DURING THE NEXT few days Mary thought constantly of George Douglas, and she longed to reward him for his devotion to her, for she knew that he was in love with her and that it was the love born of chivalry.
“Poor George,” she said to Seton in whom she confided most of her thoughts. “He is wasting his life with me.”
Seton who was dressing the Queen’s hair, paused, the comb in her hand and said:
“When the time comes for you to fight your way back to the throne and he is with you, he will not consider he has wasted his time.”
“If ever I return to the Scottish throne there shall be honors for George . . . and for Willie. Never, never shall I forget what they have done for me. Willie is but a boy and his lot here is no more uncomfortable than it was at Lochleven . . . but George is different. He is a young man who should be making his way in the world. He should find a beautiful wife and live happily with her, not spend his days in semi-captivity, sighing for a queen who can never be aught else to him. Seton, I wish there was something I could do for George.”
“You do all that he asks, simply by existing,” replied Seton with a smile.
“It is not enough. I want him to go from here, Seton.”
“George . . . leave you! He would never obey that command.”
“He would if I made it . . . in a certain way. Do you know that he was betrothed to a French heiress? Christian told me, and I have seen a portrait of her. She is very beautiful. I am sure George will love her.”
“George is faithful to one and one only.”
“Do not smile, Seton. I will not allow him to waste his manhood here in Carlisle . . . or Bolton . . . and perhaps other castles to which one day I shall be taken—for I begin to fear I shall never be allowed to visit Elizabeth.”
“Your Majesty is sad today.”
“Yes, because I know that soon I must say goodbye to George. There is something else, Seton. The men of my suite are no longer allowed to have their quarters in the castle. Since I read John Wood’s letters and have some idea of the correspondence which passes between the Regent and Elizabeth’s ministers, I suspect that ere long some of my faithful friends will be sent back to Scotland. What do you think their fate would be? If George were sent back, all that he has done for me would most certainly cost him his head. I am determined to prevent that. And there is only one way in which this can be done. I shall try to send George to France.”
“Lord Fleming, it seems, cannot obtain a safe conduct. Would George?”
“I think he might succeed where Lord Fleming has failed. His more humble status would make him seem less important in their eyes. And I should not make the mistake of sending letters with George.”
“Are you determined on this? You would miss him sadly.”
“I have thought of that. The parting will be a sad one for us both, but I am so fond of that young man, Seton, that I cannot let him waste his life for me. He is so young. He will in time outgrow his love for me. I shall be his Queen, and he will always be my faithful subject. But he would be happier with a wife . . . . with children and some hope of making his way in the world.”
“But when Your Majesty regains the throne?”
“The first thing I shall do will be to send for George Douglas and offer him honors which are his due.”
“So you are determined to see George. When will you do so?”
“There seems little point in delaying further. Let it be now, Seton. Send him to me.”
GEORGE STOOD before her, and when she saw the desolation in his eyes, she wavered.
Let him stay with her. It was what he wished; it was what she wished. Let the future take care of itself.
“Oh George,” she said, stretching out a hand to him which he took and covered with kisses, “do not think that I want you to go. I shall miss you very much. Do not think that I shall ever forget what you have done for me.”
“I ask only to be allowed to stay near you, to defend Your Majesty if need be, to be at your side . . . to serve you in victory or defeat.”
“I know, George. No Queen ever had more faithful subject; no woman more loving friend. But you have seen what has happened since our coming into England. It is very necessary that my friends in France should know what is happening to me. George, I begin to feel that is the only direction in which I can look for help. You will be on my service. I want you to go to France. I do not think the Queen of England will deny you a safe conduct as she has Lord Fleming. I want you to see the King, who is my very good friend. My uncles, the Duke of Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine will be your friends and take you to the Court. There you can do more for me than you can here in England.”
An eager look had come into George’s face. He believed her; and if he could serve her best by being denied the joy of her presence he was willing enough to accept the sacrifice.
“I shall give you no letters to take to them, but I am writing through the French ambassador to tell them of your coming. So they will be expecting you; and when you are there, George, I know that you will plead my cause as few others could, because all you do for me is done for love of me and not hope of any honors I might one day be in a position to give you. Willie shall remain with me. Have no fear that I shall not reward him when the opportunity arises. Never, never shall I forget those days in Lochleven and all I owe you two.”
George knelt before her to hide his emotion. He wanted to tell her how he adored her, to repeat again and again that he longed to give his life for her.
She understood and, making him rise, kissed him tenderly.
“You do not have to speak, George,” she said. “I understand. And it is friendship such as yours that makes it possible for me to endure my misfortunes with a good heart.”
George said: “Once Your Majesty gave me an earring, I treasure it always. Shall it still be a symbol, should the need arise to send it?”
He took the earring from a small pouch which hung on a chain under his doublet and showed it to her.
“Ah yes, I remember it well. I have its fellow, and think of all you have done for me every time I see it.”
She wanted to give him the other earring—a present for his bride. But no, that would be to tell him the real reason why she was sending him away. He must not be allowed to guess that. Later, perhaps, she thought, when he is betrothed, when he realizes that a man needs more from life than the love between us two.
“I will give you something else, George, to set beside that earring. A memento of me.” She went into the ante-chamber and came out with a portrait of herself. It was a charming picture, a good likeness in which she looked serene and beautiful; diaphanous material falling from her coif draped her shoulders; her ruff was of finest lace and the delicate white fingers of her right hand fingered the jewel which hung about her neck.
George was so moved that he could not speak; as for Mary, she was finding it difficult to control her emotions. Impulsive as she knew herself to be she believed that if he did not go she would throw herself into his arms and beg him to stay, to say to him: Why should we think of the future . . . either of us? What has the future for us? You are young and I am not much older.
She turned away from him and as she looked toward the Scottish hills, she thought of the guards about this castle and the plans to move her to a stronger fortress. She thought too of other men who had loved her—of her three husbands, whom tragedy had overtaken. To only one had she brought happiness—to little François, delicate, clinging François to whom she had been nurse and playmate. But that had been a childhood friendship rather than marriage. Then Darnley who, after their brief and stormy union, had been the victim of murder. Had he not married Mary Stuart he would certainly not have met violent death in Kirk o’ Field. And Bothwell . . . what fate could be more unendurable to him than that of a prisoner! And this had befallen him because he had married Mary Stuart.