Lochleven. She stood with her back to the casement, which, like that
of the Queen's apartment, commanded a view of Kinross, with the church,
which stands at some distance from the town, and nearer to the lake,
then connected with the town by straggling cottages. With her back to
this casement, then, and her face to the table, on which the keys lay
for an instant while she tasted the various dishes which were placed
there, stood the Lady of Lochleven, more provokingly intent than
usual--so at least it seemed to her prisoners--upon the huge and heavy
bunch of iron, the implements of their restraint. Just when, having
finished her ceremony as taster of the Queen's table, she was about to
take up the keys, the page, who stood beside her, and had handed her the
dishes in succession, looked sideways to the churchyard, and exclaimed
he saw corpse-candles in the churchyard. The Lady of Lochleven was not
without a touch, though a slight one, of the superstitions of the time;
the fate of her sons made her alive to omens, and a corpse-light, as it
was called, in the family burial-place boded death. She turned her head
towards the casement--saw a distant glimmering--forgot her charge for
one second, and in that second were lost the whole fruits of her former
vigilance. The page held the forged keys under his cloak, and with great
dexterity exchanged them for the real ones. His utmost address could not
prevent a slight clash as he took up the latter bunch. “Who touches the
keys?” said the Lady; and while the page answered that the sleeve of his
cloak had stirred them, she looked round, possessed herself of the bunch
which now occupied the place of the genuine keys, and again turned to
gaze on the supposed corpse-candles.
“I hold these gleams,” she said, after a moment's consideration, “to
come, not from the churchyard, but from the hut of the old gardener
Blinkhoolie. I wonder what thrift that churl drives, that of late he
hath ever had light in his house till the night grew deep. I thought him
an industrious, peaceful man--If he turns resetter of idle companions
and night-walkers, the place must be rid of him.”
“He may work his baskets perchance,” said the page, desirous to stop the
train of her suspicion.
“Or nets, may he not?” answered the Lady.
“Ay, madam,” said Roland, “for trout and salmon.”
“Or for fools and knaves,” replied the Lady: “but this shall be
looked after to-morrow.--I wish your Grace and your company a good
evening.--Randal, attend us.” And Randal, who waited in the antechamber
after having surrendered his bunch of keys, gave his escort to his
mistress as usual, while, leaving the Queen's apartments, she retired to
her own [End of paragraph missing in original]
“To-morrow” said the page, rubbing his hands with glee as he repeated
the Lady's last words, “fools look to-morrow, and wise folk use
to-night.--May I pray you, my gracious Liege, to retire for one half
hour, until all the castle is composed to rest? I must go and rub with
oil these blessed implements of our freedom. Courage and constancy, and
all will go well, provided our friends on the shore fail not to send the
boat you spoke of.”
“Fear them not,” said Catherine, “they are true as steel--if our dear
mistress do but maintain her noble and royal courage.”
[Footnote: In the dangerous expedition to Aberdeenshire, Randolph, the
English Ambassador, gives Cecil the following account of Queen Mary's
demeanour:--
“In all those garbulles, I assure your honour, I never saw the Queen
merrier, never dismayed; nor never thought I that stomache to be in her
that I find. She repented nothing but, when the Lords and others, at
Inverness, came in the morning from the watches, that she was not a man,
to know what life it was to lye all night in the fields, or to walk
upon the causeway with a jack and a knaps-cap, a Glasgow buckler, and a
broadsword.”--RANDOLPH _to_ CECIL, _September_ 18, 1562.
The writer of the above letter seems to have felt the same impression
which Catherine Seyton, in the text, considered as proper to the Queen's
presence among her armed subjects.
“Though we neither thought nor looked for other than on that day to have
fought or never-what desperate blows would not have been given, when
every man should have fought in the sight of so noble a Queen, and so
many fair ladies, our enemies to have taken them from us, and we to
save our honours, not to be reft of them, your honour can easily
judge.”--_The same to the same, September_ 24, 1562. ]
“Doubt not me, Catherine,” replied the Queen; “a while since I was
overborne, but I have recalled the spirit of my earlier and more
sprightly days, when I used to accompany my armed nobles, and wish to
be myself a man, to know what life it was to be in the fields with sword
and buckler, jack, and knapscap.”
“Oh, the lark lives not a gayer life, nor sings a lighter and gayer song
than the merry soldier,” answered Catherine. “Your Grace shall be in
the midst of them soon, and the look of such a liege Sovereign will make
each of your host worth three in the hour of need:--but I must to my
task.”
