The first attempt, on 25th March 1568, miscarried, although it had been carefully thought out. Every week a washerwoman with some other girls came across to the island in a boat. Douglas had a talk with this laundress, who agreed to exchange clothes with the Queen. Safeguarded against recognition by the laundress’ coarse clothing and by a thick muffler, Mary walked boldly past the sentries at the castle gates. She was already being rowed across the lake, towards the shore where George Douglas was to await her with horses, when it occurred to one of the oarsmen to dally with the slender, muffled woman who was clad as a laundress. Wanting to see whether her face was as pretty as her figure, he tried to draw aside the muffler, which Mary obstinately held with her slender and delicate white hands. These hands, being well cared for, were obviously out of keeping with her dress. The boatmen became alarmed, and although the Queen angrily commanded them to continue on their course, they put about and took her back to prison.
The attempt at escape was promptly reported to Edinburgh, and thenceforward the prisoner was kept under closer supervision. George Douglas was forbidden to re-enter the castle. From the neighbourhood, however, he managed to communicate with the Queen, and conveyed tidings from her to her supporters. For by now, after a year of Moray’s regency, although Mary had been exposed to public opprobrium as a murderess, fresh supporters came to her aid. Some of the Scottish lords, especially the Huntlys and the Setons, being no friends to the regent, were faithful to her cause. Strangely enough, however, Mary found her most trusty adherents to be the Hamiltons, who had hitherto proved her fiercest adversaries. Of course there had been an old feud between the Hamiltons and the Stuarts. The Hamiltons came next in power to the Stuarts among the great families, and had long hoped to secure the crown for a member of their clan; now there had suddenly dawned the possibility of gaining their ambition by marrying off one of their number to Queen Mary. Since politics have no concern with morality, this fine scheme immediately led them to espouse the cause of the woman for whose execution as murderess they had been clamouring a few months before. We need hardly suppose that Mary seriously intended to marry one of the Hamiltons. Had she forgotten Bothwell so soon? More likely she only toyed with the proposal in order to escape from Lochleven. George Douglas, to whom (in the desperation of a prisoner) she had also promised her hand in marriage, went on with the preparations for her escape. By 2nd May 1568, everything was ready, and, as always when courage would serve her turn better than prudence, Mary was equal to the occasion.
The flight from Lochleven was as romantically effected as was proper to the romantic life of this Queen. Mary Stuart or George Douglas had enlisted the services of a lad of sixteen, Willie Douglas, who served as page in the castle, which he had entered as a foundling in infancy. Willie was a bright youth, who played his role well. Under the strict regime that now prevailed at Lochleven it was decreed that, when the family supped in the great hall and the guards also came in to supper, the gates should be locked and the keys should be laid on the table close to the hand of the castellan, Sir William Douglas, Laird of Lochleven, who would keep them under his pillow during the night. On the evening in question, the sharp-witted youngster, while serving at table, dropped a napkin over the keys, and then, when the company had been richly supplied with wine and was carrying on a cheerful conversation, he made off with the keys enveloped in the napkin. Thereafter everything was carried out as had been prearranged. Mary Stuart put on the dress of one of her tirewomen; the boy ran downstairs, unlocked the doors, and when the disguised Queen had made her exit, he locked them again from the outside. On the way to the Kinross shore, he dropped the bunch of keys into the lake and, to increase the difficulty of pursuit, he towed all the castle boats behind him as he rowed Mary to the shore, where George Douglas and Lord Seton were awaiting her with fifty riders. Now the little force, with the liberated Queen in their midst, galloped off through the darkness to Lord Seton’s castle of West Niddry, where they halted for the night. With freedom, her courage returned.
Such is the balladesque story of the escape of Mary Stuart from Lochleven Castle, an escape in which she was aided by the devotion of two Douglases: George, who was in love with her, and little Willie, who was likewise devoted to her. The reader who wishes to study the details as seen by a romantic writer may turn to the pages of Sir Walter Scott’s The Abbot. Sober historians do not accept this legend at its face value. They incline to believe that the lady of Lochleven and her son Sir William, the castellan, may have been less innocent than they appeared, and that the pretty tale of the method of escape was merely devised to excuse Mary’s guardians for deliberate negligence. But why should we dispel this last romantic glow in the life of Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles? Already clouds were gathering on the horizon; her most adventurous days were over, and for the last time in her life did this young woman inspire and feel the emotion of genuine love.
