The Captive Queen of Scots

by Jean Plaidy

  When he and Neville had read these documents they regarded each other in somber silence.

  Neville said: “It is the chance you have been praying for. Take it.”

  Norfolk’s weak face was creased in almost petulant exasperation.

  “Think of what she asks!” he cried. “How can I give my word to give up the Queen of Scots, after the solemn promises we have made each other?”

  But even as he spoke he knew he would.

  WILLIAM CECIL, accompanied by Sir Walter Mildmay and Lesley, Bishop of Ross, was riding toward Chatsworth.

  He was thoughtful as he rode, wondering how far he could trust Lesley; the man had been imprisoned once and managed to escape with his life, but there were so many plots and counterplots surrounding the Queen of Scots that Cecil was not prepared to trust any one of her servants. He would keep a watchful eye on Lesley.

  The matter was more serious than was generally believed—although the fact that Cecil thought it worthwhile making the journey to Chatsworth might cause some to realize its seriousness. While the Queen of Scots lived, his sovereign Elizabeth was in danger; and Cecil had made up his mind that if Elizabeth would not agree to the execution of her rival—and Cecil had to admit there was logic and good sound sense in her reason for this—then the lady’s claws must be clipped. There must be no more Catholic risings. By great good luck these had been suppressed on previous occasions, but it was possible that good fortune might not always be on the side of Cecil and Elizabeth.

  It was all very well for a Protestant Queen and her even more fervently Protestant ministers to snap their fingers when Pius V excommunicated Elizabeth. There were too many powerful Catholics in England, too many even more powerful Catholic rulers abroad, waiting for that moment when they too could add their disapproval to the Pope’s.

  And the trouble center was wherever the Queen of Scots happened to be. Chatsworth at this time.

  So to Chatsworth rode Cecil, with his own little plan for rendering the Queen of Scots no longer a danger to his mistress. The most disastrous turn of events could be if Mary escaped from England to France or Spain and there was married to some Catholic Prince. This must be avoided at all cost. Cecil would have felt happier to see her head severed from her body; only thus, he believed, could she cease to be a menace; but failing that, he wished to see her make a Protestant marriage to an Englishman of his and his Queen’s choosing. This was the reason for his making the journey to Chatsworth.

  When Mary heard that Cecil had arrived and was asking to see her, she was astonished. This was the man whom she believed to be her greatest enemy; at the same time she knew that he was the man who could do her most good if he were so inclined. It was in a mood swaying between hope and apprehension that she greeted him in that room which she called her presence chamber.

  They faced each other—the tall and strikingly beautiful woman and the small, deformed statesman. Mildmay was present but from the first Mary was aware that this was a duel between her and Cecil. Mary was trembling with emotion; the steely eyes of Cecil were as cold as ice.

  They bowed low and Mary told them that she was glad to see them. She was ready to be friendly, to forget all the wrong she knew Cecil had done to her; it was he who was aloof.

  “I trust,” began Mary, “that you bring me good news of my sister and cousin.”

  “Her Majesty is made sad by your reproaches,” Cecil told Mary. “She is astounded that, as she has given you refuge for so long, you should be so ungrateful as to offer her continual complaint.”

  “Refuge!” cried Mary angrily. “Is a prison refuge?”

  “Doubtless Your Majesty owes your life to the Queen of England who preserved you from the anger of your own subjects.”

  “That life,” Mary cried impetuously, “has scarce been worth the living since I came to England.”

  Cecil looked shocked. “I shall be loath to report your further complains to Her Majesty.”

  “She, who has suffered imprisonment herself, will understand full well if you ask her to recall that period of her life. I should have thought one who had experienced that would have had greater sympathy for me in my plight.”

  Cecil raised his hands as though in horror and turned to Mildmay, whose expression showed that he shared Cecil’s horror for what they were pleased to consider the ingratitude of the Queen of Scots.

  “Tell me,” she went on passionately, “will the Queen of England restore me to my throne? She has power to do this, I am fully aware. But I would know her intention. Is she going to help me or not?”

