by Ken Follett
*
EXACTLY TWO WEEKS later, Alison was convinced that Mary was about to make the greatest mistake of her life.
Mary and Alison were at Dundrennan Abbey, on the south coast of Scotland, across the Solway Firth from England. Dundrennan had been the grandest monastery in Scotland. The monasteries had been secularized, but there was still a magnificent Gothic church and an extensive range of comfortable quarters. Mary and Alison sat alone in what had been the abbot’s luxurious suite of rooms, grimly contemplating their future.
Everything had gone wrong for Queen Mary – again.
Mary’s army had met the forces of her brother, James Stuart, at a village called Langside, near Glasgow. Mary had ridden with her men, and had been so brave that they had had to restrain her from leading the charge, but she had been defeated, and now she was on the run again. She had ridden south, across bleak windswept moorland, burning bridges behind her to slow pursuit. One miserable evening Alison had cut off all Mary’s lovely auburn hair, to make her less easily recognizable, and now she was wearing a dull brown wig. It seemed to complete her wretchedness.
She wanted to go to England, and Alison was trying to talk her out of it.
‘You still have thousands of supporters,’ Alison said brightly. ‘Most Scots people are Catholic. Only upstarts and merchants are Protestant.’
‘An exaggeration, but with some truth,’ Mary said.
‘You can regroup, assemble a bigger army, try again.’
Mary shook her head. ‘I had the larger army at Langside. It seems I cannot win the civil war without outside help.’
‘Then let us go back to France. You have lands there, and money.’
‘In France I am an ex-queen. I feel too young for that role.’
Mary was an ex-queen everywhere, Alison thought, but she did not say it. ‘Your French relations are the most powerful family in the country. They might assemble an army to back you, if you ask them personally.’
‘If I go to France now, I will never return to Scotland. I know it.’
‘So you’re determined . . .’
‘I will go to England.’
They had had this discussion several times, and each time Mary came to the same conclusion.
She went on: ‘Elizabeth may be a Protestant, but she believes that a monarch who has been anointed with holy oils – as I was when I was nine months old – rules by divine right. She cannot validate a usurper such as my brother James – she is in too much danger of being usurped herself.’
Alison was not sure how precarious Elizabeth’s position was. She had been queen for ten years without serious opposition. But perhaps all monarchs felt vulnerable.
Mary went on: ‘Elizabeth must help me regain my throne.’
‘No one else thinks that.’
It was true. All the noblemen who had fought at Langside and had accompanied Mary on her flight south were opposed to her plan.
But she would make up her own mind, as always. ‘I’m right,’ she said. ‘And they’re wrong.’
Mary had always been wilful, Alison thought, but this was almost suicidal.
Mary stood up. ‘It’s time to go.’
They went outside. George and Willie were waiting in front of the church, with a farewell party of noblemen and a small group of servants who would accompany the queen. They mounted horses and followed a grassy track alongside a stream that ran, gurgling and chuckling, through the abbey grounds towards the sea. The path went through spring-green woodland sprinkled with wild flowers, then the vegetation changed to tough gorse bushes splashed with deep-golden-yellow blossoms. Spring blooms signalled hope, but Alison had none.
They reached a wide pebble beach where the stream emptied into the sea.
A fishing boat waited at a crude wooden jetty.
On the jetty, Mary stopped, turned, and spoke directly to Alison in a low voice. ‘You don’t have to come,’ she said.
It was true. Alison could have walked away. Mary’s enemies would have left her alone, seeing no danger: they would think a mere lady-in-waiting could not organize a counter-revolution, and they would be right. Alison had an amiable uncle in Stirling who would take her in. She might marry again: she was certainly young enough.
But the prospect of freedom without Mary seemed the most dismal of all possible outcomes. She had spent her life serving Mary. Even during the long empty weeks and months at Loch Leven she had wanted nothing else. She was imprisoned, not by stone walls, but by her love.
‘Well?’ said Mary. ‘Will you come?’
‘Of course I will,’ Alison said.
They got into the boat.