“We have but brief time,” said Queen Mary; “one of the two lights in the
cottage is extinguished--that shows the boat is put off.”
“They will row very slow,” said the page, “or kent where depth permits,
to avoid noise.--To our several tasks--I will communicate with the good
Father.”
At the dead hour of midnight, when all was silent in the castle, the
page put the key into the lock of the wicket which opened into the
garden, and which was at the bottom of a staircase which descended from
the Queen's apartment. “Now, turn smooth and softly, thou good bolt,”
said he, “if ever oil softened rust!” and his precautions had been so
effectual, that the bolt revolved with little or no sound of resistance.
He ventured not to cross the threshold, but exchanging a word with the
disguised Abbot, asked if the boat were ready?
“This half hour,” said the sentinel. “She lies beneath the wall, too
close under the islet to be seen by the warder, but I fear she will
hardly escape his notice in putting off again.”
“The darkness,” said the page, “and our profound silence, may take her
off unobserved, as she came in. Hildebrand has the watch on the tower--a
heavy-headed knave, who holds a can of ale to be the best headpiece upon
a night-watch. He sleeps, for a wager.”
“Then bring the Queen,” said the Abbot, “and I will call Henry Seyton to
assist them to the boat.”
On tiptoe, with noiseless step and suppressed breath, trembling at every
rustle of their own apparel, one after another the fair prisoners glided
down the winding stair, under the guidance of Roland Graeme, and were
received at the wicket-gate by Henry Seyton and the churchman. The
former seemed instantly to take upon himself the whole direction of the
enterprise. “My Lord Abbot,” he said, “give my sister your arm--I will
conduct the Queen--and that youth will have the honour to guide Lady
Fleming.”
This was no time to dispute the arrangement, although it was not that
which Roland Graeme would have chosen. Catherine Seyton, who well knew
the garden path, tripped on before like a sylph, rather leading the
Abbot than receiving assistance--the Queen, her native spirit prevailing
over female fear, and a thousand painful reflections, moved steadily
forward, by the assistance of Henry Seyton--while the Lady Fleming,
encumbered with her fears and her helplessness Roland Graeme, who
followed in the rear, and who bore under the other arm a packet of
necessaries belonging to the Queen. The door of the garden, which
communicated with the shore of the islet, yielded to one of the keys
of which Roland had possessed himself, although not until he had tried
several,--a moment of anxious terror and expectation. The ladies were
then partly led, partly carried, to the side of the lake, where a boat
with six rowers attended them, the men couched along the bottom to
secure them from observation. Henry Seyton placed the Queen in the
stern; the Abbot offered to assist Catherine, but she was seated by
the Queen's side before he could utter his proffer of help; and Roland
Graeme was just lifting Lady Fleming over the boat-side, when a thought
suddenly occurred to him, and exclaiming, “Forgotten, forgotten! wait
for me but one half-minute,” he replaced on the shore the helpless Lady
of the bed-chamber, threw the Queen's packet into the boat, and sped
back through the garden with the noiseless speed of a bird on the wing.
“By Heaven, he is false at last!” said Seyton; “I ever feared it!”
“He is as true,” said Catherine, “as Heaven itself, and that I will
maintain.”
“Be silent, minion,” said her brother, “for shame, if not for
fear--Fellows, put off, and row for your lives!”
“Help me, help me on board!” said the deserted Lady Fleming, and that
louder than prudence warranted.
“Put off--put off!” cried Henry Seyton; “leave all behind, so the Queen
is safe.”
“Will you permit this, madam?” said Catherine, imploringly; “you leave
your deliverer to death.”
“I will not,” said the Queen.--“Seyton I command you to stay at every
risk.”
“Pardon me, madam, if I disobey,” said the intractable young man; and
with one hand lifting in Lady Fleming, he began himself to push off the
boat.
She was two fathoms' length from the shore, and the rowers were getting
her head round, when Roland Graeme, arriving, bounded from the beach,
and attained the boat, overturning Seyton, on whom he lighted. The youth
swore a deep but suppressed oath, and stopping Graeme as he stepped
towards the stern, said, “Your place is not with high-born dames--keep
at the head and trim the vessel--Now give way--give way--Row, for God
and the Queen!”
The rowers obeyed, and began to pull vigorously.