  “Your Majesty is distraught,” murmured Cecil. “Would you care to discuss these matters when you are a little calmer?”

  “I want to hear now.”

  “Well then, Her Majesty will restore you to your throne. There are certain conditions.”

  “I had thought that most likely,” interjected Mary.

  Cecil went on coldly: “She would require your son to be brought to England, and to remain here as a hostage.”

  The mention of her son moved Mary so deeply that she found she could not check the tears which started to her eyes.

  “He should live here,” Cecil was going on, “in some honorable place under the guardianship of two or three Scottish gentlemen. The Queen would most graciously allow you to name one of them. The others would be chosen according to the advice of his grandfather, the Earl of Lennox, and the Earl of Mar.”

  The tears had begun to fall down her cheeks. She did not see these two hard-faced men. She saw only that little boy, puzzled, wondering why he never saw his mother, perhaps hearing tales of her. Where is my father? he would ask. Would anyone tell him: “The victim of bloody murder at Kirk o’ Field . . . murder in which your mother is suspected of being an accomplice!” Yet when they had asked him whom he loved best—Lady Mar who had been a mother to him, or his own mother, he had answered boldly: My mother.

  She wanted to hold the child in her arms, to teach him, to play with him. And now she knew that the bitterest punishment of all had been the loss of her child.

  Cecil and Mildmay were looking at her in dismay. She could only cover her face with her hands and murmur: “Leave me. I pray you leave me.”

  LESLEY CAME TO HER apartment and she was able to see him in private, although it was an uneasy interview because every moment Mary thought they would be interrupted and prevented from speaking without the presence of a witness.

  Lesley said: “This may be our only opportunity. I think it is imperative that you escape from here. The Queen grows restive and I feel sure will do you some harm. This plot which the Stanleys are making must be taken advantage of. If you can escape from Chatsworth and get to Harwich, I feel sure that in a very short time you will be back on the Scottish throne. But let us not waste time.”

  He went to the window and looked down. “The descent could be made by means of a cord. Let Mary Seton have a word with Willie Douglas. Do not do so yourself. You are being closely watched. But you must break out of here as soon as possible. Cecil’s visit shows that Elizabeth is truly alarmed.”

  “I do not think the Duke of Norfolk believes an escape should be made, although he has said the Stanleys are worthy to head such an attempt.”

  “He fears that you will marry Don Jon. I am not thinking of your marriage but of your life. I am going to tell the Stanleys that the attempt should be made as soon as possible. You must be ready.”

  Mary was silent. She was still thinking of her little son who was being brought up away from her. How many lies were fed to him, she wondered. She had suffered much, but if he ever turned against her, if he ever believed the tales of her which no doubt were told to him, she would become so melancholy that she would long for nothing but death.

  Escape! A return to her throne! It would mean reunion with her little son.

  She listened attentively to Lesley.

  CECIL FACED the Queen once more.

  “I rejoice to see that Your Majesty’s condition is improved,�
�� he said; which was his way of telling her that he was pleased she had recovered from what he would regard as a fit of hysteria.

  Mary bowed her head and waited.

  “Her Majesty the Queen is deeply concerned on your behalf,” he told her. “She thinks that, having known the married state, you might be happier in it than living celibate. Therefore she is ready to suggest a marriage for you.”

  Mary was attentive. She knew that Norfolk had been released from the Tower. Did this mean that Elizabeth was ready to approve of the match?

  “Her Majesty proposes that you accept her kinsman, George Carey, son of Lord Hunsdon, as your husband.”

  “That is not possible,” answered Mary.

  “If Your Majesty is thinking of your marriage to Bothwell, that has been happily dealt with and is not regarded as a marriage.”

  Mary was silent. She could not tell Cecil that she was pledged to Norfolk, for the contract between them had been a secret. She could only shake her head and murmur: “It is not possible.”