Having been escorted by Lord Seton from West Niddry to Hamilton Castle, which was to be the headquarters of her faction, by the end of a week Mary Stuart found herself leader of an army of six thousand men. It seemed, for a time, as if all might go well with her, and as if the stars in their courses were fighting for her. Not merely had the Huntlys, the Setons and the Hamiltons rallied to her cause, but, in addition, large numbers of the Scottish nobility and gentry—eight earls, nine bishops and more than a hundred lairds. This was strange, and yet not so strange as it might seem at first sight, for in Scotland no one ever became an effective ruler without arousing rebellion against him among the nobility. The Lord Regent’s strictness had had the customary result. The blue blood of Scotland would rather serve under a tender queen, were she a hundred times a murderess, than under the severe and stubborn Moray. The foreign world was hastening to congratulate the liberated Queen on the re-establishment of her rights. Beaumont, the French ambassador, sought her out to pay his respects to her as lawful ruler of Scotland. Elizabeth sent a special messenger to congratulate her cousin upon the joyful news of the escape. During the year of imprisonment her position would seem to have been greatly strengthened.
But, as if under stress of a premonition, Mary, generally courageous and eager for the fray, now shunned having recourse to arms. She would prefer a reconciliation with her half-brother, would be content with a semblance of monarchical power. If he would vouchsafe her that much, she would confirm him in the regency. As events were soon to show, the strength with which she had been animated while subject to the iron will of Bothwell had been dissipated by her subsequent hardships. All that she now craved for was liberty, peace and rest—these things and the semblance of majesty. But Moray was not inclined to make terms with her, and to rule by his half-sister’s grace. His ambition and Mary’s were children of the same father, and there were not wanting those who would strengthen Moray in his determination to resist. At the very time when Elizabeth was sending congratulations to Mary, Cecil was vigorously urging the Lord Regent to make an end of Mary Stuart and of the Catholic party in Scotland once and for ever. Moray did not delay. He knew that, so long as his sister was at large, there could be no peace in the realm. He wanted to deal roundly with the rebel lords and to make an example of them. With his usual energy he hastily assembled an army, less numerous than Mary’s, but better led and better disciplined. Without waiting for reinforcements, he marched from Glasgow. At the village of Langside, now a suburb of that great city, the issue between Stuart and Stuart, between Queen and regent, between brother and sister, was fought out on 13th May 1568.
The battle of Langside was brief but decisive. There was not, as there had been at Carberry Hill, prolonged parleying, with hesitation on either side. Mary’s riders boldly attacked the enemy forthwith. Moray, however, had chosen his position with care; the hostile cavalry was mowed down by a fierce fire before it could storm the hill, and Mary’s lines were broken by a savage counter-thrust. In three-quarters of an hour all was over. The Queen’s last army fled precipitately, abandoning its artillery, and leaving th
ree hundred dead on the field.
Mary was watching the fight from a neighbouring eminence. As soon as she saw that the day was lost, she mounted and galloped away, attended by a few riders. Seized with panic, she had no thought of further resistance. She rode many, many miles without pause, as we learn from her letter to her uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine. “I have suffered injuries, calumnies, captivity, hunger, cold, heat, flying—without knowing whither—fourscore and twelve miles across the country, without once pausing to alight, and then lay on the hard ground, having only sour milk to drink and oatmeal to eat, without bread, passing three nights with the owls.” Today in Scotland Mary’s weaknesses and follies have in great measure been forgotten by her people; they find excuses for her mad passion, and they remember her chiefly by the sad story of these last days of freedom and flight. Either they think of her as the prisoner at Lochleven Castle, or else as a weary woman galloping on and on through the darkness, braving all hazards rather than that of surrender to her foes. Thrice before had she made night-rides after this fashion: the first time with Darnley when she escaped from Holyrood; the second time in male attire from Borthwick Castle, being joined by Bothwell soon after she left, for their escape to Dunbar; the third time with George Douglas, from Lochleven to West Niddry Castle. Thrice before in this manner had she saved her freedom and her crown. On the present occasion she saved only her life.