‘We could still go to France,’ Alison said desperately.
Mary smiled. ‘There is one factor you overlook,’ she said. ‘The Pope and all the monarchs of Europe believe that Elizabeth is an illegitimate child. Therefore she was never entitled to the throne of England.’ She paused, looking across the twenty miles of water to the far side of the estuary. Following her gaze Alison saw, dimmed by haze, the low green hills of England. ‘And if Elizabeth is not queen of England,’ said Mary, ‘then I am.’
*
‘SCOTTISH MARY HAS arrived in Carlisle,’ said Ned Willard to Queen Elizabeth, in the presence chamber at White Hall palace.
The queen expected Ned to know such things, and he made it his job to have answers ready. That was why she had made him Sir Ned.
‘She’s moved into the castle there,’ Ned went on, ‘and the deputy governor of Carlisle has written to you asking what he should do with her.’
Carlisle was in the far north-west corner of England, and close to the Scottish border, which was why there was a fortress there.
Elizabeth paced the room, her magnificent silk gown rustling with her impatient steps. ‘What the devil shall I tell him?’
Elizabeth was thirty-four. For ten years she had ruled England with a firm hand. She had a confident grasp of European politics, navigating those treacherous tides and undercurrents with Sir William Cecil as her pilot. But she did not know what to do about Mary. The queen of the Scots was a problem with no satisfactory solution.
‘I can’t have Scottish Mary running around England, stirring up discontent among the Catholics,’ Elizabeth said with frustration. ‘They would start saying she is the rightful queen, and we’d have a rebellion to deal with before you could say transubstantiation.’
Cecil, the lawyer, said: ‘You don’t have to let her stay. She is a foreign monarch on English soil without your permission, which is at least a discourtesy and could even be interpreted as an invasion.’
‘People would call me heartless,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Throwing her to the Scottish wolves.’ Ned knew that Elizabeth could be heartless when it suited her. However, she was always sensitive to what the English people would think of her actions.
Ned said: ‘What Mary wants is for you to send an English army to Scotland to help her regain her rightful throne.’
‘I haven’t got the money,’ Elizabeth said quickly. She hated war and she hated spending money. Neither Ned nor Cecil was surprised at her instant rejection of this possibility.
Cecil said: ‘Failing your assistance, she may ask her French relatives to help her. And we don’t want a French army in Scotland.’
‘God forbid.’
‘Amen,’ said Cecil. ‘And let’s not forget that when she was married to Francis they called themselves king and queen of France, Scotland, England and Ireland. She even had it on her tableware. Mary’s French family have ambitions without limit, in my opinion.’
‘She’s a thorn in my foot,’ Elizabeth said. ‘God’s body, what am I to do?’
Ned recalled his encounter with Mary seven years ago at St Dizier. She was striking-looking, taller than Ned and beautiful in an ethereal way. He had thought she was brave but impulsive, and he had imagined she might make decisions that were bold but unwise. Coming to England was almost certainly a wrong move for her. He also remembered her companion, Alison
McKay, a woman of about his own age, dark-haired and blue-eyed, not as beautiful as Mary but probably wiser. And there had been an arrogant young courtier with them called Pierre Aumande de Guise: Ned had disliked him instantly.
Cecil and Ned already knew what decision Elizabeth must make. But they knew her too well to try to tell her what to do. So they had taken her through the available choices, letting her rule out the bad ones herself. Now Cecil assumed a casual tone of voice as he put to her the option he wanted her to decide on. ‘You could just incarcerate her.’
‘Here in England?’
‘Yes. Let her stay, but keep her prisoner. It has certain advantages.’ Cecil and Ned had made this list together, but Cecil spoke as if the advantages had only just occurred to him. ‘You would always know where she is. She would not be free to foment a rebellion. And it would weaken the Scots Catholics if their figurehead were captive in a foreign country.’
‘But she would be here, and the English Catholics would know it.’
‘That is a drawback,’ Cecil said. ‘But perhaps we could take steps to prevent her communicating with malcontents. Or with anyone else, come to that.’
