“Sir John Bellenden,” was the answer, “Justice-Clerk and owner of this house.”
“You are mistaken. This house belongs to me. My father left it to me.”
“You are wrong, Madam. It belongs to me. The estates of James Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh are confiscated by the Regent, and Woodhouselee is his gift to me for my services to Scotland.”
“This cannot be so. This house is not my husband’s property, but mine.”
“Madam, that which was your property became your husband’s on your marriage, and I tell you that all his possessions have passed out of his hands.”
“If my husband were here . . . ”
“Alas, he is not. We should know how to deal with a traitor.”
“He is no traitor.”
“Come, Madam, he has worked against the King and has sought to bring back Mary to the throne.”
“You see my state. My child is but a few days old. Leave me in peace and this matter will doubtless be settled in due course.”
“I have come to take possession, and I must ask you to leave my house without a moment’s delay.”
“You see how I am placed!”
“I see only that you trespass in my house.”
“Please leave me now. I am not strong yet . . . and I feel faint.”
“The fresh air will revive you. Come, Madam, rise from your bed. I shall give you five minutes in which to prepare to leave the house. If you have not gone in that time you will be forcibly evicted.”
With that he left her, and she lay listening to the sounds of heavy footsteps in other parts of the house. Her maid came to her bedside; she was weeping.
“What shall we do, Madam? What can we do?”
“They cannot mean that they will turn us out. They will take this house . . . my Woodhouselee . . . but not now. They must give me time . . . .”
She held her child tightly in her arms, and it was thus that Bellenden found her when he returned to the room.
“So you are obstinate,” he growled. “Come, rise from that bed at once.” He turned to the maid. “Find a cloak for her. She will need it . . . it is cold outside.”
For Alison what followed was as unreal as a nightmare, and as terrifying. Fainting, scarcely able to stand, she was forced to rise from her bed; a cloak was wrapped about her and, clasping her baby in her arms, she was turned out of doors.
The cold winds tore at her garments; the snow was falling so thickly that she could not see. The baby began to cry but she could not comfort him.
She tried to grope her way to the woods, where she believed she might find some shelter. She plunged through the snow, weeping and calling for her husband to come and help her.
There was no one abroad on such a night and, although Alison knew the surrounding country well, the heavy snowdrifts had changed its contours, and soon she was lost.
She stumbled on; she believed she had reached the woods but was not sure as, clutching the baby tightly to her, she fell into a deep drift.
WHEN NEWS of the fate of his wife and child was brought to James Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh, who was at that time living secretly at Linlithgow in the house of his kinsman, Archibald Hamilton, his grief was uncontrollable. But it was soon replaced by a rage that was even greater, and the only way in which he could bear to go on living at that time was to plan revenge.
Bellenden was in residence at Woodhouselee, and it was certain that there would be a strong guard about him, for it was believed that Bothwellhaugh would not be able to resist taking his revenge on the man who had sent his wife and child so callously to their death.
But, reasoned Bothwellhaugh, and the whole Hamilton clan were with him in this, there was one who was more to blame than Bellenden. That was the man who set a ruthless example to his lieutenants; it was the man who would shrug callous shoulders when he heard of the tragedy at Woodhouselee, and wish everyone to know that such a fate was to be expected by all those who disobeyed the Regent’s orders.
Bothwellhaugh would assuage his grief, not by the assassination of the insignificant Bellenden, but by that of the Regent Moray.
ON THE 23RD DAY of January Moray would pass through Linlithgow on his way to Edinburgh, and Bothwellhaugh was ready for him. He had concealed himself in a house where the High Street was at its most narrow. At this point the cavalcade in which the Regent rode would be slowed down, and moreover it was impossible for more than two to ride abreast. The house backed onto fields; and in the fields a saddled horse was waiting.
Bothwellhaugh, spurred, ready for flight, watching behind latticed windows, was thinking of Alison—lying abed, the child in her arms, waiting for him, of her wandering blindly through the snow, of her terrible end. When he thought of this his fingers grew steady and he knew with cold certainty that when he took aim he would not miss.
At the lattice windows were hangings to conceal him; in these he had cut a hole only large enough to take the muzzle of his harquebuss. There were four bullets in that harquebuss. He intended to make no mistake.
Now the cavalcade was turning into the High Street, and Bothwellhaugh, concealed by the hangings, could peep through them and watch its progress. At its head he rode—the Regent Moray, the man who, as much as that other, was the murderer of his dear Alison. Bothwellhaugh only needed to remember that, and he could feel quite cool and calm.
The Regent was almost abreast of the window. Now was the moment.
Bothwellhaugh took careful aim; and when he saw Moray fall forward, saw the red blood staining his jacket, he knew that he had avenged Alison and their baby.
He heard the shouts as he ran from the room, down to the garden, leaped onto his horse and was a mile away before Moray’s men had succeeded in breaking into the barricaded house.
Bothwellhaugh had flown to Hamilton; and the Regent Moray’s turbulent life was ended.
JAMIE DEAD! Mary could not believe the news when it was brought to her.
She pictured him, riding at the head of his men—vigorously living one moment; and the next slipping away to death.
She wept for the Jamie she had known as a child when she had believed him to be her friend. She had loved him then, and she had found it difficult not to go on loving him. He was clever; he was meant to be a ruler; he was his father’s son; she had understood more than most, the terrible frustration he had suffered because he was not the King’s legitimate son. She, who was that King’s legitimate daughter and heir, could forgive Jamie more readily than most of her friends could do.
Seton came to her and found her weeping.
“Your Majesty should dry your eyes,” she said. “This should prove no hardship to you. He was never your friend, and of late years your most bitter enemy.”
“All that is over now, Seton,” Mary replied sorrowfully. “He is gone to his Maker, and I can only remember my big brother . . . whom once I thought to be my friend.”
“Then Your Majesty should remember his conduct to you since Carberry Hill. Most of your sufferings can be traced to him.”
“Perhaps I should, Seton, but I was never one to do what I should. My emotions will always command my actions; and I can only think of Jamie in the days when I loved him so dearly and thought I was the luckiest girl in Scotland to have him for my brother. So leave me now, and since you cannot share my grief, let me mourn in secret.”
So Seton left her with her memories of the young Jamie; and as the Queen wept for the past, which might have been so different, her faithful friends were asking each other what difference this would make to her future.
ELIZABETH WAS HORRIFIED by the assassination of the Regent, whom she had looked upon as an ally and who was ready to obey her wishes; it had been part of her plan to keep him ruler of Scotland; she had also of late wished him to rid her of the Queen of Scots.
It had been an obsession with Elizabeth—since the rising of Northern Catholics—that she must rid herself of Mary; and to find this plan—which had seemed to her the only safe one—foiled by Moray’s assassination, made her for the time being almost frantic.