Walsingham waved his hand over the exhibit. “This is how we’ll catch her. Her childish faith in such tricks will be the bait. It’s very simple: we’ll shut off her lines of communication. Then we’ll reopen them with one she will believe is utterly secret. For that we’ll employ all these devices: secret bottles, codes, and so on. Every line she receives and sends out will be monitored by us. Sooner or later a plot will come along, and when she agrees, in writing, to it—” He jerked his head sideways as if a noose had tightened on it.
“Shall the plot be false?”
“No need for that. A real one will do. Of course, since we will be aware of it from the beginning, it will be harmless.” He began putting the objects back in their drawer. “The Throckmorton Plot was instrumental in revealing to us the extent of her freedom to send and receive letters. Shrewsbury has been far too lax. It is time that he was replaced by one of our own persuasion, and that she became truly imprisoned. She’ll be locked up, like the princess in the tower her admirers always imagine, and there’ll be no letters of any kind.” He sighed. “Oh, how distraught she will be … and then how happy, when the ‘secret’ communication is opened!” He laughed for the first time that afternoon. “I daresay it will be the happiest day of her life—and of ours.”
XVII
The two ladies stood on the roof of the Turret House, a little square tower built on the edge of the great manor hunting park, and looked out over the October countryside. The hunt was beginning; down below they could hear the baying of the hounds making their own peculiar sweet music, the music of autumn and the frosty chase. Shrewsbury had magnificent dogs, and today all his packs were ready. There were the long-legged coursing hounds, like the deerhounds and buckhounds, and the smaller hounds that tracked by scent, like the bassets and bloodhounds. Their voices blended and rose up, yearning to begin the hunt, as their masters tried to restrain them.
By Mary’s feet, her own little terriers and spaniels were answering their larger cousins, scampering and crying out in high-pitched yelps.
“No, my dears, you cannot join them,” said Mary, bending over and trying to soothe them. “You must stay here with us and merely look on. Why, you are so small they might mistake you for a hare and run you to ground.” She picked up the Skye terrier and ran her hands over his smooth coat. “I know you have a keen sense of smell; the kennelmaster says you can follow a scent two hours old. But, my old friend, the truth is, I could not bear to lose you.” She held him close to her; he was the only survivor from the litter that Lady Bothwell had sent her almost ten years ago. She had named him Armageddon because it seemed a long and comical name for the fierce little animal, and because whatever else Bothwell had been, he had been a warrior who had longed for the final battle. Of course they had shortened it to Geddon, which sounded innocent enough.
“Look! Shrewsbury is calling to us!” said Mary Seton, who was her mistress’s companion on the roof. They leaned over the edge and looked down.
Shrewsbury, mounted on his hunting horse, was waving up at them. “We’ll return after the hunt, and come up then,” he called.
Mary waved back at him to show that she understood. Often the hunters came back to the tower lodge for refreshment after the hunt, and recounted their adventures. Shrewsbury had quite recently built the three-storey tower, a fashionable feature of hunting parks, and decorated it beautifully—fine plasterwork ceilings with flowers of France, England, and Scotland, the arms of the family over the fireplaces, and heraldic designs in the glass windows.
The party put spurs to their horses and galloped off, the bright sun gleaming on their horses’ flanks, the excited hounds scampering ahead.
Mary Seton watched as her mistress looked yearningly out after them. There had been times when she had been allowed to go hunting, but exaggerated reports—some saying that she roamed far and wide—had reached the English Privy Council, and Shrewsbury had been reprimanded for carelessness, and the privilege withdrawn. Not that it mattered now; Mary was unable to ride these days owing to her health. There had even been days last summer when she had to be carried about in a litter, and her only outside activity was to sit placidly beside the duck pond. But Seton knew that still she was unable to hear the sound of the hounds baying, and watch them rushing off, without wanting to go, and forgetting the state she was now in. Her heart was still athletic and young, captured in an aging, immobile body.
As is mine, thought Seton. I, too, have stiff fingers and a spine that no longer wishes to bend and bear weight.
Mary was standing framed against the blazing reds and golds of the trees in the park, with the deep brilliant blue of the sky enfolding it all. Suddenly Seton remembered seeing this before … where?
“How well those colours become you,” said Seton. “They are—jewel tones, like the ones Clouet used in painting you.” Yes, that was where it had been.
“Clouet!” Mary said with a laugh. “In the days of long ago. You have the memory of a scholar.” She sighed and gestured toward the park. The hunters were almost out of sight, but they could still hear the hounds. “These colours are more beautiful than any paints could ever be.”
“Come, let us bring a bench over and sit.”
Side by side they sat on a plump embroidered bench cushion, letting the sun warm them. They were both dressed in black, and the rays of sun soaked into their clothes and heated them.
Mary’s profile was still clean and pleasing, and had changed little over the years. Seton had seen it before the bridge on Mary’s nose formed, when she still had the upturned nose of childhood; had seen it bloom into beauty, carried aloft on the swanlike neck, in France; had watched it settle and set in adulthood; and, last, had seen it all but disappear behind the veils and headdresses the aging exile had affected. But today it was visible, kissed by the sun and still bonny.
