by Jean Plaidy
Mary clenched her hands together. “Has she no pity!” she cried. And it was characteristic of her that she could feel more angry over the harsh treatment of Margaret Scrope than over any injustice that had been done to herself.
“No,” answered Margaret. “She has no pity when she feels that her subjects have worked against her. She must have learned that I have been giving you news of my brother . . . .”
“But this is monstrous. I’ll not endure it. You are to stay here, Margaret. You are to have your baby here, as you have arranged.”
Margaret put up a slim hand to touch her neck. She smiled grimly. “I am in no mind to lose my head,” she said.
“Oh Margaret, Margaret, how can she be so cruel!”
“You do not know her, if you can ask that,” replied Margaret bitterly. “But I am being foolish. I have to go.” She had suddenly become calm with the serenity of pregnant women. “I’ll swear the child will be born as easily elsewhere as here.”
“But the journey! I have heard the roads are almost impassable.”
“Still, it must be, Your Majesty.”
“Then we must say goodbye, Margaret?”
“I fear so.”
“You know I am to go to Tutbury.”
“I do. And that means that you will pass into the care of the Shrewsburys. But we shall meet again . . . soon. My brother will not forget, and one day . . . ”
Mary did not answer. She was looking at Margaret’s swollen body, and her indignation was so great that she could not trust herself to speak. She thought of all the mistakes she had made as ruler of Scotland; and she thought of wily Elizabeth who was shrewd and, if ever she found herself in a delicate situation, managed to extricate herself with the genius of a born statesman.
They accuse me of murder and adultery, thought Mary. Yet I would not care to have her sins on my conscience.
HOW WRETCHED were those days before Christmas! Mary missed Margaret Scrope who had been moved to a lodging only two miles from the castle, but the bad weather and her condition made it impossible for her to visit the Queen. It was some comfort, though, that Lord Scrope had managed to find a lodging that was not too far away.
What was happening in Westminster she had no means of knowing, for the bad weather held up messengers and it might have been that those of her friends who knew were reluctant to tell her that the damning “casket” letters had been produced and that the case was going against her—since it was the will of Elizabeth that it should.
There was only one episode that lightened those dark days. That was when a messenger did get through to bring her letters from the Earl of Northumberland.
Northumberland had been converted to the Catholic faith and, having heard rumors that there was a plan to marry Mary to Norfolk who was Protestant, he had become busy trying to prevent this. Mary’s recent flirtation with the Protestant religion had alarmed him; but that had not been of long duration and he had said on more than one occasion that he believed every man should worship God according to his conscience, and when she returned to rule her country she would endeavor to see that this was the law.
Northumberland however yearned not only to free Mary but to bring England back to Papal rule; and he had believed the best way of doing this was to arrange a marriage between Mary and Philip II of Spain. This plan had been simmering in his mind for some time; and he had been in communication with Philip about it. Philip however had now remarried, and he suggested that a marriage be arranged between Mary and his illegitimate brother Don Jon of Austria, who was both personable and a popular hero.
So during those sad weeks Mary had letters from Northumberland about this project; and although she had made up her mind that her next husband would be the Duke of Norfolk—so eulogized by his adoring sister that Mary had begun to see him through Margaret’s eyes—she could realize the advantages of being married to the dashing hero, who would not rest until he had won back her kingdom for her.
But Margaret’s letters brought back to her so vividly the conversations they had shared together, and Mary wrote to Northumberland that he must tell the King of Spain that, as he was in the hands of Elizabeth, she was in no position to enter into a matrimonial engagement at this time; for before it became possible to do so she required help in order that she might regain the throne of Scotland.
To the anxiety for Margaret was added another; there was no news of Willie Douglas, and this was overdue.
Christmas was a melancholy season at Bolton Castle.
THE WEATHER WAS slightly warmer and some of the snow had thawed in the roads to and from the south.
