A prison. I am a prisoner, she thought. A true prisoner, as bad as Lochleven.
For an instant she imagined turning suddenly and galloping away. I cannot meekly enter here! she thought. But then she knew there was nowhere to ride, no friendly subjects to hide and protect her. She was in the heart of enemy territory, where there could be no shelter for her. She did not even know her direction.
No, that is not the way, she told herself sternly. You will not ride out and hide in cottages and sleep on the ground, as you did in the flight after Langside. You have hopes among the nobles. Have you so soon forgotten Norfolk? And Northumberland? And even Philip of Spain? There is a good chance that he may invade here in response to Elizabeth’s seizing of his gold ships that went astray. I am not alone. I am not alone. I am not alone!
They began their ascent to the castle, winding up a steep path. It was more than a hundred feet up to the top, and they had to pass over a wide dry moat, over a drawbridge, and through a formidable gatehouse—the only entrance to the castle. At length they emerged into the castle grounds; later Mary was told they were three acres in extent. Stout walls encircled three sides, and the fourth needed no walls, as it was a steep drop to the valley floor, a hundred feet below. Two watchtowers guarded the thick walls.
The ground was barren, and only a few torches were lighted, throwing eerie, leaping shadows on the frozen ground. Stiffly Lord Scrope dismounted and said, “I will announce our arrival.” But by the tone of his voice, he betrayed his anxiety that Shrewsbury had not been waiting for them.
Mary and her attendants waited, patting their horses and assuring them they would soon be stabled. At length Scrope returned, bringing someone with him.
“Queen Mary,” he said, “may I present George Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury?”
George. Always a lucky name for me, she thought. Pray that this may be so now. “I am pleased,” said Mary.
Shrewsbury took her hand and kissed it. Only then did he look at her.
She saw a man of about forty, with a long, lugubrious face, thinning hair, and a greying beard. His eyes looked as though they had seen many defections and melancholias.
“My Countess and I welcome you,” he said sadly.
* * *
Mary’s household was to be lodged in the south range of buildings, which were two storeys. As she stepped over the threshold, the first impression she had was of an overwhelming odour of mould. It became more intense when she actually stood inside. The guardroom smelt and dripped like a grotto. A pervasive cold gripped her.
“Welcome, Your Majesty,” said a low, powerful voice. A woman had emerged from the neighbouring chamber, and she approached Mary. “I am Bess, Countess of Shrewsbury.”
Mary’s first thought was that someone had taken Queen Elizabeth and rolled a millstone over her, flattening her out and broadening all her features. This woman looked like the Queen, with light reddish hair, a long thin nose, and tight little lips. But her face and person were square. Everything about her was square, from her head to her eyes to her shoulders and her hands and even, amazingly, her fingernails. Peeking out from under her heavy woollen gown were square shoes encasing square feet.
“I trust you will be comfortable here,” she was saying. “We have sent for tapestries from Sheffield and furnishings from London. This place is in poor repair—very poor—we never stay here, and the Queen’s information is sorely out of date!” She sounded as though she would like to box the Queen’s stupid ears.
“I am sure I will be,” Mary replied.
“Do not be so sure! It is most uncivilized! It was built over two hundred years ago and nothing done since. But,” she said with a snort, “we do what we can!” She turned to her husband. “George, is there no word yet about the seven lined hangings with the story of Hercules? I sent for them last Monday. You said they would come from Wingfield. Well?”
“I have been told they are at Derby. One of the mules is lame.”
“Your excuses are lame!” she bellowed. Then she said to Mary, “I will take you to your quarters, Madam.”
* * *
March 4, 1569. Tutbury Castle, Staffordshire. What have I done to warrant such a punishment? This “castle” is not fit to house Judas or Brutus, and yet I must endure it. It sits atop its cliff, exposed to the elements; the winds rip across it and through the flimsy south range of buildings where they have housed me. These quarters are even worse than they seemed when first I smelt them. The mould was delicate compared to the stench of the privies, which have nowhere to empty, and sit, festering, beneath us. Noxious vapours pervade every chamber. Wearing perfume to try to overcome it has only the effect that the perfume becomes mixed with the latrine odours and itself becomes repulsive.
