“What you have given us was good indeed,” said the Queen. “I shall always remember you with gratitude.”
The woman started up. She had heard the sound of galloping horses and, running to her window, she saw that her cottage was surrounded.
“Mercy on us!” she cried. “What does this mean?”
The Queen went to the window, Willie beside her, his sword drawn. Then he laughed suddenly because he had seen that those who surrounded the cottage were Herries, Fleming, and Livingstone and the rest.
“All is well,” he said. “You have nothing to fear, good woman. These are our friends.”
“Your friends!” she cried. “Then who are you?”
Mary said: “I am the Queen.”
The woman stared at her disbelievingly and then her eyes went to the table on which the empty bowl now stood.
“The Queen!” said the woman. “Sitting at my table . . . eating my oats!”
Mary laid her hand on her shoulder. Then she turned to Willie: “Go out and tell our friends that all is well, and ask Lord Herries to come here.”
“Lord Herries!” cried the woman, for in her eyes he was as grand a personage as the Queen, more to be feared perhaps because he was the laird of the land on which her cottage stood—whereas the Queen was merely a name to her.
“If you could ask for something,” said Mary, “what would it be?”
“Ask for something?” stammered the woman.
“Some gift. Tell me what you would rather have than anything in the world.”
The woman looked about the walls of her cottage; lovingly she raised her eyes to the ceiling. “I’d ask that this cottage was my very own,” she said.
Mary was about to say, It is yours, when she remembered that she was a Queen flying for her life, that she had been robbed of most of her possessions, including her crown. Was she in a position to say: This is yours?
She felt disconsolate. It was characteristic that she was more hurt now by the loss of her power to grant this woman her small wish than she had been by the confiscation of her precious jewels.
Lord Herries was at the door and the woman made a deep curtsy.
“I have enjoyed hospitality under this roof,” said Mary, “and I should like to show my gratitude. I should like to give this woman the cottage in which she lives and for which she now pays rent. It is on your land, Lord Herries.”
“The cottage is hers, Your Majesty.”
The woman stared from one to the other and in the emotion of the moment tears gushed from her eyes.
“My lord Herries . . . ” she began.
“Your thanks are due to Her Majesty,” Herries told her.
The woman cried: “But I only gave her that which I would give any hungry traveler. Oatmeal and sour milk . . . and for that . . . this cottage is mine.”
“Not for the oatmeal,” answered Mary gently, “but for your kindness to a weary traveler. Kindness is not always easy to come by and I value it highly.”
Herries said: “What is the name of your cottage, that I may know which one it is?”
“It is Dunn’s Wa’s, my lord.”
“Dunn’s Wa’s,” Herries repeated. “Now tell me where I can find fresh horses.”
“Up at the farm of Culdoach, my lord. They have horses there.”
So the Queen departed and in the cottage its new owner sat by her table and covered her face with her apron, rocking herself to and fro, because in that moment she could not bear to look at those beloved walls which would henceforth be her own. And all because she had given a stranger a share of her sparse supper! There’d be a little less to eat at her next meal—but she could not have enjoyed it if she had denied a weary, hungry stranger a share.
And for this . . . Dunn’s Wa’s was hers.
THE FUGITIVES had put fifty miles between them and the battlefield of Langside and had now come to Dundrennan Abbey.
Here they halted, for on the other side of the Solway Firth was England. Looking across the water Mary could see the mountains of Elizabeth’s country and she felt a great longing to be there. In Scotland she must remain a fugitive until she could raise a large enough army to win back all she had lost; and she could not do that while she was flying before the enemy. She needed respite which only refuge in a foreign country could give her.
So at the Abbey of Dundrennan she called together her faithful band, and with Gordon of Lochinvar who had joined them, they sat around a council table to discuss further plans.
Among those who talked with her were Lord Herries, Lord Fleming and the Laird of Lochinvar, Lord Livingstone, Lord Boyd and George Douglas.
Herries began by saying that he believed the Queen could stay in Dundrennan and there hold out against the enemy. The place would make a good fortress and would not be difficult to defend. There was no doubt that Huntley was on the march and would join them shortly. When he arrived with his Highlanders they would be ready for battle again, and this time they would defeat the enemy.
It was Livingstone’s opinion that they should move to a more doughty fortress than Dundrennan. There were stronger places not very far distant and they should make one of these their headquarters without delay and prepare for a siege.
Lord Boyd with Lochinvar considered that the Queen was in danger as long as she remained on Scottish soil. In France she had powerful relations; she could enlist the help of the King of France. They believed that without delay she should set out for France.
Mary listened, considering each proposal as it was offered. To stay in Scotland? To risk capture and another long imprisonment such as she had suffered at Lochleven? She could not endure that.
Go to France? She thought of her ambitious uncles and the Queen-Mother of France who had always hated her. How could she return to that country where she had once reigned as Queen, where she had been beloved—except by the Queen-Mother—where she had been so happy? How could she return, a miserable fugitive, begging for help, seeking a refuge?
She could imagine the reception she would get from Catherine de’ Medici. She shivered and as she looked through the window at the distant mountains of England, she spoke firmly: “I am going to England. I shall throw myself on the mercy of my cousin Elizabeth.” The men about the table stared at her in dismay, but Mary went on: “She will help me. She is angry, I have been told, to hear that I am so treated. She will give me her sympathy, and more. She will help me to regain my kingdom. We are of an age—though she is a few years older than I. We are both women, both Queens. There is a bond between us.”
“Your Majesty,” said Herries, “I implore you to reconsider your decision. You know that Elizabeth has been helping Moray to defy you?”
“He sought her help and she gave it.”
“It does not seem as though she feels herself to be Your Majesty’s friend.”
“If I can go to Hampton Court, and confer with her there, I know I shall win her sympathy. We are two women; we are cousins.”
“Your Majesty,” began Livingstone, “can you trust the Queen of England?”
“I have never had any reason not to.”
“The English have always been our enemies. They killed your father.”
“I know, but that was not the present Queen.”
“May I recall to Your Majesty’s mind how your illustrious ancestor, James I, ventured to England in a time of peace; he was made prisoner for many years.”
“This is a woman, a Queen like myself. She is no hard-hearted man who wants to go to war and pillage and kill. The Queen of England hates war. We know that.”
“She likes the spoils of war and prefers others to fight for them.”
“She hates war,” said Mary firmly.
“Your Majesty,” said Livingstone, “when your royal father was invited to York to meet Henry VIII of England he was warned by his nobles, after setting out on the journey, that he would be wise to turn back. He did.”