I know Anthony, and I know he is drawn to this, and probably sees himself as a leader of the persecuted English Catholics, hiding them, guiding them, giving them money. He is ambitious, he would want to be a ringleader, not a mere follower.
He glared at me. “I am going to study law,” he finally said.
“Good, Anthony. That will stand you in good stead.”
“The Jesuits are coming,” he said. “That will change things. They will take charge, and there’ll be no more of this cowardly sneaking and hiding. Oh, no! That’s not their way.”
“Anthony, I pray the Jesuits do not come,” I told him. “The new Pope, Gregory XIII, has stirred up enough English patriotism with his ill-fated invasion of Ireland. That stupid, stupid plan—to oust the English! It has forever destroyed the defence of the priests that their work is not political, and made the English see them as evil foreign agents in the land.”
“Pope Gregory at least retracted the bull excommunicating Elizabeth—that should have pleased them!” said Anthony.
“No, that made it worse!” I said. Anthony looked dumbfounded (perhaps his political sense was naïve after all), and so I explained, “In his Explanatio, he says that the bull is not binding ‘except when public execution of the said bull shall become possible.’ In other words, all Catholic subjects may pretend to obey until the army arrives to overthrow Elizabeth.”
“So!” He looked disdainful.
“That means that when a Catholic swears loyalty, it now means nothing—other than that he is biding his time. The Explanatio has made us all dissimulating traitors.”
“Not you!” he said. “How can a queen be a traitor?”
“I meant all Catholics. Anthony, be careful.”
But he swept away with a smile and a laugh. He is young, and wants adventure.
I had meant to remind him about the execution of Cuthbert Mayne two years ago, and two other Catholic priests last year. These were the first martyrs to suffer death for religion under Elizabeth. I fear they will not be the last.
July 22, 1579. It is still raining, as it has been for the past seven days. The ground is so soaked that horses’ hooves sink into it up to the fetlocks, so messages are slow coming and going.
I wished I had reminded Anthony of other things, like the increasingly militant stance of Philip. He has recently issued a proclamation blaming William of Orange for the disturbances in Christendom in general and in the Netherlands in particular, and has authorized his murder. First Lord James was murdered in Scotland, then Coligny in France, and now Philip calls for William’s murder. It does make the Catholics into the assassins that Protestants fear. Two of their staunchest Reformist leaders have been murdered. Little wonder Elizabeth feels threatened, and that her subjects seek to protect her.
All this means for me is that I am increasingly viewed as the dangerous “Bosom Serpent” that Walsingham calls me, the enemy in their midst. But it is they who have insisted on keeping me in their midst, when I have begged and pleaded to be freed!
* * *
October 15, Anno Domini 1580. Is it possible it has been so long since I have written in this little book? When first I came to England, and was presented with it, I thought it would only last a year. But I find that most of my writing has been in the form of letter-writing, and when I am finished with that task, I have no desire to write anything more; my hands ache and are numb. These letters—how many of them have there been? Enough to fill several volumes, were they collected. And the sad thing, the amusing thing—depending on who you are—is that they all say the same thing. In all of them the prisoner cries for release, to anyone she feels will help. No stratagem is unemployed: there is begging, and appeal to sentimentality, appeal to justice, appeal to blood, appeal to charity; there are threats, both of the here-and-now and of the hereafter. There are wild promises and offers to perform any tasks. But in the end, the answer has always been no. And so perhaps I would have been better had I just recorded my own thoughts, for myself and posterity, than to pour such effort into crying to deaf ears.
But no. It was impossible to remain silent. For there was always the hope that this time, perhaps …
Gradually my memory of what it is not to be imprisoned faded. It has been thirteen years now since I was taken to Lochleven. They say I have lost touch with the world, which is changing rapidly, that I live in the past, among dead ideas and dead people. Perhaps that is true, although it seems to me that more and more I live in the realm of eternity, in the time that is yet to come. When I finally conquer my fear of Death, then there will be nothing more here to hold me. But now I have not conquered it; I still see him as a rude arresting officer who will hustle me away, as the English did, and take me away from the few things that I still hold dear.
Retribution. Recompense. Return. Is this what I suffer? When first the doors of the prison turned on me—and all the doors are alike, be they at Lochleven, at Carlisle, at Tutbury, Wingfield, Sheffield—I thought it was. But now the punishment, the retribution, the suffering, the effects of the failings, whatever you wish to call this, have extended so much longer than the thing itself. It seems all out of proportion, and so I must continue to wonder: Why?
Scotland sometimes seems like a dream to me; even now I find it confusing in retrospect. They say with distance all things become clear, but with distance Scotland has become even more unreal and misty. It was my crucible, and I failed there.
Scotland continues to exist, of course, and is still a dangerous place. Lately a new element has arisen; predictable, but one that has thrown the Lords into a panic. James is growing up; he is fourteen now, and has a mind of his own. He is not so easily ruled, and has taken his French cousin Esmé Stuart to his side, rebelling against his keepers. They say the Guises sent him over to “corrupt” James. Be that as it may, there was yet another revolt and plot, and the Earl of Morton was ousted as Regent and brought to trial. And for what? For Darnley’s death.