In practice, Ned suspected, it might be difficult to keep a prisoner totally incommunicado. But Elizabeth’s mind went in a different direction. ‘I would be quite justified in locking her up,’ she mused. ‘She has called herself queen of England. What would Felipe do to a man who said he was the rightful king of Spain?’
‘Execute him, of course,’ said Cecil promptly.
‘In fact,’ Elizabeth said, talking herself into doing what she wanted to do, ‘it would be merciful of me merely to imprison Mary.’
‘I think that’s how it would be seen,’ Cecil said.
‘I think that’s the solution,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Cecil. What would I do without you?’
‘Your majesty is kind.’
The queen turned to Ned. ‘You’d better go to Carlisle and make sure it’s done properly,’ she said.
‘Very good, your majesty,’ said Ned. ‘What shall I say is the reason for detaining Mary? We don’t want people to say her imprisonment is unlawful.’
‘Good point,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I don’t know.’
‘As to that,’ said Cecil, ‘I have a suggestion.’
*
CARLISLE WAS A formidable fortress with a long defensive wall pierced only by a narrow gateway. The castle was made of pinkish-red local sandstone, the same as the cathedral that stood opposite. Within the wall was a square tower with cannons on its roof. The guns were all pointed towards Scotland.
Alison and Mary were housed in a smaller tower in a corner of the compound. It was just as stark as Loch Leven, and cold even in June. Alison wished they had horses, so that they could go for rides, something Mary had always loved and had missed badly at Loch Leven. But they had to content themselves with walking, escorted always by a troop of English soldiers.
Mary decided not to press her complaints to Elizabeth. All that mattered was that the queen of England should help her regain her Scottish throne.
Today they expected the long-awaited emissary from Elizabeth’s court. He had arrived late last night and retired immediately.
Alison had managed to get messages to Mary’s friends in Scotland and as a result some clothes and wigs had arrived, though her jewellery – much of it given to her by King Francis II when she was queen of France – was still in the Protestant grasp of her half-brother. However, she had been able to make herself look royal this morning. After breakfast they sat in the mean little room they inhabited at the castle, waiting to hear their fate.
They had discussed Elizabeth night and day for a month, talking over her religious convictions, her beliefs about monarchy, her reputed learning, and her famously imperious personality. They had tried to guess what decision she would make: would she help Mary regain her throne, or not? They had reached no conclusion – or, rather, they had reached a different conclusion every day. But now they would find out.
Elizabeth’s messenger was a little older than Alison, almost thirty, she guessed. He was slim, with a pleasant smile and golden-brown eyes. His clothes were good but unostentatious. Looking closely, Alison was surprised to recognize him. She glanced at Mary and saw a slight frown, as if she, too, was trying to place him. As he bowed low to the queen and nodded to Alison she remembered where they had met. ‘St Dizier!’ she said.
‘Seven years ago,’ he said. He spoke French: he knew, or had guessed, that Mary was most comfortable in this tongue, Scots being her second language and English a distant third. His manner was polite but relaxed. ‘I’m Sir Ned Willard.’
Alison thought his careful good manners cloaked a dangerous toughness, like a velvet scabbard for a sharp-edged sword. She spoke warmly in an attempt to soften him. ‘Sir Ned, now!’ she said. ‘Congratulations.’
‘You’re very kind.’
Alison remembered that Ned had pretended to be merely a clerk to James Stuart, a pretence that had been revealed when he spoke so challengingly to Pierre Aumande.
Mary said: ‘You tried to persuade me not to go to Scotland.’
‘You should have taken my advice,’ he said unsmilingly.
Mary ignored that and got down to business. ‘I am the queen of Scotland,’ she said. ‘Queen Elizabeth won’t deny that.’
‘No, indeed,’ said Ned.
‘I was illegally imprisoned by traitors among my subjects. Again, I feel sure my cousin Elizabeth will agree.’
They were not quite cousins, of course, but more distantly related: Elizabeth’s grandfather, King Henry VII of England, was Mary’s great-grandfather. But Sir Ned did not quibble.