They said Tutbury “overlooks the fields,” but there are no fields below, only swamps and marshes. As they have thawed, the ice has released the deadly vapours from them as well, and the cruel wind blows them up here, to poison the outdoor air as the privies do the indoor air. My clothes reek of it, as if I had rolled in decaying slime.
This castle is so closely guarded, with its one steep path winding up from the little village behind it, and its gatehouse, that I have not been able to carry on any correspondence, besides with Elizabeth. Over and over I beg her to let me come and speak to her in person, or else to set me free to seek my fortune elsewhere. But her replies are evasive. O, how can I endure this?
I know nothing of what is happening in Scotland, or how my party is faring there. I know nothing of Bothwell’s fate. I know nothing of what is happening on the Continent, of what my relatives in France are doing and whether Philip has responded to the English provocation. In short, I am kept in a dark dungeon!
I have established a code for Norfolk. The Spanish ambassador is “30.” I am “40.” Northumberland is “20” and Westmoreland is “10.” I have had much ado to send any messages to any of them. They cannot send any in here, and I can only send them out when I let out my faithful Lord Herries or my recently arrived John Leslie, the Bishop of Ross, to take letters to Elizabeth. Then he can smuggle out messages to the others. But sometimes they are searched, and it is difficult to think of any hiding places that my adversaries have not already in mind. They say this Francis Walsingham, Cecil’s deputy, is a spymaster and has spies of his own everywhere. Thus he knows all the tricks, and is most inventive himself. It is he who works behind the others like a shadow, and it is he, ultimately, whom I must outsmart every time I want to get a message out.
How amused Catherine de Médicis would be! She had such disdain for my attempts at games of intrigue, when I was a child in France. But even as a man with weak arms must learn to chop wood if he needs a fire, I have had to teach myself all these things, which I would rather not know.
Leslie says that things are moving, that Norfolk is being brought round. I must do something to strengthen his resolve! Of course I have no desire to marry him, but that is beside the point. I must be free in order to marry him, and once free, I will have a choice. I must put a petition to the Pope to dissolve my marriage to Bothwell, in order to seem sincere. Of course it is pointless, because I was not married to Bothwell by Catholic rites. But no matter—it will seem convincing. And it will give me an opportunity to write openly to Bothwell about it. Just to speak to him, if only on paper.…
There is now a priest in my household, going under the name of Sir John Morton and acting as a gentleman attendant. Shrewsbury is only too aware of it, but looks the other way, which is kind. With the departure of Knollys, they have stopped subjecting me to the Anglican priest. I am strengthened by the presence of Morton, and the opportunity to practise my own faith, however secretly.
I must stop now. My fingers ache. Since coming here, my joints have swollen and become stiff. My physician says it is rheumatism. But I am only twenty-six!
Mary put down her pen and capped the inkwell. The ink in it was thick with the cold. She then closed her book and wrapped it in the false cover she had devised for it that made i
t look like a ledger, and put it in the stack of other ledgers. As she stood and smoothed out her skirt, she was only too aware of the stiffness of her fingers.
She knelt for a moment before her crucifix—Lady Douglas had kindly sent it on from Lochleven—and prayed.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” she whispered, “please have mercy on me, your child. You will not remain angry forever. In your holy Scriptures it says, ‘He retaineth not His anger forever, because He delighteth in mercy.’ I know You sometimes require suffering … is that what this is, rather than punishment and anger? I remember something the Cardinal said, long ago in France … about suffering as something required for its own sake. But I did not really hear it; I was young and happy. What was it? That suffering is to teach obedience, I think he said. Show me what I must do, then, and I will obey!”
She stood up and realized that her knees were also tender. The rheumatism was affecting them as well. A shiver of fear passed through her. Does God mean to afflict me in body as well as in spirit? she thought, with panic.