  Cecil was alert. The Queen of Scots was without guile. There was some reason why she was so emphatic. If reports did not lie she had been friendly toward George Carey when he had visited her. There was some plot afoot, he believed; some reason why she was so set against the proposed marriage. Had she her eyes on Don Jon? The romantic hero would undoubtedly appeal to such a woman as she was.

  He did not press the point, but turned from it to talk of the kindness of his mistress, Queen Elizabeth, who sought to help the Queen of Scots, if she would but let herself be helped.

  All the time he was thinking: We must increase our watchfulness. On no account must she be allowed to slip out of our hands, out of England to our enemies across the water.

  MARY FORGOT the presence of the English statesman at Chatsworth, for one of her most trusted friends had been stricken with sickness. This was John Beaton, the Laird of Creich, who had been the master of her household. He had been working zealously in her cause ever since she had escaped from Lochleven, and to see him on his sickbed filled her with such anxiety that she forgot her own concerns.

  Seton shared her distress and wanted to nurse him herself. Mary agreed that she should, and added that she too would act as nurse, for John was so grievously sick that he needed the two of them.

  So day and night Seton and Mary remained in the sickroom; but it soon became pitiably obvious that there was nothing they could do to save John’s life.

  Seton was alone in the sickroom one evening while Mary was taking a little rest, when a young man came in and stood at the end of the bed looking at the sick man. His face was so marked with anguish that Seton rose and, going to him, laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “You must not grieve so much, Andrew,” she said.

  “My brother is going to die,” said Andrew Beaton.

  “I am going to send for the Bishop now, Andrew. I think the time has come.”

  “I will bring him here.”

  When he had gone Seton placed a cool cloth on the sick man’s fevered forehead and sat beside his bed waiting, for there was nothing else she could do. In a short time Lesley came back with Andrew Beaton and looked grave when he saw the appearance of the sick man.

  “We will leave you with him,” said Seton, and slipping her arm through that of Andrew Beaton she drew him from the room.

  Outside they stood silently for a few seconds, then Andrew said: “I know how you have nursed him . . . you and the Queen. How can I thank you?”

  “There is no need to thank us, Andrew,” answered Seton. “We are exiles . . . we are prisoners . . . we work together, and if any one of us has trouble, that is the trouble of us all.”

  He took her hand then and kissed it.

  He thought there was something ethereal about Mary Seton—something saintly, not of this world. It seemed to him in that moment that he had never seen a face so beautiful.

  He walked slowly away; he knew that he loved Mary Seton.

  CECIL WAS FEELING that his visit to Chatsworth was a failure. He had achieved nothing through his interview with Mary except a sensation of great unease. He would return to Court and tell the Queen that he felt she should be moved from Chatsworth. A move was always a good thing at such a time—unsettling to conspirators.

  It was while he was musing thus that a servant came to tell him that a young man, calling himself by the name of Rolleston, wished to see him; the matter was of great urgency.

  Cecil, who had never heard the young man’s name before, hesitated; then said he would see the man. One could never be sure where important information might come from, and he had not reached his present eminence by ignoring such a rule.

  Rolleston turned out to be a very young man, scarcely more than a boy, with the earnest eyes of a fanatic.

  “What is it you have to say to me?” Cecil asked him.

  “I have to tell you, sir, that I know of a plot to rescue the Queen from Chatsworth and put her on a boat at Harwich.”

  Cecil showed no sign of the excitement he was feeling.

  “Tell me more of this plot,” he said quietly.

  “Thomas and Edward Stanley are at its head. They plan that the Queen shall escape from her window by means of a cord. It is arranged with her servants, and will very shortly take place.”

  “Are you involved in this plot?”

  The boy flushed painfully and drew himself up to his full height. “I am a loyal subject of my Queen Elizabeth. I take no part in plots against her.”

  “Well spoken,” replied Cecil. “How then do you know of this plot?”

  The boy hesitated as though he were fighting an inner battle with his conscience. Then he blurted out: “Because my father is involved in it.”