I believe that a man would still love her, thought Seton, if there were any worthy of her. But she’ll never meet any, no, never anymore.
“Do you remember the oak trees around Chambord?” asked Mary. “And how we would gather leaves about this time of year, and look for the biggest acorns to use for dolls’ cups?”
Aye, in that time when all the world was young … “I could never forget.”
“I wish we were back there.”
“Do you wish we had never left?”
“No. Not that. But I wish I could be permitted to return. Well, I will be, someday.”
How odd that Mary would say that with such certainty. “How do you know this?”
“Because it is in my will. I have requested to be buried in Reims, near my mother and my uncle. But I fear I will not be aware of the journey!”
How calmly she said it! “Do not speak thus!” cried Seton.
“And you will be there to receive me,” continued Mary.
“What do you mean?” Seton was alarmed.
“I mean, dear Seton, dearest companion—I am sending you back to France, and before the winter.”
“No! No! I will not leave you!”
Mary turned and looked at her. Her eyes were lined, and such sadness showed in their depths that Seton knew what was meant by the saying, “the soul is in the eyes.”
“I am your Queen, am I not?” said Mary. “If I command it, then you will go.”
Seton flung herself on her knees and clasped Mary’s feet. “Then do not command me! Do not cast me away!”
Mary stroked Seton’s shoulder. The material of the dress was warm from the sun. “I wish you to go to the Abbey of St.-Pierre. My old aunt Renée is still Abbess there, and she will take you in. Seton, Seton—you are almost as ill and crippled as I. I must release you from your duties. Why, you cannot even dress my hair anymore! Soon everyone will know that my hair is grey!”
“If you can stand to remain here, so can I,” said Seton. “How could I go where you so long to go, and leave you behind?”
“Because in doing so, it will be as near as I ever come to going myself. And Seton—I will not
be remaining here. I am being transferred to Tutbury. I cannot allow you to go there as well. My conscience would never permit it. Just think—to return to France … to see our old friends and relatives … to see your dear brother … ah, he has suffered, too!”
“Indeed.” Lord Seton, after being captured and wounded at Langside, had gone into exile in France, where he was so poor he was reduced to driving a wagon.
“You cannot tell me you do not long to see him!”
“Not as much as I wish to remain with you.”
“That is not your choice. I am ordering you to go, and to go before the winter comes and you are trapped.” She took Seton’s face in her hands and held it tenderly. “We have always been so close. You have been my true companion all my life, and even our mothers were companions—your mother came from France with mine, two Frenchwomen married to Scotsmen. Now you must carry my heart with you back to France, for if you go, I will feel that I have gone, as well.”
Seton started crying, the tears making long, silent paths down her cheeks.
“Pray do not cry,” said Mary. “I cannot stand that. All my life has been a parting until now, but this is the first time it has been by my own doing. When you are there, when you are safe and loved and cared for, then you will thank me. And I will have something to be proud of, some good that I have done someone.” She sighed. “You know they are trying to prevent my even giving alms now? But it is of no matter. My income has dwindled to where I have almost no alms to give. France is different now from before. ‘Now there arose up a new king over Egypt, which knew not Joseph.’ All the leaders we knew have died, and control is in the hands of those who were only children when we were there. Little Henri is King! The other little Henri is Duc de Guise! They have no memories of me, nor I of them. My own mission there has deteriorated into a band of exiles, and there is no Frenchman of any note directing my affairs. That is why they are so badly handled, I fear. Also, time makes my claims there seem odd; it is over twenty years since I left.”
“Just think—we left before the religious wars there,” said Seton. “I fear France is a ravaged place now. No, even if I go back to France, I cannot go back to our France, the France we loved.”
“It is gone forever.” Geddon whined and pawed at Mary’s gown. “What, are you sad, too? You are an aged and wise dog, dear one.” She patted his head and pulled at his ears, which still amused her after all these years. “Pray give me some words of consolation.” Geddon licked at her hand and shook his body.
“Dogs have more sense than to mourn and wallow in melancholy,” said Seton. “Perhaps that is why we need dogs about us. Do they have dogs at the convent?”
“I believe so. They used to. Of course, that may have changed, too.”
They watched the sun go down over the tops of the trees, sending out shafts of bronze light. A haze lay over the horizon, slumbering and golden. There was an intense peace about it, an urge to acceptance in the remaining hours of light. Mary took Seton’s hand and held it tightly, and they sat silent and still.
In the glowing dusk, they heard the distant sound of the hounds, and knew the hunters were returning. They would be gathering at the foot of the tower, milling about, while they dismounted and the game was taken away to be dressed.
Mary stood up and watched as pinpricks of light came closer; torches had been lit. The company was singing, shouting, in spite of their weariness. Three deer carcasses were being borne on poles. The hounds were trotting along, their tongues hanging out.
“Your Majesty!”
Mary recognized Shrewsbury’s voice, and so she called down, “Yes, good Lord Shrewsbury!”
“We will be having refreshments in the ground chamber,” he called. “Pray have the fires lit and come and join us!”
