The Pageant of British History

by Edward Parrott

Within a year Mary was free again. She found a knight-errant in the person of “pretty George Douglas,” younger brother of the Laird of Loch Leven. He fell deeply in love with the deposed queen, and ere long he had planned her escape. The story goes that when all was ready Douglas sent Mary a signal in the shape of a pearl fashioned like a pear. The key of the castle was obtained by the ruse of Willie Douglas, a page boy. It was the custom of the governor of the castle to have the key of the great gate placed on the table beside him when at supper. The page, who served at table, placed a plate before the governor, and at the same time dropped a napkin on the key, and then lifted key and handkerchief together. He slipped out to the queen, who was waiting for him. They gained the gate unperceived, locked it behind them, and threw the key into the water. The lad put Mary and her companion, a little maid of ten, into a boat, cast off, and plied his oars manfully. The queen waved a white veil to and fro, and at the signal George Douglas rose up from the reeds by the side of the lake and hurried to the village, from which he soon afterwards returned with a troop of armed men and some led horses. By the time the boat touched the shore the horsemen were waiting for the queen, and in a few minutes she was galloping southwards towards the ferry across the Forth. On the way she was joined by another troop of horse. That night she slept in Niddrie Castle, and next day reached Hamilton in safety.

The news of her escape spread like wildfire through the land, and speedily many of the barons and nobility flocked to her with offers of support and service. Before long she had five or six thousand men about her, while the regent, who was at Glasgow, mustered some four thousand. With this force, inferior as it was, he decided on an immediate battle. As the queen advanced from Hamilton towards Dumbarton, where she proposed to take ship for France, she had to pass through a narrow lane leading up to the hill on which the village of Langside stands. Moray posted his main battle on Langside Hill, and stationed his hagbutters or matchlock men along the hedges on both sides of the lane and amongst the cottages of the village. The queen took her station on an eminence half a mile distant and watched the battle which now began. She saw her troops charge up the hill and endeavour to force the passage of the lane. She saw them roll back under the heavy fire of the hagbutters, and then make a second attempt to storm the village. This, too, was unsuccessful, and soon she saw Moray’s pikemen and his Highlanders sweeping down on her friends with the utmost fury. With a cry of anguish she saw them break before the flashing claymores of the yelling Macfarlanes, and betake themselves to headlong flight. All was over, and the miserable queen put spurs to her horse and galloped away. She tried to reach Dumbarton, but she was too late. So hot was the pursuit that she was obliged to gallop for the wilds of the south-west. On and on she rode, and never halted until she reached Sanquhar, where she drank a bowl of milk at a cottage door. Then her wearied horse was urged on again until she reached the remote and lonely Abbey of Dundrennan, on the Solway, sixty miles from the field of battle.

On Sunday afternoon, May 16, 1568, she made the fatal mistake of her life. She determined to throw herself upon the generosity of Elizabeth, and no argument of her attendants could make her change her purpose. That reckless decision practically signed her death-warrant. She crossed the Solway and arrived at Workington. The next day she was brought by Richard Lowther to Cockermouth, and thence to Carlisle Castle, where she arrived in great distress and mean attire, and by the instructions of Elizabeth’s council was detained as a prisoner.

Elizabeth was by no means pleased at the turn which events had taken. Mary was a most embarrassing guest. Many of Elizabeth’s Catholic subjects regarded the Queen of Scots as the rightful sovereign of England, and now this dangerous rival was within her kingdom. Obviously, Mary could not be permitted to go to and fro unrestrained, gathering her adherents about her, the centre of a movement which might hurl Elizabeth from the throne. Equally obviously, Elizabeth could not send the refugee back to Scotland, where the scaffold or a life-long imprisonment awaited her. It would similarly be the height of folly to permit her to return to France and there raise an army to subdue the Protestants of the kingdom which had rejected her. Elizabeth was in a dilemma, and for the moment she saw no way out of it. Meanwhile, she wrote to Mary that she would be careful of “her life and honour,” and regretted that she could not receive her as a royal guest until she had been acquitted of the hideous crime charged against her. She would be the gladdest in the world to see her Grace well purged of this crime, that thereby she might aid her fully and amply to regain her throne.