Morton was executed on his favourite device, a beheading machine called “the Maiden,” which works by releasing a suspended blade over the victim’s head. It is called the Maiden because they say “although she lies down with many men, no one has yet got the best of her.” It is said to be much cleaner and surer than a human headsman. And thus perished that vile man, my enemy.
Now that James is free of him, I may be able to approach him. All these years, they have prevented us from communicating. But surely now he will listen to his mother. I have a proposal to make, which may benefit us both.
* * *
June 11, Anno Domini 1582. I am now in my fortieth year—how chilling that sounds! I cannot be the first to be surprised to be suddenly “old”; but when I was fifteen, twenty, and twenty-five, I thought youth would last forever.
Nicholas Hillard came to Sheffield recently to paint miniatures of Shrewbury and his family, and he painted one of me, too. I hated it. The woman he painted was like a distorted vision of the girl painted by Clouet long ago in France. She had the same features, but they had blurred and run, were softened like an overripe pear. I have often observed such pears lying on their platters. They still hold their shape, but they are soft enough that the bottoms are a little flattened where they are lying, and the skin is slightly swollen. These, incidentally, make the best eating, if one eats them just at that moment. The next day they are inevitably mushy and show spots.
To think that I am in that state! And yet, upon looking in my glass, I had to admit that the portrait was accurate, it captured all the features. It was even, truth to tell, a little flattering. My chin is fuller than he painted, and my nose sharper.
A woman of forty. She is seen as a simpering, silly thing, a witch, or else a lascivious man-eater, hungry for young male flesh. Bothwell’s Janet Beaton was seen as such, and even the elegant Diane de Poitiers with young Henri II, both women being some twenty years older than their lovers. I have been reading Chaucer, and his Wife of Bath is a chortling, lip-smacking libertine who admits that s
he took on her twenty-year-old husband when she was forty, and “truly, as my husbands all told me, I had the silkiest quoniam that could be; I never could withdraw my Venus-chamber from a good fellow.” I blush to write such, even though Chaucer did not.
I suppose, had I the inclinations of the Wife of Bath, there would have been Anthony Babington to hand, although to me he will always seem a child. But Anthony, although he did seem to admire me and find me pleasant, never looked at me in any improper way. And I have heard that after he went to London, he made a good marriage with a Catholic girl, and made quite a fashionable showing at court. Then, he took himself to France and, so I have been informed, has made contact with Thomas Morgan, my representative in Paris. He still yearns for adventure, I think, and I pray he does not himself become the prey of true adventurers and scoundrels.
But on this Wife-of-Bath business—there is the most astounding, pitiful, and comical courtship now proceeding between Elizabeth and little François, Catherine de Médicis’s baby. There is a twenty-two-year age difference between them! François, who was only six years old when I left France, has come to England courting her, and, from all reports, she is smitten! It seems that he is the only one of her many suitors actually to have crossed the Channel and come in person to woo—and thus, although he is tiny, pockmarked, and of an hysterical disposition, she purports to find him charming. She calls him her “Frog” and wears a gold frog pin with emerald eyes, and hangs upon him and sighs.
Robert Dudley is not amused, but then he cannot afford to complain. He himself made a secret marriage, to Lord Knollys’s daughter Lettice, and the Queen was furious when she was told—by the Frog’s aide. Her faithful Robin had finally grown weary of waiting, after seventeen years, and deserted his post. Some say she pursues the French marriage only as a sort of revenge, others as a compensation. She is on the verge of being unable to bear children at all, and perhaps she snatches at this as her last chance. Certainly I doubt it is in a Wife-of-Bath manner that she wants him. But her Council and half the realm are suddenly unsure they want the Virgin Queen to desert her post as surely as Robert Dudley did his. For twenty-odd years they have hounded her to marry; now that she may, they are horrified.
And I? If she marries and has a child, then my son will be dislodged from the succession. But I cannot begrudge her marriage—although I myself would never marry again. I will die as Bothwell’s widow, and that is what I wish.
And as for James, I have put forward a proposal that is being actively considered: that he and I rule together in a sanctioned Association. This would confirm his kingship, as well as procuring my liberty. I believe there is a real chance that it may be approved, and thus at last everyone shall be satisfied. My old enemies in Scotland are all dead: Lord James, Morton, Lennox, Knox. There now should be no hindrance to my return. Surely the English would be relieved to end their keeping of me!
For more and more it works against them to have me here. It has long outlived whatever purpose it had, and far from buying them safety, it provokes plots and unrest. I cannot help it that the situation between the Protestants and the Catholics has deteriorated so. But it has, and my presence here is dangerous for me and for them. I am powerless to prevent madmen from scheming and weaving their schemes around me. I am a hostage to my own partisans, and will be punished for their plans.
