Royal Road to Fotheringhay - Plaidy Jean - Страница 55

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“Madam,” cried Gavin Hamilton, “the story of this wild plot to kidnap you is untrue. There never was such a plot. The young Earl imagined it. He threw himself at the Duke’s feet, crying that he was possessed by devils and that Bothwell had persuaded him to treason. The Duke threatened to kill his son, and now Arran has escaped through a window by means of knotted sheets. It is not known where he is, but the Duke of Chatelherault considered it expedient to put the whole story before Your Majesty.”

Mary commanded Gavin Hamilton to go to a private chamber where he would be given refreshment. When she was alone with her brother she turned her anxious face to him. Though the plan seemed wild, she feared that it might contain some substance, and she could not help picturing herself the prisoner of Arran and Bothwell.

James said: “We will at least keep Master Gavin Hamilton under restraint until we have thoroughly probed this matter.”

Before Gavin had finished the meal which was brought to him, Bothwell himself appeared at Falkland Castle.

“Send him to me at once,” said Mary when she heard of his arrival.

He came swaggering in, insolent and arrogant as ever. He showed no sign that he was aware that his plan had miscarried.

James and Maitland were both with the Queen.

“My lord Bothwell,” she began, “we have had strange visitors this day.”

“Madam?” he questioned. His cool eyes appraised her, stripping her of her jewels, her velvets. She believed that in his mind’s eye he set her side by side with the peasant women with whom, she had heard, he amused himself from time to time. His gaze made her uncomfortable.

“I beg of you, do not feign ignorance,” she said with heightened color.

“I feign nothing, Madam. I am entirely ignorant of the comings of your strange visitors.”

“The Abbot of Kilwinning has been here. Does that suggest anything to you?”

“I do not know the fellow, Madam.”

“You know that he is a Hamilton. He brings me news of the Duke of Chatelherault.”

“Bad news, I assume, from Your Majesty’s agitation.”

The cold eyes of James Stuart watched him; the shrewd ones of Maitland never left his face.

“He has exposed your plot, my lord.”

“Plot? What plot? To what plot does Your Majesty refer?”

“The plot which was conceived by you, Arran and Chatelherault, to kidnap me.”

“What is this? I know of no such plot, Madam.”

Mary turned helplessly to James and Maitland.

“You will need to convince Her Majesty of that more successfully than you are doing at the moment,” James said.

“I do not understand your lordship.”

“There is a grave accusation against you.”

“Who makes this accusation? Mad Arran?”

“The plot,” said Maitland flippantly, “does not seem so mad as the man who made it.”

“So Arran has accused me?”

“Arran has laid bare the facts.”

“Bring the fellow here!” cried Bothwell. “Let him accuse me to my face. By God! I’ll challenge him … or any who accuse me … to single combat.”

“No such combat could serve to elucidate this matter,” said Maitland.

“By God!” cried Bothwell. “Combat can decide whether a man shall live or die. I give you my word it can be both judge and jury.”

“It shall not be in this case,” said Maitland. “The Queen is determined to uncover the truth.”

James had given a signal, and six men-at-arms appeared. They knew what they had to do.

Bothwell’s hand went to his sword; but deciding this was not the time for violence, he hesitated.

He looked straight at the Queen, and his gaze, which seemed to hold something of contempt in it, made her shiver.

“I demand justice,” he said.

She answered quickly: “It shall be yours, my lord.”

He allowed himself to be led away.

MARY TRIED to forget the unpleasant affair. She turned from the subject whenever it was raised.

“I am tired… tired of these perpetual quarrels!” she cried.

And then perhaps there would be a wedding at Court to amuse her; then she could briefly forget. She was planning for her meeting with the Queen of England. It should be the most splendid meeting in history. There should be tents set up on the Border and each country should display its chivalry. Her pageants should rival those of the Field of the Cloth of Gold.

But the Queen of England continually found excuses for postponing the meeting.

Meanwhile poor Arran had wandered the countryside, a raving lunatic, and had eventually arrived at the house of an old friend, Sir William Kirkcaldy, in a sorry state, his clothes torn, his body weak from hunger and his mind so distorted that he believed he was the Queens husband and that, instead of lying in a state of collapse at the door of Hallyards, Sir Williams mansion, he was lying in an oak bed at Holyrood with the Queen.

He had wept at the feet of Kirkcaldy and told him he was possessed by devils, that he was the thrall of witches. He was brought to Falkland and later imprisoned in Edinburgh Castle. Bothwell was also imprisoned there. The Duke of Chatelherault had thrown himself at Marys feet and wept so bitterly that she had embraced him and told him he should not suffer. James, however, had insisted that Dumbarton Castle should be confiscated on the grounds that the son and his confederate could not be imprisoned while the father was held to be guiltless.

“Then,” said Mary, “let us free Bothwell and Arran.”

“All in good time,” said James.

“Yet should not these men have a speedy trial? Should they be kept imprisoned before they have been proved guilty?”

James smiled tenderly. “Dearest sister, Arran would have to be restrained in any case, so he suffers no hardship. As for Bothwell, it is as well to keep that rogue out of mischief for a while. Even if he is guiltless in this matter, his sins are many. Let this imprisonment serve to wipe off some of the punishment which is most surely due to him.”

Mary had to be content with that. She was not really sorry. Arran’s madness and his preoccupation with marriage to herself perturbed her. Bothwell had a like effect.

Then fresh trouble broke out.

It started when Sir John Gordon, son of Huntley, the Cock o’ the North, strolling through the streets of Edinburgh, had come face-to-face with Lord Ogilvie of Airlie and drawn his sword; in the fight Ogilvie was wounded, and Gordon taken and imprisoned in the Tolbooth.

The story of their feud was then brought to light. Lord Ogilvie had brought an action against John Gordon. One of the Ogilvies—a dissolute youth—had tried to persuade his stepmother to become his mistress, at which his father had been so enraged as to disinherit him and give a portion of his land to Sir John Gordon. Young Ogilvie had called a family conference, and Lord Ogilvie, maintaining that whatever the circumstances, his kinsman had no right to give away to outsiders that which belonged to his family, had brought a lawsuit in the hope of retrieving the property for the Ogilvies.

Sir John Gordon was infuriated at the bringing of the action. In the Highlands Lord Huntley and all the family of Gordon were regarded as rulers; they did not suffer insults, and if any were offered them it was—as was customary with the Borderer Bothwell—a matter for swordplay. Hence, swaggering through the streets of Edinburgh and meeting Ogilvie, it had seemed right and natural to draw the sword. That he—a Gordon—should be thrust into prison for such an action was an insult.

He had immediately found means of escaping and had fled to the stronghold of the North.

When James Stuart heard of this his eyes glistened and he licked his lips. He remembered the rich lands of Strathearn and Cardel which went with the Earldom of Moray and which were at that time held by the Gordons; he immediately began to see ways in which he could turn this affair to his advantage.

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