“Why did ye not muffle the oars?” said Roland Graeme; “the dash must
awaken the sentinel--Row, lads, and get out of reach of shot; for
had not old Hildebrand, the warder, supped upon poppy-porridge, this
whispering must have waked him.”
“It was all thine own delay,” said Seyton; “thou shalt reckon, with me
hereafter for that and other matters.”
But Roland's apprehension was verified too instantly to permit him to
reply. The sentinel, whose slumbering had withstood the whispering, was
alarmed by the dash of the oars. His challenge was instantly heard. “A
boat---a boat!--bring to, or I shoot!” And, as they continued to ply
their oars, he called aloud, “Treason! treason!” rung the bell of the
castle, and discharged his harquebuss at the boat. The ladies crowded
on each other like startled wild foul, at the flash and report of the
piece, while the men urged the rowers to the utmost speed. They heard
more than one ball whiz along the surface of the lake, at no great
distance from their little bark; and from the lights, which glanced
like meteors from window to window, it was evident the whole castle was
alarmed, and their escape discovered.
“Pull!” again exclaimed Seyton; “stretch to your oars, or I will spur
you to the task with my dagger--they will launch a boat immediately.”
“That is cared for,” said Roland; “I locked gate and wicket on them when
I went back, and no boat will stir from the island this night, if doors
of good oak and bolts of iron can keep men within stone-walls.--And
now I resign my office of porter of Lochleven, and give the keys to the
Kelpie's keeping.”
As the heavy keys plunged in the lake, the Abbot,--who till then had
been repeating his prayers, exclaimed, “Now, bless thee, my son! for thy
ready prudence puts shame on us all.”
[Footnote: It is well known that the escape of Queen Mary from Lochleven
was effected by George Douglas, the youngest brother of Sir William
Douglas, the lord of the castle; but the minute circumstances of the
event have been a good deal confused, owing to two agents having been
concerned in it who bore the same name. It has been always supposed that
George Douglas was induced to abet Mary's escape by the ambitions hope
that, by such service, he might merit her hand. But his purpose was
discovered by his brother Sir William, and he was expelled from the
castle. He continued, notwithstanding, to hover in the neighbourhood,
and maintain a correspondence with the royal prisoner and others in the
fortress.
If we believe the English ambassador Drury, the Queen was grateful to
George Douglas, and even proposed a marriage with him; a scheme which
could hardly be serious, since she was still the wife of Bothwell, but
which, if suggested at all, might be with a purpose of gratifying the
Regent Murray's ambition, and propitiating his favour; since he was, it
must be remembered, the brother uterine of George Douglas, for whom such
high honour was said to be designed.
The proposal, if seriously made, was treated as inadmissible, and Mary
again resumed her purpose of escape. Her failure in her first attempt
has some picturesque particulars, which might have been advantageously
introduced in fictitious narrative. Drury sends Cecil the following
account of the matter:--
“But after, upon the 25th of the last, (April 1567,) she interprised
an escape, and was the rather near effect, through her accustomed long
lying in bed all the morning. The manner of it was thus: there cometh in
to her the laundress early as other times before she was wanted, and the
Queen according to such a secret practice putteth on her the hood of the
laundress, and so with the fardel of clothes and the muffler upon her
face, passeth, out and entereth the boat to pass the Loch; which, after
some space, one of them that rowed said merrily, 'Let us see what manner
of dame this is,' and therewith offered to pull down her muffler, which
to defend, she put up her hands, which they spied to be very fair and
white; wherewith they entered into suspicion whom she was, beginning to
wonder at her enterprise. Whereat she was little dismayed, but charged
them, upon danger of their lives, to row her over to the shore, which
they nothing regarded, but eftsoons rowed her back again, promising her
it should be secreted, and especially from the lord of the house, under
whose guard she lyeth. It seemeth she knew her refuge, and--where to
have found it if she had once landed; for there did, and yet do linger,
at a little village called Kinross, hard at the Loch side, the same
George Douglas, one Sempel and one Beton, the which two were sometime
her trusty servants, and, as yet appeareth, they mind her no less
affection.”--_Bishop Keith's History of the Affairs of Church and State
in Scotland_, p. 490.