Mary went on: ‘And I came here to England of my own free will. All I ask is the chance to speak to Elizabeth in person, and to beg for her assistance.’
‘I will certainly give her that message,’ said Ned.
Alison suppressed a groan of disappointment. Ned was prevaricating. That was bad news.
Mary bristled. ‘Give her the message?’ she said indignantly. ‘I expected you to bring me her decision!’
Ned was not flustered. Perhaps it was not the first time he had had to deal with an angry queen. ‘Her majesty can’t make such a decision immediately,’ he said in the calm tones of reason.
‘Why not?’
‘Other matters must be resolved first.’
Mary was not to be fobbed off that easily. ‘What matters?’
Ned said reluctantly: ‘The death of your husband, Lord Darnley, the king consort of Scotland and the cousin of Queen Elizabeth, remains . . . unexplained.’
‘That is nothing to do with me!’
‘I believe you,’ said Ned. Alison suspected he did not. ‘And her majesty Queen Elizabeth believes you.’ That was not true either. ‘But we must establish the facts to the satisfaction of the world before you can be received at Elizabeth’s court. Her majesty hopes that you, as a queen yourself, will understand that.’
This was rejection, Alison thought, and she wanted to weep. The murder of Darnley was not the real issue; it was a pretext. The plain fact was that Elizabeth did not want to meet Mary.
And that meant she did not want to help Mary.
Mary came to the same conclusion. ‘This is cruelly unjust!’ she said, standing up. Her face reddened, and tears came to her eyes. ‘How can my cousin treat me so coldly?’
‘She asks you to be patient. She will provide for all your needs meanwhile.’
‘I do not accept this decision. I shall sail to France. My family there will give me the help Elizabeth denies me.’
‘Queen Elizabeth would not want you to bring a French army to Scotland.’
‘Then I shall simply go back to Edinburgh, and take my chances against my treacherous half-brother, your friend James Stuart.’
Ned hesitated. Alison saw that his face was a little pale, and he clasped his hands behind his back as if to stop himself fidgeting uneasily. The wrath of a queen was a dreadful sigh
t. But Ned held all the cards. His voice, when he spoke, was strong and his words were uncompromising. ‘I’m afraid that will not be possible.’
It was Mary’s turn to look fearful. ‘What on earth can you mean?’
‘The queen’s orders are that you shall remain here, until the English courts can clear you of complicity in the murder of Lord Darnley.’
Alison felt tears come to her eyes. ‘No!’ she cried. This was the worst possible outcome.
‘I’m sorry to bring you such unwelcome news,’ he said, and Alison believed he meant it. He was a kind man with an unkind message.
Mary’s voice was shaky. ‘So Queen Elizabeth will not receive me at court?’
‘No,’ said Ned.
‘She will not let me go to France?’
‘No,’ he said again.
‘And I may not return home to Scotland?’
‘No,’ Ned said for the third time.
‘So I am a prisoner?’
‘Yes,’ said Ned.
‘Again,’ said Mary.
16
When his mother died, Ned felt sad and bereft and alone but, most of all, he felt angry. Alice Willard’s last years should have been luxurious and triumphant. Instead, she had been ruined by a religious quarrel, and had died thinking herself a failure.
It was Easter 1570. By chance Barney was at home, in a short break between sea voyages. On Easter Monday the brothers celebrated the resurrection of the dead in Kingsbridge Cathedral, then the next day they stood side by side in the cemetery as their mother’s coffin was lowered into the grave where their father already lay. There was hot resentment in Ned’s stomach, bilious and sour, and he vowed again to spend his life making sure that men such as Bishop Julius would not have the power to destroy honest merchants like Alice Willard.
As they walked away from the grave, Ned tried to turn his mind to practical matters, and he said to Barney: ‘The house is yours, of course.’
Barney was the elder son. He had shaved off his bushy beard to reveal a face that was prematurely aged, at thirty-two, by cold saltwater winds and the glare of the unshaded sun. He said: ‘I know, but I have little use for it. Please live there whenever you’re in Kingsbridge.’