She left her room and made her way into the long chamber that served as both hall and great chamber, with a wainscot partition dividing the two. Each had its own fireplace, woefully inadequate for heating. Bess was already seated on a bench near the fire, a great woollen shawl around her shoulders. She looked up eagerly when Mary entered.
For three weeks now, Mary had been helping Bess design hangings and embroideries for her new mansion of Chatsworth. Bess had inherited it from her second husband, William Cavendish, the father of all her brood of children, and was building it with no help from her current husband, whom she always referred to, somewhat rudely, as “George.” But Bess was childishly eager to consult with Mary about matters of taste, since Mary had lived in all the great châteaux of France, and seen firsthand the murals at Fontainebleau, the columns of marble at St.-Germain-en-Laye, the paintings by Primaticcio of Diane de Poitiers at Chenonceau, the secret cupboards at Blois. To her delight, Mary had sent for her books of embroidery patterns that were all the rage in France—or had been, in 1560. There was the Devises Héroïques by Claud Paradin, and La Nature et Diversité des Poissons by Pierre Belon. They contained suitable mottoes and fables, and woodcuts of animals which could be adapted for needlework. Bess did not read French well enough to understand the texts that went along with them, and relied on Mary to do so.
Now Bess held up the square of canvas she was working on. “I have begun the broken mirror!” she said gleefully.
Mary smiled. She was surprised at how fast Bess had progressed; she worked as furiously on this as she did on everything else, driving like a mad charioteer.
“Excellent!” said Mary. “It will be a fitting tribute to Sir William.”
“Ah! If only he could see it!” Bess sighed, running her square fingers over it.
“But he does, Madame,” said Mary. “He sees from Heaven.”
“Hmmm … yes, that of course, but—” Bess bent back over the panel that she and Mary had designed in memory of Sir William, the bequeather of Chatsworth. In spite of the fact that his widow had allowed herself to be consoled by two husbands since, the panel showed mourning in full force. Tears rained down onto quicklime, encircled by the motto Tears Witness That the Quenched Flame Lives—in Latin, of course, to lend it dignity. Around this a border of mourning symbols encircled the device: a glove, symbol of fidelity, cut in two; broken intertwined cords; a cracked mirror; three (to account for Bess’s three widowhoods) broken wedding rings; a snapped chain.
“He will look down from Heaven and be proud,” said Mary. She opened her basket and extracted her own work. It looked innocent enough—a ghostly hand descended from the sky with a pruning hook, lopping off branches of a tree, with the motto Virtue Flourishes by Wounding curling around it. Mary had told Bess that it was to reflect her own growing belief that she was being chastened, to grow through suffering. It had her cipher, which incorporated her initials and those of François. Thus they had sighed and spoken in soft tones of their beloved departed husbands, darting their needles in and out of the canvas like fireflies.
But Mary was making the panel to be sewn into a pillow for Norfolk. The symbols were meant to convey a different message to him and rouse him to action: the unfruitful branch was Elizabeth, while the one which would bear fruit was herself—and him. How she would get it to him she did not know. But somehow she would manage.
After an hour Bess suddenly remembered she had to speak to “George” about the provender for the horses, and she stuffed her sewing into her basket and left. Mary dutifully kept sewing, eyes downcast, until she was sure Bess had indeed left. Then, as normally as possible, she stood up—her knees were aching still—and sent one of her servants to bring George Douglas to her. Her mind was made up.
George came straightway, and he looked relieved. He had had scant opportunity to be alone with her since coming to Tutbury. She smiled at him and mounted the step to sit in her chair under her cloth of estate.
“So you will be Queen in state today, and I must stand at your feet?” he said.
“I must sit under my cloth of estate, else day by day I shall forget what I am, and think myself only a poor prisoner.”
“You have as your device on the cloth, En Ma Fin Est Ma Commencement. I have long wondered why you chose ‘In My End Is My Beginning.’ This is not your end, surely … or do you see it that way?”