Notwithstanding this disappointment, little spoke of by historians, Mary
renewed her attempts to escape. There was in the Castle of Lochleven
a lad, named William Douglas, some relation probably of the baron,
and about eighteen years old. This youth proved as accessible to Queen
Mary's prayers and promises, as was the brother of his patron, George
Douglas, from whom this William must be carefully kept distinct. It was
young William who played the part commonly assigned to his superior,
George, stealing the keys of the castle from the table on which they
lay, while his lord was at supper. He let the Queen and a waiting woman
out of the apartment where they were secured, and out of the tower
itself, embarked with them in a small skiff, and rowed them to the
shore. To prevent instant pursuit, he, for precaution's sake, locked the
iron grated door of the tower, and threw the keys into the lake. They
found George Douglas and the Queen's servant, Beton, waiting for them,
and Lord Seyton and James Hamilton of Orbeiston in attendance, at the
head of a party of faithful followers, with whom they fled to Niddrie
Castle, and from thence to Hamilton.
In narrating this romantic story, both history and tradition confuse the
two Douglasses together, and confer on George the successful execution
of the escape from the castle, the merit of which belongs, in reality,
to the boy called William, or, more frequently, the Little Douglas,
either from his youth or his slight stature. The reader will observe,
that in the romance, the part of the Little Douglas has been assigned
to Roland Graeme. In another case, it would be tedious to point out in a
work of amusement such minute points of historical fact; but the
general interest taken in the fate of Queen Mary, renders every thing of
consequence which connects itself with her misfortunes. ]
“I knew,” said Mary, drawing her breath more freely, as they were now
out of reach of the musketry--“I knew my squire's truth, promptitude,
and sagacity.--I must have him my dear friends--with my no less true
knights, Douglas and Seyton--but where, then, is Douglas?”
“Here, madam,” answered the deep and melancholy voice of the boatman who
sat next her, and who acted as steersman.
“Alas! was it you who stretched your body before me,” said the Queen,
“when the balls were raining around us?”
“Believe you,” said he, in a low tone, “that Douglas would have resigned
to any one the chance of protecting his Queen's life with his own?”
The dialogue was here interrupted by a shot or two from one of those
small pieces of artillery called falconets, then used in defending
castles. The shot was too vague to have any effect, but the broader
flash, the deeper sound, the louder return which was made by the
midnight echoes of Bennarty, terrified and imposed silence on the
liberated prisoners. The boat was alongside of a rude quay or landing
place, running out from a garden of considerable extent, ere any of
them again attempted to speak. They landed, and while the Abbot returned
thanks aloud to Heaven,--which had thus far favoured their enterprise,
Douglas enjoyed the best reward of his desperate undertaking, in
conducting the Queen to the house of the gardener.
Yet, not unmindful of Roland Graeme even in that moment of terror and
exhaustion, Mary expressly commanded Seyton to give his assistance to
Fleming, while Catherine voluntarily, and without bidding, took the arm
of the page. Seyton presently resigned Lady Fleming to the care of the
Abbot, alleging, he must look after their horses; and his attendants,
disencumbering themselves of their boat-cloaks, hastened to assist him.
While Mary spent in the gardener's cottage the few minutes which were
necessary to prepare the steeds for their departure, she perceived, in
a corner, the old man to whom the garden belonged, and called him to
approach. He came as it were with reluctance.
“How, brother,” said the Abbot, “so slow to welcome thy royal Queen and
mistress to liberty and to her kingdom!”
The old man, thus admonished, came forward, and, in good terms of
speech, gave her Grace joy of her deliverance. The Queen returned him
thanks in the most gracious manner, and added, “It will remain to us
to offer some immediate reward for your fidelity, for we wot well your
house has been long the refuge in which our trusty servants have met
to concert measures for our freedom.” So saying, she offered gold, and
added, “We will consider your services more fully hereafter.”
“Kneel, brother,” said the Abbot, “kneel instantly, and thank her
Grace's kindness.”
“Good brother, that wert once a few steps under me, and art still
many years younger,” replied the gardener, pettishly, “let me do mine
acknowledgments in my own way. Queens have knelt to me ere now, and in
truth my knees are too old and stiff to bend even to this lovely-faced
lady. May it please your Grace, if your Grace's servants have occupied
my house, so that I could not call it mine own--if they have trodden
down my flowers in the zeal of their midnight comings and goings, and
destroyed the hope of the fruit season, by bringing their war-horses
into my garden, I do but crave of your Grace in requital, that you will
choose your residence as far from me as possible. I am an old man
who would willingly creep to my grave as easily as I can, in peace,
good-will, and quiet labour.”
“I promise you fairly, good man,” said the Queen, “I will not make
yonder castle my residence again, if I can help it. But let me press on
you this money--it will make some amends for the havoc we have made in
your little garden and orchard.”