Letters came from the Bishop of Ross. He told Mary how the Conference was progressing, and it did not make happy reading. But there was one fact which worried her more than any other: The Bishop did not mention Willie Douglas.
Deeply disturbed Mary wrote at once to the Bishop asking him to have inquiries made concerning Willie, and a week later she heard from him again. Willie had been seen in London; he had received a passport in the Queen’s name and from that day had been seen no more. Inquiries had been made at his lodgings; but he had not returned to them; his landlord was indignant because Willie had left owing money.
The Bishop wrote that Willie’s landlord had been paid and that further inquiries were being made.
Now Mary was really uneasy, feeling certain that some calamity had befallen Willie. It was known that he had been shrewd enough to make possible her escape from Lochleven; did this mean that someone believed he was too sharp a boy to be allowed to go about on the Queen’s business?
Elizabeth had written letters expressing her displeasure to Scrope and Knollys. She had given orders that the Queen of Scots was to be removed to Tutbury, and she could not understand why there should be this delay. Knollys wrote back that the delay had been due to the bad condition of the roads and the fact that there were no horses.
Elizabeth’s retort was that horses must be borrowed from neighbors and the journey made as soon as the roads were sufficiently cleared to make the journey possible. She added that she was well informed as to the state of the roads and was not pleased with dilatory servants.
“There can be no more delay,” said Knollys to Scrope. “We shall have to set out.”
Scrope was as unhappy as Knollys; he was hoping that his child would be born before they must leave for Tutbury; but both men agreed that preparations must go ahead. The two of them were so much out of favor that, if they offended their Queen further, they might be in serious trouble.
Scrope’s troubles lightened a little during the next days, for his wife was delivered safely of a son. Knollys was less fortunate.
When news came to the castle that his wife had died, asking for him, he shut himself in his own chamber and remained there for some days. He no longer cared what happened to him; temporarily he hated Elizabeth who had prevented his being at his wife’s bedside, and he was afraid that if he spoke to anyone he would give such utterance to his wrath that he would be in danger of being named as a traitor.
When he emerged he was subdued, but there was a terrible bitterness in his face which Mary noticed and understood. All her sympathy was for him; and she felt: He is that callous woman’s prisoner, even as I am.
“My dear Sir Francis,” Mary said, “I would there were something I could do to comfort you.”
“Your Majesty is good,” he answered listlessly.
“At least you know she suffers no more.”
He turned away, his sorrow, choking him, prevented speech.
“Have you written to the Queen asking permission to go to her?” she asked gently.
“Of what use now?” he murmured.
“You will wish to bury her,” Mary told him.
He nodded.
Mary laid a hand on his arm. “Then write to her. There are others who can take me to Tutbury. She cannot refuse you this.”
“I will write to her,” he said. “I thank Your Majesty for your sympathy.”
&nb
sp; He looked into that lovely face and saw that the long eyes were wet with tears; and he was so moved that he could only turn and stumble away.
ELIZABETH’S RETORT was sharp. Knollys’ duty would not end until the Scottish Queen was safely delivered into the hands of her new keepers at Tutbury, that mission which, to her amazement, had not yet been carried out.
Knollys could not believe that she had refused him this. But there was no mistaking her meaning.
“Ah well,” he murmured, “What does it matter now? What does anything matter?”
SETON AND MARY were together looking out onto the snowy landscape.
“There will not be many more nights when we shall look from these windows at that scene,” Mary was saying. “We shall miss it. It is very beautiful. Oh Seton, we are going farther into the heart of England. Each mile we go south means a mile farther from Scotland.”
Seton was silent. She had no comfort to offer. Like her mistress she was beginning to understand that the Queen of England was extremely capable in the art of double-dealing.
At last she said: “Perhaps it will be less of a fortress than this one.”
“I doubt not we shall be well guarded. And I am to lose Knollys and Scrope.”
“For the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury, who may become your true friends. Your Majesty has a way of finding friends.”