  “You have done well,” said Cecil. “The Queen will not forget one who serves her. Now the names of the conspirators . . . and all the details you have. I believe we have little time to lose.”

  WHEN THE CHIEF conspirators were under arrest, Cecil wrote to Elizabeth telling of what was happening at Chatsworth.

  “It would seem, Your Majesty, that the Queen of Scots enjoys too much liberty at Chatsworth. It might be advisable to remove her from that place. Shrewsbury could take her to his castle in Sheffield, which to my mind would be a meet and fitting place to house her.”

  XII

  Sheffield

  IT WAS ON A BLEAK NOVEMBER DAY that Mary traveled over the mountains from Chatsworth to Sheffield. Through the mist she caught her first glimpse of her new prison, which stood on a hill above that spot where the rivers Don and Sheaf met, the latter giving its name to the nearby town. The fame of this town was already known to Mary because it was noted for the mineral wealth which had enabled its inhabitants to become the foremost manufacturers of edged tools such as knives, spear and arrow heads.

  The Earl had decided that she should not go at once to the castle but occupy the more cozy Manor House which was about two miles from it and in the center of a wooded park. Bess had pointed out that the Queen would find Sheffield less comfortable than Chatsworth, and that as the winter lay before them the Manor House would provide a more congenial lodging than the castle.

  So to the Manor House came Mary. On that day when the trees were dripping with moisture, and the spiders’ webs, draped over the bushes, looked as though they were strung with tiny crystal beads, Mary felt a numbing sense of foreboding. Seton, close to her as ever, understood her thoughts. Thus must it ever be when they entered a new prison. They must always wonder how long they would stay and whether this would be their last resting place.

  The situation was charming enough with avenues of oak and walnut leading to the house from several directions, and in the manor, which had two courts, an outer and inner, Mary had been allotted a suite which was adequate for her needs.

  Yet as she entered the Manor House she said to Seton: “I remember hearing that it was to this place that Cardinal Wolsey came after his arrest. I seem to feel his spirit lingers still. I understand so well
his feeling, for he had fallen from greatness. He went on to Leicester to die. I wonder what my fate will be.”

  Seton tried to brush away such melancholy thoughts.

  “It is always difficult to adjust ourselves to a new lodging,” she said.

  THAT WINTER seemed as though it would never end. The air of Sheffield was not good for Mary and sometimes her limbs were so stiff with pain that she found walking difficult. She suffered acutely from neuralgia and there were times when she was convinced that she was near death.

  Only the presence of her friends made it possible, she declared, for her not to die of melancholia, for when she considered their case she reminded herself that they suffered of their own free will, for there was not one of them who could not have walked out of Sheffield, a free man or woman; yet they stayed for love of her.

  It was during this mournful winter that sad news reached her from Scotland. Her son was being tutored by George Buchanan, one of her greatest enemies, who had delighted in spreading slanders about her and was now teaching young James to believe them.

  This news so prostrated Mary that her friends became really alarmed, and on several occasions were on the point of ordering the administration of the last rites.

  It was during this sad period that Seton brought her the news that a friend had arrived at the manor and was asking to see her.

  “Who is it?” asked Mary.

  Seton was smiling. “One whom I think Your Majesty will be pleased to see.”

  “Then tell me . . . ”

  But Seton had run to the door and flung it open.

  Mary stared at the man who entered, for a few moments not recognizing him, so much had he changed. Then with a cry of joy she seized his hands and drew him to her in a long embrace.

  “How can I tell you how welcome you are!” she cried.

  But George Douglas did not need to be told.

  THIS WAS INDEED not the same George who had gone away. His stay in France had turned him from an idealistic boy to a man of the world. Yet he was nonetheless ready to give his life for the Queen. He told himself that he no longer dreamed impossible dreams. She was his Queen whom he would serve until death; she was as a goddess who was far beyond his reach. Unlike her he had never believed that there could be a relationship between them other than that which had always existed; and in France he had found a woman with whom he believed he had fallen in love, and it was for this reason he had returned to Mary.