The Captive Queen of Scots

by Jean Plaidy

  The Queen of Scots was looking pale. Poor ineffectual creature! Bess could feel sorry for her and she could laugh inwardly at what she called George’s romantic attachment. She would see that it never became more than it was at present. George could go on admiring the captive Queen as long as he kept his distance.

  One thing I should never tolerate, Bess told herself, is an unfaithful husband.

  She had no fear. Any woman who could flout Queen Elizabeth and maneuver herself back into favor could do anything.

  Why not a little dancing? A little music on the lute or virginals?

  She suggested to Mary that she should invite the company to her apartments, and Mary joyfully agreed.

  There after the banquet Mary played the lute and sang to the company; and she felt so much recovered that, when the dancing began, she found her feet tapping to the tune and she was unable to resist trying a measure.

  Willie Douglas begged for the honor, and graciously she consented to his wish.

  Willie’s eyes were full of dreams. She knew he was thinking regretfully of escapes which had come to nothing, and desperately trying to think of one which would succeed.

  She felt hopeful. I have so many good friends, she told herself.

  THERE WAS A COMMOTION at the castle gates.

  Bess, who immediately went down to see what was happening, was struck with dismay when she recognized the livery of Huntingdon’s men.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

  Before she could receive an answer she was joined by her husband. “Huntingdon’s men have returned,” he cried. “I had thought them at Court by now.”

  And as she spoke Huntingdon himself was riding toward her. He dismounted and a groom immediately took his horse.

  “To what do we owe this pleasure?” demanded Bess with sarcasm.

  Huntingdon came straight to the point. “Northumberland and Westmorland are in revolt. They are marching on Tutbury and are but some fifty miles from us. There must not be a moment’s delay. I am ordered by Her Majesty to take the Queen of Scots from here at once.”

  Shrewsbury said: “And what are Her Majesty’s orders concerning us?”

  “You are to come with us to protect the Queen of Scots if necessary from the rebels. I have an armed guard with me. We should go to the Queen’s apartments immediately. We must be gone from here before an hour has elapsed, for it is unsafe to stay longer.”

  Mary was startled when the Earls of Huntingdon and Shrewsbury came to her.

  She listened in dismay.

  Leave Tutbury! It was what she had been praying for. But in very different circumstances from these.

  IX

  Coventry

  THE FIRST HALT ON THE FLIGHT from Tutbury was at Huntingdon’s castle at Ashby-de-la-Zouch.

  This castle, set in wooded country, was a magnificent building which had been erected by Alan de la Zouch in the reign of Henry III, and in such contrast to dreary Tutbury that Mary might have welcomed the change had it not been that she was once more under the guardianship of Huntingdon.

  “Only three days free of him,” he said to Bess, “and here he is again. Do you think he has brought me to Ashby to murder me?”

  “He dare not. The Queen would never allow it.”

  “There are some,” remarked Mary ruefully, “who are prepared to disobey not only the Queen of Scots but the Queen of England.”

  “Not Huntingdon. He values his head too much. You need have no fear,” Bess went on. “While I am here no harm shall come to you.”

  Such was the personality of the Countess that Mary took courage from her presence. Nevertheless she was relieved when that long night was over and they left Huntingdon’s mansion.

  There was no time for delay. Ashby was too uncomfortably close to Tutbury for the party to be allowed to stay there, and Coventry was the next destination, some twenty-six miles on.

  They halted at the Three Tuns Inn at Atherstone for refreshment on their way and then rode hard for Coventry, a town where a defense might be put up against the rebels, for a strong wall surrounded it on which were thirty well fortified towers.

  But no preparation had been made in Coventry for the arrival of the party, and Huntingdon and Shrewsbury consulted together as to where they could find lodging for the Queen.

  Bess said that as the Queen was very weary and far from well they should find a lodging for her and continue their conference later. She suggested the Black Bull Inn in Smithford Street not far from the Greyfriars gateway.

  “There she can be well guarded,” she went on, “until a more seemly lodging can be found. It would be a sorry matter if we were forced to flee again, and the Queen too sick to travel.”

  Mary was not displeased to find herself in a hostelry which, although infinitely smaller, had more comfort to offer her than gloomy Tutbury. There was excitement among her friends because, with the Northern Catholics on the march and herself being hustled from place to place, rescue seemed more likely than it could be while she was incarcerated within the strong walls of a fortress. She had brought with her, in spite of the hasty flight, twenty-five of her friends on whom she could rely absolutely, led by such stalwarts as Mary Seton, Jane Kennedy, Willie Douglas, the Livingstones and Marie Courcelles. There were also two members of the Beaton family—Andrew and Archibald—the former her Master of the Household, the latter her usher; and she knew that they would readily give their lives for her. There were times when she believed she would never be able to express her gratitude to these people who, from choice, shared her captivity with her.

  Bess, who had established herself in command of the whole company and even managed to subdue Huntingdon, advised her husband to write at once to Elizabeth telling her that Mary had been safely conveyed to Coventry and that she was now held at the Black Bull Inn.

  The letter was written and, while Elizabeth’s reply was awaited, Huntingdon discussed the possibility of reducing the number of Mary’s servants, for if they must needs move on, it was no easy matter to convey such a large party.