“Let us hope I find a friend who will help me to regain my kingdom. But they say that Tutbury is one of the bleakest castles in England.”
“We will do our best to make you comfortable; we have not done so badly here.”
While they talked, messengers arrived with letters from London.
Willie’s whereabouts remained a mystery. There was one, however, she was told, who might have more opportunity of discovering what had happened to him than Scotsmen who were treated with some suspicion in London, and that was the French ambassador, Bertrand de Salignac de la Mothe Fénelon. Mary’s friends in London had mentioned the matter to him, but if she herself wrote he might be inclined to double his efforts.
Mary said: “I will write at once. I cannot rest easily until I know what has become of Willie.”
IT WAS LATE FEBRUARY when Mary was preparing to leave Bolton Castle. The weather was bitterly cold and the roads only just negotiable. Progress would be very slow and uncomfortable, but Elizabeth was growing impatient and neither Scrope nor Knollys dared delay longer.
While the last preparations were being made, a note from the French ambassador was brought to Mary, and when she read it she grew pale and called to Seton.
“Is it Willie?” asked Seton.
Mary nodded.
“They have not . . . ”
Mary smiled. “Oh no . . . He is alive. But he is in prison in the North of England. He must have been arrested as soon as he acquired his passport.”
“And all this time he has been a prisoner. What will become of poor Willie?”
“He will be freed. I shall insist on it. I shall not rest until he is free. What has he done but be a loyal subject to his Queen!”
“You think that something can be arranged?”
“Yes, through Fénelon. Elizabeth will not wish the French to know that she is clapping my supporters into jail simply because they are my supporters. I shall not rest, I tell you, until Willie is free.”
“And then?”
“And then,” said Mary firmly, “he shall remain with me until it is safe for him to join George in France. I shall write at once to Fénelon. He must do this for me.”
Mary sat down at her table and wrote an impassioned appeal which she knew would not fail to move the heart of the King of France. She reminded him of those long ago days and how happy they had all been together. Now she asked his help because his ambassador could more easily than any other friend of hers obtain the release of one of her most faithful servants. She implored Charles to help in this instance. The release of Willie Douglas—her savior of Lochleven—was the greatest boon she could ask of him; and she knew he would instruct his ambassador that this was a task in which he must not fail.
She sealed the letter and dispatched it; then she wrote another to de la Mothe Fénelon.
There was nothing more she could do but continue with her preparations for departure.
THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND was pleased with the outcome of the Conference. Nothing had been clearly defined—which was what she had hoped for—but Mary’s character had been completely blackened; Elizabeth herself had declared that she could not, without manifest blemish of her own honor, receive her into her presence. The ruling had been that nothing had been proved against Moray and his supporters that might impair their allegiance and honor; and nothing had been sufficiently proved against the Queen of Scots.
The affair had ended in a stalemate. But Elizabeth had a satisfactory excuse for not receiving her cousin at her Court. Moray could return to Scotland and still hold the Regency, while Mary remained in England at the mercy of Elizabeth.
It had all been a splendid example of procrastination such as Elizabeth desired.
Now Mary should remain in captivity; for Elizabeth could never feel entirely at peace while one so close a claimant to the English throne, and of undoubted legitimate birth, was free. The picture of Mary Queen of Scots being hailed as the Queen of England—as she had once dared to be in France—still haunted Elizabeth’s dreams. It was pleasant therefore to visualize her on the weary journeys from one bleak castle to another.
SO, ON A BITTERLY COLD DAY in the middle of winter, the cavalcade left Bolton Castle. Mary was carried in her litter over the rough roads which were often icy and dangerous. She had insisted on a litter for Lady Livingstone who was indisposed and unfit for travel. But it was no use pleading that excuse. It had clearly been commanded that there were to be no more excuses.
The snow began to fall and settle on the litter and the hoods of the ladies who rode on horseback.
