‘In that stronghold you will find the Earl of Bothwell, who has returned with no leave of mine from his well-merited banishment in France; nevertheless, “a Queen’s face should show grace,” and we women forgive more readily than you of the sterner sex. You will summon him to appear before his Sovereign in Holyrood, so shall he receive pardon for his errors. Or stay! this were an ungracious behest to so tried a servant for one venial offence; you shall bear him Mary Stuart’s full and free forgiveness, and bid him, as he loves his Queen, bid him on his loyalty and allegiance, that he speed with all his heart and all his strength the object of your journey.’
‘And that object, madam?’ inquired Maxwell, observing that Mary paused, blushing rosy red and averting her eyes from his face.
‘Is my coming marriage,’ proceeded the Queen, hastily, whilst Lady Argyle and Mistress Seton interchanged an arch glance and smile. ‘An alliance that I take heaven to witness, I contemplate more for the welfare of my people than for any foolish longings of my own weak heart. Henry Stuart is of royal blood, no unworthy mate for the proudest princess in Europe. Lord Darnley is a comely, gentle, and well-nurtured youth, of whose affection any lady in the land might well be proud. You will explain this to Bothwell; you will teach him that Mary has made no unworthy choice; you will tell him that she has confided in him, her old and tried servant, because she can depend upon him more securely than on any other lord in Scotland.’
‘Would it not be well, madam, to write the earl a few lines with your own hand apprising him of your intentions?’ hazarded Maxwell, who was sufficiently a man of the world to appreciate the delicacy of his mission; and who, in good truth, was sufficiently familiar with the temper of his powerful kinsman to relish not the least the delivery of the message with which he was charged.
Mary, however, would not entertain such a proposition for a moment, and hurried on with far more of agitation than the occasion seemed to warrant.
‘Letters may be intercepted, changed, forged, misunderstood. Master Maxwell, you will fulfil my bidding as I charge you, or leave it alone. I can trust you, I feel. I know you will do justice to the fair intentions of your mistress. I know you will not allow Bothwell to misunderstand my motives, or my feelings—Bothwell, who has always believed so implicitly in his Queen! Nay, for letters,’ added Mary, with her own sweet smile softening and brightening her whole countenance, ‘I will charge you, indeed, with this one for my Lady of Lennox, and with this token, always subject to his mother’s approval, to be given as an earnest of my good-will to her son. Take them carefully, Master Maxwell. Our warden’s strong hand will pass you safely through the thieves that infest the Border, and when you get among the southrons, I know you will guard them with your life. I pledge you, my trusty messenger, to the success of your mission!’
While she spoke, the Queen filled out a cup of wine and put her lips to the brim, handing him, at the same time, a packet carefully sealed and secured with a silken thread, which wound in and out through the folds of the missive, so that the silk must be cut before the letter could be opened. Also a small casket, containing a beautiful antique ring, representing a cupid burning himself with his own torch, as a keepsake for her future husband. The messenger received them on his knees in token of his fidelity and obedience, and the Queen, according to the custom of the age, bade him finish the cup of wine in which she had recently pledged him, and refresh himself ere he departed.
‘It must be a stirrup-cup, your Grace,’ said Maxwell, with a smile; ‘I shall hope to be out of sight of Holyrood ere the sun rises. Have I received all your Majesty’s directions?’ he added, preparing to take his leave.
‘There is no such hurry for a few minutes,’ replied Mary, graciously. ‘Do you sup with royalty every night, Master Maxwell, that you are in such haste to be gone?’