“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.”
“Your Majesty, the Confederate Lords would acclaim him King of Scotland.”
“And appoint a Regency!” she said bitterly. “A baby could do little to stand in their way, could he?”
“Your Majesty . . . ”
She turned her head away wearily. “I am too ill for such matters,” she said. “How cruel of them to confront me with this . . . now. Could they not let me live in peace for a few more weeks that I might recover my strength?”
Melville was silent. He was moved by her plight. It was difficult for any man not to be touched by Mary. Her beauty was indestructible, but it was not merely her beauty which was appealing; it was a certain helplessness; a certain fragility; she was completely feminine, possessed of all that was most appealing to men.