“I thank your Grace, but it will make me not the least amends,” said the
old man. “The ruined labours of a whole year are not so easily replaced
to him who has perchance but that one year to live; and besides, they
tell me I must leave this place and become a wanderer in mine old age--I
that have nothing on earth saving these fruit-trees, and a few old
parchments and family secrets not worth knowing. As for gold, if I had
loved it, I might have remained Lord Abbot of St. Mary's--and yet, I
wot not--for, if Abbot Boniface be but the poor peasant Blinkhoolie, his
successor, the Abbot Ambrosius, is still transmuted for the worse into
the guise of a sword-and-buckler-man.”
“Is this indeed the Abbot Boniface of whom I have heard?” said the
Queen. “It is indeed I who should have bent the knee for your blessing,
good Father.”
“Bend no knee to me, Lady! The blessing of an old man, who is no longer
an Abbot, go with you over dale and down--I hear the trampling of your
horses.”
“Farewell, Father,” said the Queen. “When we are once more seated at
Holyrood, we will neither forget thee nor thine injured garden.”
“Forget us both,” said the Ex-Abbot Boniface, “and may God be with you!”
As they hurried out of the house, they heard the old man talking and
muttering to himself, as he hastily drew bolt and bar behind them.
“The revenge of the Douglasses will reach the poor old man,” said the
Queen. “God help me, I ruin every one whom I approach!”
“His safety is cared for,” said Seyton; “he must not remain here, but
will be privately conducted to a place of greater security. But I would
your Grace were in the saddle.--To horse! to horse!”
The party of Seyton and of Douglas were increased to about ten by those
attendants who had remained with the horses. The Queen and her ladies,
with all the rest who came from the boat, were instantly mounted; and
holding aloof from the village, which was already alarmed by the firing
from the castle, with Douglas acting as their guide, they soon reached
the open ground and began to ride as fast as was consistent with keeping
together in good order.
Chapter the Thirty-Sixth.
He mounted himself on a coal-black steed,
And her on a freckled gray,
With a bugelet horn hung down from his side,
And roundly they rode away.
OLD BALLAD.
The influence of the free air, the rushing of the horses over high and
low, the ringing of the bridles, the excitation at once arising from a
sense of freedom and of rapid motion, gradually dispelled the confused
and dejected sort of stupefaction by which Queen Mary was at first
overwhelmed. She could not at last conceal the change of her feelings to
the person who rode at her rein, and who she doubted not was the Father
Ambrosius; for Seyton, with all the heady impetuosity of a youth, proud,
and justly so, of his first successful adventure, assumed all the bustle
and importance of commander of the little party, which escorted, in the
language of the time, the Fortune of Scotland. He now led the van,
now checked his bounding steed till the rear had come up, exhorted the
leaders to keep a steady, though rapid pace, and commanded those who
were hindmost of the party to use their spurs, and allow no interval to
take place in their line of march; and anon he was beside the Queen, or
her ladies, inquiring how they brooked the hasty journey, and whether
they had any commands for him. But while Seyton thus busied himself in
the general cause with some advantage to the regular order of the march,
and a good deal of personal ostentation, the horseman who rode beside
the Queen gave her his full and undivided attention, as if he had
been waiting upon some superior being. When the road was rugged and
dangerous, he abandoned almost entirely the care of his own horse, and
kept his hand constantly upon the Queen's bridle; if a river or larger
brook traversed their course, his left arm retained her in the saddle,
while his right held her palfrey's rein.
“I had not thought, reverend Father,” said the Queen, when they reached
the other bank, “that the convent bred such good horsemen.”--The person
she addressed sighed, but made no other answer.--“I know not how it is,”
said Queen Mary, “but either the sense of freedom, or the pleasure of
my favourite exercise, from which I have been so long debarred, or both
combined, seem to have given wings to me--no fish ever shot through the
water, no bird through the air, with the hurried feeling of liberty
and rapture with which I sweep through, this night-wind, and over these
wolds. Nay, such is the magic of feeling myself once more in the
saddle, that I could almost swear I am at this moment mounted on my own
favourite Rosabelle, who was never matched in Scotland for swiftness,
for ease of motion, and for sureness of foot.”
“And if the horse which bears so dear a burden could speak,” answered
the deep voice of the melancholy George of Douglas, “would she not
reply, who but Rosabelle ought at such an emergence as this to serve her
beloved mistress, or who but Douglas ought to hold her bridle-rein?”