought quickly. What harm could he do by admitting that? They knew that George was on the mainland. It was obvious that they would have met. He could do no harm by admitting that he had seen George and that it was George who had given him money. All he must do was deny his part in the laundress plan, for Sir William would say that if he had helped once, he would do so again, and then, when the time came to put another plan into action, he would be a suspected person.
“I did see George,” he said.
“And he gave you money. Why?”
“Because he likes me,” answered Willie promptly.
“And you convey message from him to the Queen?”
“Messages . . . ?” began Willie and clenched his teeth again.
Sir William’s anger was dying. There was something appealing about the boy; but he knew that he had been acting as a spy; he knew that he was as dangerous as George had been. He could not afford to have Willie in the castle.
He liked the boy’s boldness; his refusal to betray his part in this was admirable—or would have been if he had been on the right side. But this was too important a matter to allow sentiment to get in the way of common sense.
Sir William put his hand into his pocket, and brought out a gold coin. He held this out to Willie who looked at it in amazement.
“Take it,” said Sir William. “You may need it.”
Willie took it in his grubby hand.
“And now,” said Sir William, “you will get out. This castle is no longer your home.”
Willie stared at Sir William disbelievingly, but the man would not meet his eye.
“Get out,” continued Sir William. “Get out while you’re still alive, you imp of Satan. Get out of my castle. Get off my island. We don’t harbor those who spy against us.”
Willie went to the door, clutching the gold coin; an impulse came to him to turn and plead with Sir William, to ask him to remember that this was his home. But he would not do it. He held his head high and walked out of the room and out of the castle to the shores of the lake.
He called to the old boatman who worked the ferry.
“Row me over to the mainland,” he said.
“I don’t know as I will,” was the answer.
“You should, you know,” retorted Willie. “It’s Sir William’s order. You’re to row me across and leave me on the other side.”
Then he stepped into the boat, and not once did he turn to look back at the castle; his eyes were fixed on the mainland, on the woods. Not far away, he was thinking, was George.
THE QUEEN WAS in despair. Not only had she lost George but Willie also.
There were new restrictions, and Sir William had ordered that one or two of the female members of his household must share the Queen’s room, so that she had no chance of making plots with her women. This meant that one or more of his sisters were in constant attendance; they were beautiful and naturally amiable women but they had been warned that they must act as spies.
They would come into the apartment and sit with the Queen, Seton, Jane Kennedy and Marie Courcelles while they all worked on the tapestry. It meant that conversation must be guarded for any remarks likely to arouse suspicion were reported to Sir William.
Mary had not felt so hopeless since those early days of her incarceration and she thought longingly of that period when she had been able to see George Douglas and be assured of his devotion; she thought sadly of Willie who amused her with his quaint ways but who had inspired her with hope as much as had the romantic George.
One day another member of the Douglas family came to her room presumably, thought Mary, for the purpose of spying on her. This was a young woman who had married Lady Douglas’s son Robert and was therefore a Douglas only through marriage; Mary was inclined to like her the better for that. She was modest and a little apologetic.
“Your Majesty, I am Christian, wife of Robert Douglas. My father was the Master of Buchanan.”
“But of course,” said Mary pleasantly, “I could not forget the Countess of Buchanan who was once betrothed to my half-brother.”
As the Countess flushed slightly Mary remembered that Christian had no reason to love Moray.
“Welcome to my apartments,” went on Mary. “I trust you will not find them as dreary as I do.”
“Your Majesty is a prisoner and that is why you hate your prison. It grieves me that I should be a member of that family who are your jailors.”
“Thank you for those words. Come, sit down. Are you fond of needlework?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Then take a look at our work. I think we shall make it into a screen.”
“It is very beautiful,” murmured Christian.
“It is our great pleasure to work on it,” Mary told her. “There is something so satisfying about tapestry. It lives on after us . . . and consider, in years to come people will say: ‘That is what Mary Queen of Scots did while she was a prisoner in Lochleven.’”
“Let us hope, Your Majesty, that they will say: ‘The Queen started it in her prison of Lochleven but completed it in the royal apartments at Edinburgh Castle or Holyrood House.’”
Certainly Christian was more sympathetic than Lady Douglas’s daughters, thought Mary; and she was not wrong when she surmised that she might be an ally.
Very often Mary was alone with her, and on one of these occasions Christian said: “I shall never forget the time when Sir William was in disgrace with Your Majesty. The Earl of Moray was in England and you sent word to Lochleven that Sir William and his family were to surrender the castle and leave Scotland within six hours.”