  “That,” said Bess, “is a matter of less import than some. The Queen will be desolate if she is parted from her friends. This is no time to concern ourselves with the reduction of her household. Furthermore if you turn these people adrift at such a time they will join the rebels with valuable information. Let well alone.”

  Huntingdon was forced to accept the logic of this, and he did not broach the subject to Mary as he had intended. He satisfied himself, during their stay at the Black Bull, with making sure that the Queen was well guarded night and day.

  Elizabeth’s reply was choleric, and she wrote individually to both Shrewsbury and Huntingdon. She was furious and a little frightened, as she always was when confronted by rebellion among her subjects. She was relying on the Earl of Sussex who was stationed at York, and Sir George Bowes who was at Barnard’s Castle, to subdue the rebels. In the meantime she berated the Earls for so demeaning royalty by taking a Queen to an Inn. They were to remove Mary at once and find some suitable house in Coventry—a good and loyal city—where she was to remain until commanded to do otherwise; and Elizabeth expected her prisoner to be guarded day and night.

  Bess, who had already been looking for a suitable residence—she herself considered it somewhat demeaning for a Countess to stay at an Inn—had discovered an old house known as St. Mary’s Hall, and her inspection of this had shown her that it contained adequate lodging for the Queen.

  Immediately on receipt of Elizabeth’s letter Mary was taken to St. Mary’s Hall and there a large room, which was called the Mayoress’s Parlor, was given to her as her presence chamber; there were other rooms connected by a wooden gallery, which served as bedchamber and ante-chamber for Mary. Her ladies were housed in smaller rooms connected with those allotted to Mary; and in the circumstances Bess considered that they had housed the Queen satisfactorily.

  Now that she was settled, Huntingdon again took up the matter of her servants, to which Mary wa
s intensely hostile. She would not part with any one of her friends, she cried. “Is it not enough for you,” she demanded, “that I am kept a prisoner here, that I am not allowed to see my sister and cousin, Elizabeth, that I am treated as though I am a criminal? I will not allow you, my lord Huntingdon, to part me from one of my friends.”

  Huntingdon tried to soothe her. “You must not regard me as your enemy,” he insisted:

  “When you show yourself to me as my friend I will not,” was her answer.

  “I will show you that I am your friend,” Huntingdon promised her, “and that soon.”

  Mary did not take his words seriously and was as suspicious of him as ever.

  IT WAS A LIFE of rigorous imprisonment that she was forced to live in Coventry. She was not allowed to walk out in the open air, and she pined for it. The time was passing and when she looked back she grew frantic to realize that she was more Elizabeth’s prisoner now than she had been when she had first come to England.

  “I should never have come south,” she told Seton frequently. “I should never have put my trust in Elizabeth.”

  During those days of late November news came of the rebels. They had acted rashly, for although they had enjoyed initial success, it was clear that they could not hold out for long against the English.

  “How I wish they had never attempted this!” cried Mary. “They will bring nothing but misery to themselves and others.”

  The fear that the rebels would march on Coventry and fight for the possession of the Queen’s person was each day growing more and more remote; but this did not mean a relaxation of the rigorous rules.

  The Shrewsburys were as anxious that she should not escape as Huntingdon was, and although Bess remained friendly she was watchful, and it would not have been easy for any letter to have passed her scrutiny on its way to Mary.

  It was a surprise one day when Huntingdon came to the Queen’s apartment and told her he wished to talk privately with her. Mary sent her friends away, and when they were alone he said: “I bring a message from my brother-in-law, the Earl of Leicester, who sends his greetings to you and wishes me to tell you how much he deplores the manner in which you are being treated.”

  “I would he would speak to his mistress on my behalf. I understand that she has a special regard for him.”

  “He has worked continually for your comfort.”

  “Then I should have expected better results from one who enjoys such favor with his Queen.”

  Huntingdon smiled almost slyly. “The Queen, having such regard for my brother-in-law, might not be pleased to hear of his devotion to Your Majesty.”

  “Tell me more of this . . . devotion.”

  “The Earl of Leicester bids me tell you that, if you will break your engagement to Norfolk and take him instead, he will use all his powers to bring about your release and restore to you that which is yours by right.”

  “You cannot mean that the Earl of Leicester wishes to be my husband!”

  “That is what I do mean. What is your answer?”

  “I am affianced to Norfolk.”

  “Who can do you little good, being in the Tower.”

  “I was not speaking of what good could come to me, my lord, but of my engagement to His Grace.”

  “Your Majesty should consider this matter.”

  “I do not need to consider. Until my engagement to Norfolk is broken I could not contemplate entering into another.”

  Huntingdon bowed and took his leave.

  MARY CALLED SETON and Andrew Beaton to her and told them what Huntingdon had suggested.

  “Why,” said Andrew, “it is clear what is happening. Elizabeth is going through a pretense of taking the Duke of Anjou for a husband. Leicester is piqued and wishes to show her that he can play the same game.”

  “Then,” said Mary, “I was right to treat this offer with little seriousness.”