Three days after the rout at Langside, Mary reached Dundrennan Abbey, near the town of Kirkcudbright on the Solway Firth. Here was the limit of her realm; thus far she fled like a hunted beast. For her, who had yesterday been a queen, there was no safe spot left anywhere in Scotland, no stronghold there to which she could return. In Edinburgh was the pitiless John Knox; there she would have to face the scorn of the mob, the hatred of the clergy and maybe the pillory and the stake. Her last army had been defeated, her last hope had vanished. Now she must choose. Behind her lay the kingdom she had lost; in front of her, the sea, with its trackless roads leading in every direction. She might return to France; she might cross the firth to England; she might make her way to Spain. She had been educated in France, had friends and relatives there, many who were fond of her, poets who had sung her praises, noblemen who had been her companions; once before this land had received her hospitably, had given her a splendid coronation. But for the very reason that she had been queen there, decked out with the glories of this world, the greatest lady in the land, she was unwilling to return thither as a beggar, as a petitioner, with torn clothing and tarnished honour. She could not endure to think of the sneering countenance of Catherine de’ Medici, of seeking alms, or of taking refuge in a convent. Nor was there anything more agreeable in the idea of entrusting herself to the tender mercies of Philip of Spain. Never would that bigot forgive her for having married Bothwell in accordance with the rites of the Protestant Church, and with the blessing of a heretical priest. Thus only one possibility remained open to her, not a choice but a necessity. She must take refuge in England. During the most hopeless days of her imprisonment, had not Elizabeth written to her encouragingly: “You can at any time count on the Queen of England as a true friend”? Had not her cousin solemnly promised to have her reinstated as Queen? Had not Elizabeth sent her a ring as a token, which Mary need only produce to be sure of sisterly aid?
Too hastily, as always when she made important decisions, Mary now took one of the most momentous decisions of her life. Without any preliminary demand for safeguards, she wrote from Dundrennan Abbey to Elizabeth:
You are not ignorant, my dearest sister, of the great part of my misfortunes; but those which induce me to write at present have happened too recently yet to have reached your ear. I must therefore acquaint you as briefly as I can that some of my subjects whom I most confided in, and had raised to the highest pitch of honour, have taken up arms against me and treated me with the utmost indignity. By unexpected means, the Almighty Disposer of all things delivered me from the cruel imprisonment I underwent; but I have since lost a battle, in which most of those who preserved their loyal integrity fell before my eyes. I am now forced out of my kingdom, and driven to such straits that, next to God, I have no hope but in your goodness. I beseech you, therefore, my dearest sister, that I may be conducted to your presence, that I may acquaint you with all my affairs. In the meantime, I beseech God to grant you all heavenly benedictions, and to me patience and consolation, which last I hope and pray to obtain by your means. To remind you of the reasons I have to depend on England, I send back to its Queen this token of her promised friendship and assistance. Your affectionate sister, M R.
The die had been cast. On 16th May 1568, Mary embarked in a fishing smack, crossed the Solway Firth and landed at the little port of Workington in Cumberland. When Mary reached this turning point in her fate, she was not yet twenty-five years of age, and yet her life was finished. She had enjoyed all possible earthly splendours, climbed to all possible earthly altitudes, and plumbed life’s abysses. Within a brief space of time, amid fearful mental tension, she had experienced extraordinary contrasts, had buried two husbands, lost two kingdoms, undergone harsh imprisonment and, by the pathway of crime, had with renewed pride remounted the steps of the throne. These weeks, these years, had been weeks and years of flame, whose reflex shines down to us through the ages. Now the fires were burning low and the best of her had been consumed. What remained was but dross and ashes, poor vestiges of these magnificent ardours. As a mere shadow of her former self, Mary Stuart went forward into the twilight of her destiny.
