by Jean Plaidy
Mary was scandalized. Then she realized how angry Bess was. Elizabeth had had her sent to the Tower, and Bess would not forgive such insult in a hurry. There was nothing she could do to take her revenge on Elizabeth—except remember all the scandal she had ever heard of her and repeat it to the Queen who, like herself, had very little for which to thank the Queen of England.
THE EARL OF SHREWSBURY came to Mary’s apartments one day and told her that he had news which he thought would cheer her.
Bothwell, incarcerated in the Castle of Malmoë, was grievously sick of the dropsy, and because he feared that his life was nearing its end he had written a confession in which he exonerated Mary from the murder of Darnley.
He had written: “The Bastard Moray began, Morton drew, and I wove the web of this murder.” And he went on to say that Mary was completely innocent of it.
When he had given her this news Shrewsbury left Mary who felt so moved that she went to her bed and lay there. Memories came vividly back to her. She could not imagine Bothwell sick unto death. She thought of their brief and stormy life together and she wept for them both; yet she rejoiced that in his last hours he should remember her and seek to do what was right. She had always known that he was not wholly wicked. He had been blessed—or cursed—with twice the vitality of most men. He had been guilty of so much; all his life, rough Borderer that he was, he had taken what he wanted without thought of the consequences. It had seemed that the rape of a Queen meant no more to him than that of a shepherdess in the Border country of his enemies; yet it could not have been so, for when the pains of death were on him, he remembered her with tenderness.
She rose from her bed and went to her prie-Dieu, where she prayed for his soul; and she gave thanks that he had at the end thought kindly enough of her to write his confession.
It seemed however that Bothwell was indestructible, for he recovered from his sickness. But the confession had been made.
WITH THE COMING OF SUMMER the French ambassador persuaded Elizabeth to allow Mary to visit Buxton once more, and under such pressure Elizabeth agreed.
Mary had been deriving her usual benefit from the Spa and was hoping to spend the whole season at Shrewsbury’s Low Buxton, when an event at the English Court resulted in her stay there being brought to an abrupt end.
Leicester had been complaining to Elizabeth that he was unwell, and Elizabeth had been concerned about the health of her favorite.
She had sent him her own physician and visited him herself to see how he was progressing.
On her arrival a mournful Leicester thanked her for her solicitude and told her that her presence did him more good than anything else.
Gratified always to receive his compliments, she patted his cheek and told him that he must get well quickly, for her Court was the poorer for his absence. There was a sharpness in her eyes, though, for Leicester’s amorous adventures with other women had always annoyed her. She understood that, since she would not marry him herself, she must expect these wanderings; yet she believed that she could call him back to her without the slightest difficulty; and she enjoyed showing her power not only over his mistresses but over Leicester himself.
Then came the shock.
“My doctors have ordered me to drink the waters of Buxton and use the baths for twenty days. They tell me that if I do this—and only if I do—I can expect to recover.”
Buxton! thought Elizabeth. Was not the Queen of Scots at Buxton?
Her eyes were narrowed, her lips tight. One heard such stories of the charm of that woman. What was Leicester after? She was on the point of curtly ordering him to remain where he was but, glancing at him she saw that he did look wan. What if it were true that he needed the Buxton waters?
Seeing that he was waiting with some trepidation for her reaction, she smiled suddenly. “Well, my dear Robert,” she said, “if those Buxton waters are the cure you need, then you must have them. But we shall be loath to see you go so far from us.”
“’Tis but for twenty days, beloved!”
“H’m! If you linger longer, I myself may take a trip to Buxton to see if it is only the waters of which you are in need.”
When Elizabeth left him she sent for a messenger. An order was to be dispatched at once to Shrewsbury at Low Buxton. The Queen of Scots was to be removed to Tutbury Castle without delay.
“TUTBURY!” cried Mary in dismay, staring at the Earl.
“I fear so. The order of Her Majesty.”
“Not Tutbury. Sheffield is uncomfortable enough, but I shall die if I have to return to Tutbury.”
Shrewsbury had no wish to return to Tutbury either.
“I will write immediately to Walsingham,” he said, “and tell him that Tutbury is in such a state of ill repair that it is impossible for my household to live there at this time. But I fear we must leave Buxton.”
“Before my cure is finished!” murmured Mary.
“But you would prefer to go to Sheffield rather than Tutbury, and that is all we can hope for.”
