Elizabeth was an uneasy ally. He believed he could trust Cecil, as much as a statesman could be trusted; for as both he and Cecil were stern Protestants therein lay the bond between them.

The time had come for the removal of Mary, and if she were returned to Scotland his first task would be to prove her worthy of death. Surely there was a good case against her. She had murdered her husband, and the just reward of murderesses—be they Queens or commoners—was surely death. True, many murders had been committed in Scotland and the victims had never been avenged. But, mused Moray, had their death been necessary for the good of the realm, and had those who would benefit been strong enough, those murderers would have gone the way he must now prepare for Mary.

Knowing Elizabeth, he realized that before long she would, with outward magnanimity, hand Mary over to her bastard brother—the understanding being that he should perform the deed with which Elizabeth had no wish to soil her hands.

Moray had many enemies in Scotland. He was a hard man and had never hesitated to act ruthlessly if the occasion warranted it. There was one incident which was characteristic of the manner in which he had shown the people his determination to be obeyed. It had taken place in the autumn when plague had struck Edinburgh, and he had ordered that when any man or woman was infected with the sickness, his or her family were to remove the sufferer without delay out of Edinburgh. That they must leave all they possessed was a condition they must accept. The Regent ordered that the family should leave, and leave it must—or incur his displeasure. There had been a husband, recently married, who, when his wife had been stricken, had kept this fact hidden, secretly nursing her in the comfort of his house, rather than take her out to die wretchedly in one of the surrounding villages where there was no suitable accommodation.

On the Regent’s orders that young husband had been taken from his wife’s bedside and hanged outside his own door.

To rule, one must be strong, the Regent believed. Mary had failed through sentimental weakness.

He had determined to treat Mary’s followers with the same ruthlessness as he had shown to that young husband. He peremptorily ordered them to give up all their possessions, and sent his Justice-Clerk, Sir John Bellenden, to make sure that the order was carried out.

In a country like Scotland, where it was not always easy to know who were one’s friends, it was necessary to pay highly those who did the most unpleasant work which the Regent would rather not himself perform. Bellenden therefore looked for rewards and, as payment for his services, Moray bestowed on him the estate of Woodhouselee which belonged to one of Mary’s mot ardent supporters—a member of the Hamilton family, James Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh.

ALISON SINCLAIR, wife of James Hamilton, lay in her bed, her young child who had been born a few days before beside her. A great fire blazed in the fireplace, for it was difficult to keep the rooms warm during such weather. Outside the snow was falling.

Alison was thinking of long ago days when she and her sister had knelt at the windows of this house looking out on the snow-covered countryside. She was remembering how they had been kept prisoners in the house by the weather and had amused themselves by playing hide and seek because it was such a wonderful house in which to hide. No matter where she went, she always thought of Woodhouselee as her home.

She had inherited it and brought it to James Hamilton when they married; and she believed it was as well, because now that James was more or less an outlaw, since he was the Queen’s man, he had lost much of his own property; she was perpetually thankful that Woodhouselee, being her inheritance, was unassailable.

James was now in hiding with his kinsman, Archibald Hamilton. It was sad that the troubles of the time should mean so many separations; but she was sure that when he heard that their child had arrived he would find some means of coming to her.

While she lay thus musing she heard the sounds of arrival in the courtyard below, and called to her maid: “He is here! I knew he would come. Go and bring him to me at once and make certain that no one leaves the house while he is here. I expect all my servants to be loyal, but how can one be sure in times such as these. And if Moray’s men knew that he was here they would most certainly come to take him.”

Smiling down at her newly born child, she called for a mirror. It was some time since she had seen her husband and she was eager to look her best. She was delighted because child-bearing had not changed her appearance, and she looked if anything younger than before. Perhaps that was because she was so happy. She had her baby . . . and now James had come to see them.

The door was flung open and a man stood on the threshold of the room. She was surprised rather than alarmed in those first seconds.

“But . . . ” she stammered, “who are you?”

“Sir John Bellenden,” was the answer, “Justice-Clerk and owner of this house.”

“You are mistaken. This house belongs to me. My father left it to me.”

“You are wrong, Madam. It belongs to me. The estates of James Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh are confiscated by the Regent, and Woodhouselee is his gift to me for my services to Scotland.”

“This cannot be so. This house is not my husband’s property, but mine.”

“Madam, that which was your property became your husband’s on your marriage, and I tell you that all his possessions have passed out of his hands.”

“If my husband were here . . . ”

“Alas, he is not. We should know how to deal with a traitor.”

“He is no traitor.”

“Come, Madam, he has worked against the King and has sought to bring back Mary to the throne.”

“You see my state. My child is but a few days old. Leave me in peace and this matter will doubtless be settled in due course.”

“I have come to take possession, and I must ask you to leave my house without a moment’s delay.”

“You see how I am placed!”

“I see only that you trespass in my house.”

“Please leave me now. I am not strong yet . . . and I feel faint.”

“The fresh air will revive you. Come, Madam, rise from your bed. I shall give you five minutes in which to prepare to leave the house. If you have not gone in that time you will be forcibly evicted.”

With that he left her, and she lay listening to the sounds of heavy footsteps in other parts of the house. Her maid came to her bedside; she was weeping.

“What shall we do, Madam? What can we do?”

“They cannot mean that they will turn us out. They will take this house . . . my Woodhouselee . . . but not now. They must give me time . . . .”

She held her child tightly in her arms, and it was thus that Bellenden found her when he returned to the room.

“So you are obstinate,” he growled. “Come, rise from that bed at once.” He turned to the maid. “Find a cloak for her. She will need it . . . it is cold outside.”

For Alison what followed was as unreal as a nightmare, and as terrifying. Fainting, scarcely able to stand, she was forced to rise from her bed; a cloak was wrapped about her and, clasping her baby in her arms, she was turned out of doors.

The cold winds tore at her garments; the snow was falling so thickly that she could not see. The baby began to cry but she could not comfort him.

She tried to grope her way to the woods, where she believed she might find some shelter. She plunged through the snow, weeping and calling for her husband to come and help her.

There was no one abroad on such a night and, although Alison knew the surrounding country well, the heavy snowdrifts had changed its contours, and soon she was lost.

She stumbled on; she believed she had reached the woods but was not sure as, clutching the baby tightly to her, she fell into a deep drift.