Chapter Seventeen
Weaving a Net
(16th May to 28th June 1568)
THERE CAN BE NO DOUBT that Elizabeth Tudor was genuinely perturbed to learn of Mary Stuart’s arrival in England. This uninvited guest was extremely embarrassing. For the past year a sense of monarchical solidarity had led Elizabeth to support Mary as far as lay within her power against the rebellious Scottish lords. Polite diplomatic assurances were easy, so the Queen of England frequently declared herself to be full of sympathy and love for her Scottish “sister”. Such assurances were extravagantly worded. Not once, however, did Elizabeth invite Mary to come to England; on the contrary, she persisted in her long-standing policy of doing all in her power to avoid a personal encounter with her cousin. Now the tiresome woman had unexpectedly landed on English soil, was in the country over which she had recently and arrogantly proclaimed her right of sovereignty. She came uninvited, and her first words after her arrival were a reminder of pledges of friendship which Elizabeth had meant to be taken no more than metaphorically. In the letter dispatched from Workington on 17th May, to follow up the letter from Dundrennan, Mary did not trouble to enquire whether Elizabeth would receive her as a guest, but assumed that such a reception was her unquestioned right. “I entreat you to send for me as soon as possible, for I am in a pitiable condition, not only for a queen, but for a gentlewoman, having nothing in the world but the clothes in which I escaped, travelling across country the first day, and not having since ever ventured to proceed except in the night, as I hope to declare before you, if it pleases you to have pity, as I trust you will, upon my extreme misfortune.”
Pity was, indeed, Elizabeth’s first impulse. It must have been gratifying to her pride that Mary, whom she would gladly have dethroned, had lost the Scottish crown without Elizabeth herself having stirred a finger in the matter. What a spectacle for the world, could Elizabeth raise from her knees and clasp in a sisterly embrace the woman who had once been so proud a rival; if Elizabeth could pose as protectress and benefactor. She honestly desired, therefore, to invite the fugitive to stay with her. “I have learnt,” reported the French ambassador, “that in the Privy Council, the Queen ardently espoused the cause of the Queen of Scotland, giving everyone present to understand that it was her intention to receive Mary with the honour appropriate to the latter’s former dignity and greatness, and not to her present fallen fortunes.” Elizabeth was endowed with a strong sense of historical responsib
ility, and had she acted on her first impulse to abide by her written assurances, she would have saved Mary Stuart’s life and her own honour.
Elizabeth, however, did not stand alone. Her main prop was Cecil, the man with cold, steel-blue eyes, who dispassionately moved piece after piece upon the political chessboard. Knowing herself to be a creature of impulse, sensitive to every change in atmospheric pressure, the English Queen had been shrewd enough to select as chief adviser this sober-minded and prosaic calculator, whose puritanism made him detest the passionate, unbridled Mary, a man who, as a strict Protestant, hated her as Catholic, and who—as his private papers prove—was absolutely convinced of her complicity in the murder of Darnley. He hastened to check Elizabeth’s move to help her cousin. As a statesman, he was prompt to realise that any support given by the English government to the claims of the dethroned Queen of Scotland (“the daughter of debate, who discord fell doth sow”) would involve far-reaching complications. To receive Mary in London with royal honours would imply a recognition of her right to be restored to the Scottish throne, and would pledge England to support her with arms and money against Moray and the Scottish lords. Cecil, who favoured the rebellion in Scotland, was not in the least inclined for such a reversal of policy. He regarded Mary as the arch-enemy of Protestantism and as the most conspicuous peril to England. He found it possible to persuade Elizabeth how dangerous it would be to show friendliness to Mary. Elizabeth was all the more disposed to listen to Cecil’s counsel by the news that some of her own leading nobles had paid honour to the fugitive Mary. The mightiest of the Catholic peers, the Duke of Northumberland, invited her to his castle; the Duke of Norfolk, premier peer of England, though a Protestant, visited her. Everyone who came into contact with the fugitive seems to have been captivated. Elizabeth, suspicious by nature, and preposterously vain, soon abandoned any thought of inviting to her court a princess who might outshine her, and might become a rallying centre for the malcontents of her realm.