At length, after much discussion and negotiation, a trial was agreed upon, and three sets of commissioners—one set for Elizabeth, one for Mary, and one for the confederate Scottish lords—were appointed to inquire into the complaints which the Scottish queen brought against those who had risen in arms against her, seized her, and imprisoned her, forced her to abdicate, and crowned her infant son. The conference began at York and ended at London. The Regent Moray appeared before the commissioners, and, as a last resort, produced a silver casket containing letters which were alleged to be written by Mary to Bothwell. These letters, if their genuineness could be proved, clearly showed her to be the accomplice of Bothwell in the murder of her husband. Mary constantly declared that the casket letters were forgeries, and to this day no man can positively say that she did not speak the truth. Mary demanded that the letters should be shown to her, but most unfairly her demand was refused. Then she indignantly broke off the conference, and the commissioners reported that nothing dishonourable had been proved against Moray and his friends, and nothing against Mary that could lead Elizabeth to take any evil opinion of her good sister. Nevertheless, Mary remained a prisoner in England, while Moray returned to Scotland and resumed his regency.

And now began Mary’s long captivity of nineteen years. She was moved about from castle to castle, and at first was permitted as much liberty as was consistent with the safe custody of her person. We read that she had a stud of sixteen horses, and frequently went hunting. She amused herself with needlework, in which she was very skilful, and kept dogs, turtle doves, and Barbary fowls. She practised her religion with great devotion, and she did not fail to charm all who came in contact with her by her gracious condescension.

But all the while she was ceaselessly plotting and intriguing, not only with Elizabeth’s disaffected subjects, but with her French friends, the King of Spain, and the Pope. Elizabeth’s life was in hourly danger, and her councillors constantly warned her that Mary was a terrible menace to her safety. In 1569 news arrived that the Pope was about to depose Elizabeth, and declare Mary Queen of England. Almost immediately there was a great rising of the Catholics of the north. The Earls of Northumberland and Westmorland marched into Durham, and mass was once more said in the cathedral. The insurgents, however, received but little support, and some of the leaders perished on the scaffold. Next year the long expected Bull of Deposition arrived. While most of the Catholics remained loyal, some of the more violent schemed to depose and even murder Elizabeth.

One of the plots, known as the “Ridolfi Plot” from the name of an Italian banker who played an important part in it, was headed by the Duke of Norfolk, an ambitious noble of thirty-two, who undertook to seize Elizabeth and marry Mary, who had now obtained a divorce from Bothwell. Norfolk was the leader of the English Catholics, and had the support of many noblemen in the northern counties. Some of his papers, however, fell into the hands of Burleigh, and the whole plot was exposed. Norfolk, who said truly that nothing done for Mary ever prospered, paid the penalty with his head on Tower Hill. Both Houses of Parliament now petitioned that the Queen of Scots should share his fate, but Elizabeth replied that “she could not put to death the bird that had fled to her for succour from the hawk.” Henceforth Mary was more strictly confined.

At length in 1583 another great plot was unmasked. France and Spain were to unite in an invasion of England, the English Catholics were to rise, Elizabeth was to be murdered, and Mary was to ascend the throne. Six desperate fanatics undertook to dispatch the English queen by steel or poison as a service pleasing to Heaven. Mary was in the plot up to the eyes. She had corresponded with Anthony Babington, a vain fool who was the chief agent in the plot, and had accepted his offer to assassinate Elizabeth. In extenuation it must be said that she was now desperate. She felt no compunction in lending her support to the murderous project, for she had the wrongs of a lifetime to revenge, and she knew that she would ultimately come to the scaffold if Elizabeth were permitted to live. Walsingham knew every move of the plot, and encouraged it to develop until he had sufficient evidence to bring Mary to trial on the capital charge.

She was arrested at a neighbouring seat, whither she had been allowed to go on the pretext of a stag-hunt, and was there detained until her papers had been secured. Then she was removed to Fotheringhay Castle and brought to trial. Mary faced the court with great tact and dignity, and defended herself with the utmost skill. She totally denied all knowledge of the Babington plot; but her case was hopeless, both because the court had what it considered sufficient evidence of her complicity, and because it was considered necessary for political purposes that she should be found guilty.