AT TERREGLES a follower of Herries, who had hoped that he might find his master there, had come riding from the battlefield. He brought the news that Lord Moray was sending parties out in all directions to search for the Queen and all the efforts of the conquerors were now being concentrated on her capture.
So the stay at Terregles was very brief.
Herries believed that there was one way in which the Queen could hope to regain her throne, and that was by escaping from Scotland to France, where her relatives and friends would provide her with money and perhaps soldiers to fight for her crown. Meanwhile loyal supporters in Scotland would wait for her return.
There was no time to discuss such matters now, but he knew that Livingstone and Fleming agreed with him. Their objective was the coast. If they could have crossed the Clyde and arrived at Dumbarton the flight to France would have been comparatively easy, for there ships worthy to cross the seas would have been in readiness for them. As it was they would strike the coast farther south, and who could tell what vessels would be at their disposal?
But there was no time for regrets; they must move quickly because Terregles would be one of the first places in which Moray would expect to find the Queen sheltering, since it belonged to Herries.
So the journey began again with Herries leading the way through the lonely passes of the Glenkens until they at length came to the banks of the River Ken.
Mary was almost asleep in her saddle when Herries announced that they had arrived at the Castle of Earlston.
Earlston! As Mary stared at the castle she forgot her exhaustion, for memory had brought vividly to her mind the picture of a burly man, crude and brutal, who shouted: “I will take you to my castle of Earlston . . . and there in that lonely spot far from your courtiers you shall learn who is the master.”
Had he need to take her there, to show her what he had proved in her Court when she had been surrounded by her courtiers?
She began to shiver. “No, my lord Herries,” she said, “I will not stay at Earlston.”
“Your Majesty, there is no other refuge for miles, and you are exhausted.”
Mary shook her head. “No,” she repeated coldly.
She turned her horse and as she did so she seemed to throw off her exhaustion. “Come,” she said, “we can ride on a few more miles.”
And as they rode the memories of Bothwell came flooding back. In this wild country he would have hunted and made sport. It was as though his spirit rode beside her, as though he mocked, as though he said: So even now, when I am miles away across the sea, you are afraid to enter a place which was once a home of mine. Why, Mary?
Why? she asked herself. He was far away. He could do no harm to her. Did she believe that the presence of one so vital could never be completely eradicated and must linger on in spirit when the man himself had departed?
Why was it that she could not endure to enter a place which must be full of reminders of him, where she would be afraid of encountering something which would bring back memories that were too bitter to be borne? Did it mean that she longed for him still?
She was not sure. But she believed that her abhorrence of Earlston meant that she no longer cared to be reminded; that memories brought back too much that was shameful; that there was a superstition in her mind that he it was who had brought her to disaster, and that some evil force within him could harm her still.
No, she could not be entirely sure. She only knew that, exhausted as she was, she would rather ride on than enter a house in which he had once lived.
So on they rode until at length they came to Kenmure, an estate belonging to the Laird of Lochinvar.
THE LAIRD of Lochinvar had bad news for her. Her pursuers had discovered the direction in which she was traveling, and were not many miles away. It could be fatal if she tarried; so, pausing just long enough to take refreshment, she and her faithful band were on their way again. On they rode through miles of wild and beautiful country; and eventually they came to a bridge which crossed the River Dee.
Here Herries, calling a halt, said they would cross the bridge and then break it down so that when their pursuers reached this spot they would be delayed in their crossing of the river.
Lord Livingstone looked with compassion at the Queen. “Your Majesty,” he said, “rest here while we demolish the bridge. At least it will be a small respite.”
So Mary dismounted and Willie Douglas tied her horse to a tree and she stretched herself out on the grass and closed her eyes. She was thirsty and, realizing how hungry she was, she called Willie to her.
“I would give a great deal for some food and wine,” she said.
Willie grinned and laid his hand on the sword, which he would not give up although it impeded him considerably. Willie felt that he was no longer a boy since he had left Lochleven; he was ready to work like a man and fight like a man for his sovereign.
“I’ll go and forage,” he told her.
George, who was busy at work on the bridge, called after Willie: “Where are you going? If you’re not here when we’re ready to go, you’ll be left behind.”
Willie answered: “Dinna fach yourself, Geordie Douglas.” He drew out his word and brandished it as though to show what he would do to any who stood in his way.
Mary could not help smiling, and when the men’s attention was on the bridge she rose and followed Willie.
“Willie,” she called.
He stopped and she came up beside him.
“Why dinna you rest?” he demanded, “you’re weary.”
“So are we all,” she said. “Where are you going?”
“There’s smoke in yon trees,” said Willie. “It means there’s a cottage there. I’m going to ask for food for you.”
“I shall come with you.”
Willie looked dubious, but she smiled and said: “I wish it, Willie; and I am your Queen, remember, although I sometimes think you forget it.”
“Oh ay,” said Willie, “Your Majesty’s such a bonny lassie that it slips the mind ye’re a Queen as well.”
It was impossible not to be amused by Willie. He was so loyal and so frank. She trusted him to work for her as she could never trust some who overwhelmed her with their flattery.
So she and Willie came to the cottage, and when Willie knocked on the door a woman opened it.
“What is it you want?” she asked.
“We’re travelers in sore need of food,” Willie told her. “This lady needs to rest and eat if we are to continue our journey.”
The woman peered at the Queen.
“Oh you poor creatures!” she said. “Come you in and you shall have some of that that’s in my cupboard.”
Into the small room stepped the Queen with Willie, and the woman bade them sit at her table.
“Have ye come far?” she asked, turning to the cupboard.
“Very far,” answered Mary.
“Ah . . . these are troublous times.”
“You live alone?” Mary asked.
“Nay, there’s my good man who works up at Culdoach Farm.”
“Is that far?”
“Oh no. We’re on the farm land now.”
The woman had brought oatmeal and sour milk from her cupboard. She had scarcely enough for herself but her heart was touched by the plight of the travelers and she was willing to share with them all she had. At any other time Mary would have been unable to eat such fare, but so great was her hunger that it tasted good.
The woman was looking at the Queen’s hands and had noticed the dainty way in which she ate.
“If I had more and better fare,” she said, “you should have it.”