  “Perhaps,” put in Seton quietly, “it would have been well not to have made a definite refusal. It may have been that Leicester could have done you some good.”

  “Oh, Seton, nothing can come right when no one person trusts another. Let us be straightforward and act honorably. I am betrothed to Norfolk, and while that betrothal exists I cannot enter into the same state with another man.”

  Seton spread her hands helplessly. “We are surrounded by people who play these double games. And we try to be honorable! Is that why we are hustled from one prison to another?”

  Mary looked at her friend reproachfully. “Perhaps, Seton,” she said. “But I would not wish to betray those who have befriended me, even if by so doing I could win my freedom.”

  “This is a desperate game and we are playing it with rogues,” insisted Seton.

  Mary was firm. “I must find some means of writing to Norfolk,” she said; “he will be sad and lonely in his prison.”

  IT WAS AGAIN HER BIRTHDAY, this time to be spent in St. Mary’s Hall at Coventry. It seemed incredible that it was only a year ago when she had celebrated her last birthday. So much had happened since, and yet so little. “I was a prisoner then,” mourned Mary; “I am a prisoner still.”

  She would have no attempt made to celebrate the occasion.

  “I have lived twenty-seven years,” she told Seton, “and I fear I grow old. Where shall I spend my twenty-eighth birthday, I wonder? Christmas will soon be with us and then another year will begin. I cannot believe that Elizabeth has kept me so long her prisoner.”

  There came bad news of the Northern rebel. Sussex was in pursuit of them. Mary wept when she heard that Northumberland, who seemed like an old friend to her, had fled with Westmorland into Scotland. Elizabeth’s avenging army however, robbed of the leaders, did not hesitate to avenge themselves on their followers, and gibbets with their hideous burdens were now a feature of the northern roads—a grim warning to any who thought to follow the example of the rebels.

  Now that the insurrection had been put down, there was no need for Mary to remain in Coventry. Elizabeth sent word that she was to be taken back to Tutbury and, as there would perhaps be attempts to rescue her on the way, if there were any danger of these being successful, Mary was to be executed rather than allowed to escape.

  Elizabeth, deeply disturbed by the northern rebellion, believed now that there would be no peace in her realm while Mary lived: she longed for her death, yet she had no wish to be known as the one who had given the order for it.

  If Mary died suddenly in an English castle there would be many to connect Elizabeth with the event. No matter what evidence was produced, suspicion would always attach itself to Elizabeth.

  A letter from John Knox, written to Cecil—which that good and faithful servant immediately brought to his mistress—gave Elizabeth an idea which she determined to study.

  John Knox raged against the Queen of Scots, while he congratulated Cecil on the suppression of the northern rebellion.

  “But,” he wrote, “if you strike not at the root, the branches which seemed to be broken will bud again.”

  That was clear enough. The root was Mary, Queen of Scots.

  Elizabeth could trust Moray to know what to do with his half-sister if she were returned to Scotland, because he longed for her death as much as Elizabeth did; he had usurped her kingdom; would he greatly care if he were known throughout the world as her murderer?

  First let her return to Tutbury; then a scheme could be devised for returning her to her unscrupulous brother.

  In January Mary left Coventry for Tutbury.

  X

  Tutbury Again

  MORAY RECEIVED THE NEWS from England with the calm which was second nature to him. Mary was an encumbrance of which he longed to be rid. He bore her no personal malice; had she not been a menace to his own power he could have been fond of her in so far as he was capable of affection. He wanted to see Scotland prosperous and at peace, and how could that be when rebel factions were continually springing up and making themselves felt, to the detriment of Scotland and his own d
ire danger?

  Elizabeth was an uneasy ally. He believed he could trust Cecil, as much as a statesman could be trusted; for as both he and Cecil were stern Protestants therein lay the bond between them.

  The time had come for the removal of Mary, and if she were returned to Scotland his first task would be to prove her worthy of death. Surely there was a good case against her. She had murdered her husband, and the just reward of murderesses—be they Queens or commoners—was surely death. True, many murders had been committed in Scotland and the victims had never been avenged. But, mused Moray, had their death been necessary for the good of the realm, and had those who would benefit been strong enough, those murderers would have gone the way he must now prepare for Mary.

  Knowing Elizabeth, he realized that before long she would, with outward magnanimity, hand Mary over to her bastard brother—the understanding being that he should perform the deed with which Elizabeth had no wish to soil her hands.

  Moray had many enemies in Scotland. He was a hard man and had never hesitated to act ruthlessly if the occasion warranted it. There was one incident which was characteristic of the manner in which he had shown the people his determination to be obeyed. It had taken place in the autumn when plague had struck Edinburgh, and he had ordered that when any man or woman was infected with the sickness, his or her family were to remove the sufferer without delay out of Edinburgh. That they must leave all they possessed was a condition they must accept. The Regent ordered that the family should leave, and leave it must—or incur his displeasure. There had been a husband, recently married, who, when his wife had been stricken, had kept this fact hidden, secretly nursing her in the comfort of his house, rather than take her out to die wretchedly in one of the surrounding villages where there was no suitable accommodation.

  On the Regent’s orders that young husband had been taken from his wife’s bedside and hanged outside his own door.