Shrewsbury wrote to Walsingham who, after consulting Elizabeth, replied that the Queen of Scots was to be removed from Buxton and that Shrewsbury should conduct her to Sheffield Castle without delay.
So back to Sheffield went Mary and her guards.
Realizing Elizabeth’s suspicions and having learned that the Queen of Scots had been hustled from Buxton, Leicester thought it advisable to delay his visit to the Spa for a few weeks and explain his motives to the Queen before proceeding there.
Walking with the aid of a stick, he came into the Queen’s presence and managed to look so sickly that Elizabeth, whose feelings for him went deeper than those she felt for anyone else, was alarmed.
“Why Robert,” she said, “you are indeed ill.”
As he took her hand and kissed it she dismissed the women who were with her that she might talk in secret with her Robert.
“I have had disturbed nights since our last meeting, because I feared that I had not been entirely truthful to my adored Queen and mistress.”
“What have you been meddling in now, Robert?”
“I was about to meddle . . . on your behalf, of course. It is true that my doctors advised me to take the Buxton waters, but there is another reason why I wished to go there. Does Your Majesty remember who was there until you sent her away?”
“I remember.”
“My dearest love, I am afraid that where that woman is there will also be intrigue . . . dangerous intrigue which threatens the one whom I live to serve. These plans to marry her to Don Jon are not over. I believe that the greater freedom she is allowed to enjoy at Buxton may be an encouragement to conspirators.”
“And what do you propose to do about that?”
“To go to Buxton. To be the guest of the Shrewsburys. To keep my eyes and ears alert.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Well, Robert, you are one whom I would always trust to serve me well. There are so many bonds binding us.”
Leicester looked into her face and took both her hands. She was remembering how, before she was Queen of England, he had brought her gold and offered himself to fight in her cause should it be necessary to fight. She remembered the early days of her reign when she had believed she would marry him. And she would have done so but for the mysterious death of Amy Robsart. She could never think of that affair without a shudder. It had so nearly destroyed them both. They knew too much of each other not to work together. He might have other motives in wishing to meet the Queen of Scots, but he would never betray Elizabeth while she lived.
Leicester was thinking the same. He admired Elizabeth beyond anyone else on earth. He had good reason to respect her shrewd brain. He would be beside her while she lived; but if she were to die suddenly—a fate which could overtake any—and there was a new ruler on the throne, that ruler could well be the Queen of Scots.
He wished to ingratiate himself with Mary while he worked for Elizabeth. If he could find evidence to bring Mary to the block, he would do so. But if he
could not, and if she must live, he wanted her to think of him as her friend. Thus he determined to make sure of a place in the sun in either camp.
“Robert,” cried Elizabeth, “you must go to Buxton. You need those baths. I will give Mary permission to return to Buxton to continue with her cure. I will also write to the Shrewsburys, telling them to expect you, for if you are to spy on Mary you will need to be under the same roof. There! Then you shall come and tell me if all the reports of her beauty are true. I shall want exact details of how she looks and what she wears.”
Robert smiled. He was already composing the compliments he would pay Elizabeth when he returned from his visit to Mary.
When he had left her, Elizabeth wrote to the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury. They must treat the Earl of Leicester as they would treat her, for all that was done to him was done to herself. “He is another ourself,” she wrote indulgently.
There were still times when she could be indiscreet through love of Leicester.
IT WAS GRATIFYING to be back at Low Buxton. For the first few days Mary indulged in the pleasure which she found in this place; her health improved and there was gaiety in her apartments. She did wonder at the capricious behavior of Elizabeth in whisking her away and then allowing her to return.
Then Bess broke the news that Leicester was coming to Low Buxton.
“He has to take the waters on account of his health,” she said. “It seems strange to me that he should pay his visit while Your Majesty is here. You will have a chance of assessing the charm of this man who, rumor has it, has fathered several children on the Queen.”
Mary looked startled but Bess went on: “Oh, there is none to hear me. And if such a rumor were repeated, Elizabeth would never dare accuse me of uttering it. Such matters are best kept dark.”
“She could take her revenge by accusing you of something else.”