“With pleasure,” she said. Turning to Seton, she said, “It will take me an hour to descend, I fear. Here, let us go down together.”
* * *
On the ground floor, the fire was already crackling, the ornate white plaster arms of Shrewsbury, with the greyhounds supporting his family shield, illuminated above the fireplace. Indeed, the ceiling of the room, with its exquisite hexagonal designs and intricate flowers twined one round the other, were emphasized by the shadows of the firelight. It reminded Mary a bit of France, of the great hunting châteaux there, only in miniature.
Shrewsbury had his hat off and was fanning himself. “Plenty warm in here,” he was saying.
“Was the hunting good?” Mary asked.
He answered cautiously, as if he were afraid it was a veiled request. “Yes, we took both antlered deer and fallow deer,” said Shrewsbury. “Ah!” He helped himself to a cup of steaming red wine, with roasted apples floating in the bowl. “The hounds did well, expecially the buckhounds and my special breed of ‘Talbot hounds.’ I understand your little terrier is good for badgers. He’ll have to come along sometime.” He looked around as if awaiting rescue.
“I fear he is too old now,” said Mary. “He could not keep up—like his mistress.”
One of Shrewsbury’s sons was present, as well as some neighbouring gentry. They were, as always, staring at Mary, ready to remember every detail so they could report on it. Shrewsbury had been reprimanded for that, as well. The English Council had complained that he was showing off his famous captive. Well, it was almost over now, he thought with relief. Fifteen years of captivity for both of us, about to come to an end.
“Madam,” he said in a low voice, keeping his wine cup up near his lips, “it is as I had heard. You are to be transferred from my keeping into that of another.”
“Who?” That had been the mystery. Who would replace Shrewsbury? He would have to be noble, and wealthy, and politically trustworthy. Robert Dudley? Cecil?
“Sir Amyas Paulet,” replied Shrewsbury.
“Who?” Mary had never heard of him.
“A worthy gentleman, and a good friend of Sir Francis Walsingham’s.”
“Is he—of the same religious persuasion?” Mary knew that Walsingham was of the church party increasingly known as Puritan—militant, strict Protestantism of a sort that the genial Martin Luther would have found uncomfortable. Puritans were the spiritual children of John Knox.
“Yes, and more so,” said Shrewsbury, and Mary’s heart sank.
* * *
After the hunters had departed and night had fallen, Mary and Seton made their way back to their rooms. The fires had already been lit, chasing the chill out as best they could. Dear old Father de Préau was waiting to say the nightly prayers that closed their day. The members of the household were gathered, and at the end of the prayers, Mary added, “And may God keep us when we are parted.”
Afterwards several people came up to her, puzzled.
“I have just received word that I am to be transferred to a new … host. There is a possibility that they may request my household to be reduced. I do not know; I only ask that you keep this in mind so that if it comes, we are prepared,” said Mary.
Before they could question her further, she withdrew into her private chamber. She did not wish to talk about it, or anything else, at the moment. The decision to send Seton away had drained her.
Quietly they made ready for bed, Seton helping her with gentle, practised hands, as she always did. Before retiring, Mary opened her little coffer with her miniatures, and took them out one by one, holding them up to the candle.
There was François, and one of her mother. There was Darnley, as he had been when first he came to Scotland, and all at once she remembered that meeting in the misty cold garden, and why she had loved him. There was Darnley’s mother, whom Mary had never met. There was the flat face of Catherine de Médicis, and the baby face of the infant James. And then there was … Elizabeth.
A face I shall never see, she thought. Never in this lifetime. And yet … if I could just see her …
No more of that, she told herself. No more of that.
She wrapped up the miniatures and returned them to their li
ttle tomb. Slowly she stood up and made her way over to the crucifix hanging over the prie-dieu, flanked by two candle sconces. Laboriously she lowered herself down onto the kneeler and fastened her eyes on the old beloved object.
She remembered when she had first seen it, in that room at St.-Pierre, when she had knelt and agonized over whether to return to Scotland.
My heart was aching then, she thought. I thought all the pain in the world was contained in my loss of François. Little did I know that was just the beginning. And then my aunt Renée, she came in and spoke to me. And all seemed to be clear, and destined.
Mary looked over at Seton, sitting quietly and reading.
Yes, it is right that she go there. It is right that there is still some haven and protection I can offer my servants. Thank You, God, for sparing Aunt Renée! She is sixty-two years old now—please keep her in health and service to You for many more years.
She looked around the chamber, the chamber that had been home of sorts for almost fifteen years—longer than any other home. It had a consoling familiarity.
Why, I have been in Shrewsbury’s keeping longer than the entire time I lived in France! she realized.
And now that is to end, as well. I am prepared for whatever is to be. But I fear that, in my life, all changes are for the worse.
XVIII
“I hate Tutbury!” said Claud Nau, her secretary, rubbing his hands vigorously to try to warm them.
“Of all my prisons, this is the worst,” agreed Mary.
If they had wanted to make me as miserable as possible and hasten my death or complete crippling, they could not have chosen better, she thought. But I refuse to assume that is why they did it; I refuse to attribute such demonic insight to them. To them—or is it her?
Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles Page 112