Mary closed her eyes and longed to reach Tutbury. And when she did, she asked herself, what then? To what would this new journey along the road of her misfortunes bring her?
VI
Tutbury
ELIZABETH, COUNTESS OF SHREWSBURY, had been delighted when she had heard that her husband was to be the new keeper of the Queen of Scots. A sign of Elizabeth’s favor, she believed; and to the strong-minded Countess that was very important.
She bustled about Tutbury Castle, giving orders which she herself made sure were carried out. There was not one person in the castle—even the Earl—who was not in awe of her. The Countess—Bess of Hardwick, as she was often called, for she was the daughter of John Hardwick of Hardwick in Derbyshire—although in her fifties was as handsome as she was energetic. She had been married to the Earl only about a year but he already knew who was master. Not that he minded. Bess had had three husbands before him and they had found her a stimulating partner. She was completely happy as long as she could have her way; and as her great desire was to promote the fortunes of all her family—sons, daughters and husbands—and as she was extremely efficient in this endeavor, they were all prepared to place the management of their affairs in her capable hands.
Her father had often said “Our Bessie should have been a man.” Bess herself did not agree. She did not believe that her sex should be a handicap. She might have the mind of a man but she was determined that her woman’s body should not hinder, but further her ambitions.
Tutbury! she was thinking as she awaited the arrival of the Queen of Scots on that bleak February day, not the most delightful of our homes.
But she was shrewd enough to know why the Queen had chosen this for Mary; it was doubtless because she believed her rival had been too luxuriously housed at Bolton.
This was certainty a chilly place. Not that energetic Bess noticed that; but she could not prevent herself from concocting schemes for improving the place; building houses was a passion with her. It was far more interesting though, to build a fresh one than attempt to improve an old place. Her most
ambitious endeavor to date was the mansion of Chatsworth and the thought of her achievements there made her glow with pride—and long to repeat them. Bess never believed in standing still. She was determined to add several such mansions to her possessions before she died. Not that she ever thought of dying. Had she not been so practical, so bursting with common sense, she would have said that she was immortal. That being absurd, since after all even Bess was only human, she contented herself with acting as though she were.
Now she was considering what sort of welcome should be given the Queen of Scots. George would leave the matter in her capable hands, she knew. But it was a delicate matter since Queen Elizabeth was dismissing Knollys and Scrope for their too favorable treatment of the captive Queen; whatever else the excuse, Bess knew this to be true. Therefore the Shrewsburys must not emulate Knollys and Scrope. On the other hand the Queen of Scots was no ordinary prisoner, inasmuch as the fate of Kings and Queens could change in a very short time. They must never forget—while obeying the wishes of the Queen of England—that the Queen of Scots might one day, not only regain her throne, but take that of Elizabeth also.
“Ah yes,” Bess had told George, “this is indeed a delicate matter. Leave it to me.”
She would therefore make a cautious friendship with Mary, while she let her know that she must needs obey the will of Queen Elizabeth. And any suspicious conduct on the part of Mary must at once be reported to Elizabeth and not left to be discovered by others.
They should do well from this new task—provided Bess of Hardwick was in charge.
Bess could look back on the triumph which her own cool brain and determination had brought her. The daughter of John Hardwick had come far since, at the age of fourteen, she had been married to Robert Barlow. Robert, who was about her own age, had been a delicate boy too young for marriage. He had not long survived it, but he had left her a large fortune and when barely fifteen she had had the experience of being a considerable heiress. She had enjoyed her independence and had not married again until some sixteen years later—this time to Sir William Cavendish who had been thirteen years older than herself and had already had two wives. Those had been happy years with Cavendish. Bess had learned how to charm and govern at the same time—a rare accomplishment, but she was a rare woman. She had imbued Cavendish with her passion for building, and together they had planned Chatsworth, though he had died before it was completed, and she had had to finish it alone. The building of that mansion had been a great joy to her.