It happened: someone attempted to assassinate William of Orange, the Protestant leader of the Netherlands, in response to Philip’s call. Luckily he lived, but now Elizabeth’s life is feared for as well, for she is the other great Protestant leader. The cardinal secretary Como, papal secretary of state, said—in writing—that anyone assassinating Elizabeth would be doing a good deed. He said, “Since that guilty woman of England is the cause of so much injury to the Catholic faith, there is no doubt that whosoever sends her out of the world with pious intention of doing God service, not only does not sin but gains merit, especially having regard to the excommunication sentence passed on her by Pius V of holy memory.” So the Holy See counsels murder—what would the Prince of Peace make of it?
In response, the English Parliament passed a series of vicious laws against Catholics: it became high treason to convert an Anglican to Catholicism; anyone saying or hearing mass was liable to a large fine and a year’s imprisonment; a heavy fine was laid on anyone who failed to attend the Anglican services.
Yet the Jesuits continue to come to these shores, risking their lives for their faith, and mine as well. They have set up a secret press and pour out pamphlets and books; several hundred copies of one were even distributed at Oxford in the very church where a formal academic exercise was being held! They have recently reached the Sheffield area, and I had the supreme happiness of receiving one, a Father Samerie. Although he could not stay, it was a blessing to have him even for a day. Yet I fear for him, and for his fellows. May God protect them!
In this climate, there has been launched the “Holy Enterprise”—launched in words, that is. The “Holy Enterprise” is nothing more or less than the retaking of England for the Catholic faith. This time it is my relatives, the Guises, who mastermind it, along with Pope Gregory, Philip, and the English Catholic exiles. Their dream is to invade England with five thousand borrowed Spanish troops from the Netherlands; led by the young Duc de Guise, my nephew; they will then be joined by twenty thousand native English. They will liberate me, they say. And I, through my secret messenger Francis Throckmorton, Nicholas’s nephew, have kept myself informed of all these plans. Who am I to gainsay them? They promise to liberate me. If my prison door is thrown wide open, shall I refuse to walk out? Shall I be like Saint Paul and stay in my chains? Nay, that I shall not. For Saint Paul was imprisoned for what he preached and what he believed, whereas I was imprisoned for no good reason—no earthly reason, that is. If it is for God’s reason, then I submit. And if it is for God’s reason, then no power on earth can break me out.
* * *
August 15, 1584. The Feast of the Assumption of Our Lady. Yesterday I left Buxton, and I fear I shall never return. It was a feeling that came to me, a whisper that all would be changed soon—does that mean my death? I had taken the warm waters for six weeks, lying in them, letting them soothe my stiff limbs. I now know I will never be cured, but only find a temporary relief of symptoms. The entire day was built around taking the cure, and at night I would return to my chambers in Shrewsbury’s hall and, rubbing my limbs with the oil of ripe olives, mixed with chamomile and rose-dew, I would feel them grow warm and limber. Then I could sleep peacefully. Mary Seton, who is always with me, now has the rheumatism as bad as I, and has been availing herself of the waters as well.
I would sit at the window, looking down at the empty street—empty because so few people are allowed to come while I am here, lest some spy or messenger slip through. For that reason alone, I cannot stay here long, as I cannot in good conscience keep the whole place for myself.
But last night as I was looking down, I suddenly was seized with an urge to write a farewell message on the glass; taking off the Duke of Norfolk’s diamond from around my neck, I scratched Buxtona, quae calida celebrisis nomine Lymphae, forte mihi post hac non adeunda, vale: “Buxton, whose fame thy milk-warm waters tell, whom I, perchance, no more shall see, farewell.” I have loved Buxton, but I can bid farewell. I have learned how to bid farewell to everything I hold dear or have enjoyed. Now, as I have told my English gaolers, there are only two things that can never be taken from me: my royal blood and my Catholic faith, which are the true reasons I am imprisoned.
Coming through the countryside and back to Sheffield Manor, the beauty of the land in high summer was one of fulfillment and peace. I remembered how in France there were always processions through the countryside on Assumption Day, the image of Our Blessed Lady being borne through the fields of grain, riding like a ship in the summer harvest. But nothing of that sort any longer in England. As we passed through the extensive deer park that surrounds the manor—for it was originally a hunting l
odge and summer residence—the shadows under the massive oaks seemed as cool and restorative as a deep well, beckoning us to stop and rest awhile. But of course that was not allowed. We must go straight through the high brick gatehouse and directly back into the apartments.
I was allowed to rest and my ladies to unpack our things before I was presented with the unwelcome and ominous news: William of Orange had been assassinated, shot down in his own house in Delft by a Burgundian agent of Philip’s. “Shot at revoltingly close range,” was the way Shrewsbury put it.
“It grieves me,” I said.
“It does not grieve your relatives the Guises, nor the Pope, nor the Jesuits lurking about here, nor, of course, Philip of Spain. Your friends!”
“They are not my friends,” I replied. And indeed I had faced the fact that they were not. All they had to give was words. I had begun to suspect that they had no real intention of helping me, that I was just a verbal pawn to be used in their game of international politics. Only they had the power—armies and men—to deliver me, but they never would, because they did not care. The ones who cared—fanatic loyalists, gentry families of ancient Catholic allegiance—had not the power to do it. And thus I would die here in England, in my tower, guarded by staunch Protestant dragons.
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 110