He was so devoted, so singleminded. “No, indeed I do not. The phoenix rising from the ashes is pictured upon the cloth—now do you understand?”
“Yes.”
George had remained with her all these months, and was obviously intent on remaining with her until “the end.” She knew that he desired her, yet at the same time worshipped her. And there had been times when she was tempted by him, tempted by his male beauty and her own enforced celibacy, and she had thought, What else do I have to reward him with? and What harm would it do for me to take some little pleasure in this prison to which I am consigned? It would be an act of charity and mercy. But regard for him had stopped her. If he had been less noble, less pure—if he had been more like the opportunistic Ruthven, or even the practical Maitland … But then she would have had no desire for him at all. His very decency and purity was his attraction.
“George, I need your help,” she said. “God knows I have waited and hoped to be released, but my imprisonment shows no end. I must send someone to France, to speak to my relatives the Guises, and to see about my estates. I am entitled to my income as dowager queen, but since my flight from Scotland, nothing has been forthcoming. I need someone I can trust. Will you go?”
“I do not wish to leave you!” he said.
This was going to be difficult. “You have served me so well. Now you see that I need further help. This is no different from procuring the horses and men to secure my escape from Kinross. It is just farther, that is all. You can help raise troops in France. Your work for me is not yet done.”
“If the sea is between us, I cannot help fight for you myself. There are no men at arms in your retinue here.”
Oh, he was so handsome; no wonder they called him “Pretty Geordie.” She had seen Shrewsbury’s servants of both sexes eyeing him. She motioned to him to come up beside her.
“Dear George,” she said, “then I see I must command you. It is good that I am seated under my cloth of estate.” She reached up and, taking his face in her hands, drew his face toward hers. She kissed him once, lingeringly, on the lips.
He trembled and drew back.
“That is my command,” she whispered. “That you go on my mission. And if, while there, you find a Frenchwoman who suits your fancy, then I beg you, conclude an honourable marriage with her. You have lost your fortunes in following mine; now I send you to France to repair them as best as possible.”
“I want no one else!” he blurted out. “There can never be anyone else!”
“Then you lay a burden of guilt on me that is unfair. You know I am married, and
for you deliberately to forgo any chance for happiness and a family because of a married woman is cruel—to me. To me, whom you say you love!”
“So if I love you, I must marry someone else?” he said. “Strange love!”
“As you grow older, you will discover stranger still. France will be good for you; you will become educated in love there.” She wanted to say, I do not mean any of this; let us just find joy in one another’s arms. It may be all either of us will ever have.
“Perverted love!” he snorted. “Love in which a king wears his mistress’s colours and publicly shames his queen!”
She laughed gently. “Most like, then, you prefer the burning, pure love of a king like Henry VIII? A love that would brook no other!”
George’s icy blue eyes were riveted on her. “Indeed. At least he was honest!”
“Is honesty, then, the trait you prize above all others?”
He was nodding earnestly.
Ah, then go, she thought. Oh, George. I shall miss you—you take my youth with you. My knight of honesty.
* * *
After he was gone, she sat disconsolately. Her intrigues and ciphers and embroideries seemed, suddenly, to have lost their appeal. It was all so much work.
It would be so much easier to be completely honest, she thought. They say the wages of sin is death. But the wages of honesty will be a lifetime of imprisonment. Because other people are not honest. Fight fire with fire. Or die. All my attempts to act with mercy and justice were betrayed in Scotland and have brought me to this place.
* * *
May 15, 1569. This ominous anniversary: two years since Bothwell and I became husband and wife; one year since the battle of Langside. Tomorrow I will have been in England a year—and yet to see Elizabeth!
George has been active on my behalf in France, and I have hopes of receiving an income once again. Without money I can do nothing, not even pay my servants, but exist on an allowance from Elizabeth.
In Scotland—oh, the sorrow of it, the perfidy!—Borthwick and Rothes have gone over to Lord James. There remains to me only Dumbarton Castle and scattered nobles who refuse to bow the knee to my brother.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 98