Bess snapped her fingers. She had changed since her stay in the Tower. Her dignity had certainly been ruffled; and there was one other event which had increased her pride; that was the birth of her granddaughter, Arabella Stuart, to Elizabeth and Charles whose marriage had been the cause of her imprisonment. Bess had a granddaughter—her own flesh and blood—who was in the line of succession to the throne; it was something she could not forget. Her Arabella, she thought, though she was wise enough not to give voice to this thought, was more royal than Queen Elizabeth, for the child was undoubtedly legitimate; and could Henry VIII’s marriage to Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn, be really accepted as legal? Bess believed that little Arabella might well one day be Queen. Why not? She had an indefatigable grandmother to scheme for her.
So, in the presence of Mary, she could snap her fingers at Elizabeth, and she had no compunction in recalling all the scandalous gossip she had ever heard about her.
Leicester arrived in due course at Low Buxton, and on the orders of Elizabeth the Shrewsburys treated him with the respect due to royalty.
When he was brought to Mary, they assessed each other, and Mary was immediately aware of the charm which Elizabeth had found so potent, though it had no effect on her. She was certain that Leicester was an enemy. As for Leicester, he was struck by the beauty of Mary and wistfully thought how pleasant it would have been if the attempt to marry her had been successful.
Mary was pale and often moved with difficulty; the years of imprisonment in comfortless castles had robbed her of her youth, yet her beauty was indestructible. The contours of her face were perfect, although the flesh had fallen away from the bones; the long eyes were lovely although there were shadows beneath them; and all her movements were graceful in spite of rheumatism.
There is still time, thought Leicester, to take her away and restore her to that glowing beauty which must once have been hers.
He would tell Elizabeth of the shadows under her eyes, of her loss of flesh, of her rheumatism. That would please the jealous creature and do him no harm.
Meanwhile he sought to charm the Queen of Scots. This was not so easy as charming Elizabeth. There had been too many to love this woman, not for her crown but for herself. She lacked Elizabeth’s political shrewdness certainly, but she had learned not deliberately to blind herself to the motives of men who came to court her.
He talked often with her, during the stay at Low Buxton, but she was always aloof. He tried to discover how firm was the basis of those rumors which said Don Jon of Austria was to be her husband. He implied that he was ready to work in her cause. But she did not trust him. She played a skillful game of prevarication with him which angered him, and he decided that he could do no good by lingering at Low Buxton.
He curtailed his visit, declaring that the baths were less beneficial than he had hoped, and he went away angry, but not before he had had a private talk with the Earl.
The health of the Queen of Scots was clearly not good, he said. Queen Elizabeth would be disturbed when she heard of this and he was going to ask that a certain physician be sent who he was sure would quickly cure Mary of her ills.
Shrewsbury thanked the Earl for his kindness and trusted he would take a good report to Elizabeth of the hospitality he had received at Low Buxton.
“Have no fear,” Leicester told him. “You could not have made a guest more welcome if that guest had been Elizabeth herself.”
So he left Buxton pondering. The Queen of Scots would not accept him as a friend. He knew what sort of physician he would send to her.
MARY HAD RETURNED with the Shrewsburys and her little court and guards to Sheffield when Leicester’s physician arrived.
Bess and her husband were apprehensive when they discovered that he was an Italian named Julio Borgarucci.
Bess took him to the apartment which had been prepared for him and then hurried to the Earl.
“Are you thinking the same as I am?” she asked.
“An Italian!” murmured the Earl. “We know what they are noted for.”
“I fancy I have heard of this man. He is not so much a physician as a professional poisoner.”
“Do you think he comes on the command of the Queen?”
“Who knows? Leicester is one of those who believe they can act first and ask the Queen’s permission afterward.”
“I’ll not have my prisoner poisoned under my roof.”
“Ah, Shrewsbury, you are truly vehement for once! But I had forgotten—she is more than your prisoner, is she not?”
“She is the Queen of Scotland.”
“Your beloved Queen of Scotland! You must protect her at all costs . . . against Leicester’s Italian . . . against Elizabeth herself, if this man comes by her command.”
“I believe, my dear Bess, that you feel in this manner as I do. You would never agree that such a foul deed should be done to a helpless woman in our care.”
Bess nodded; but she was not so sure. She kept thinking of her granddaughter, little Arabella Stuart. Since the birth of this child, Bess could not stop thinking of the bright possibility of her wearing the crown. The fewer to stand before her in the line of succession the better; consequently Bess had felt less kindly toward the Queen of Scots since the birth of Arabella. Not that she showed this; not that she entirely admitted the fact to herself; but it was there . . . lurking at the back of her mind, and the advent of Julio Borgarucci to Sheffield could only renew it.
But Shrewsbury could be determined when he made up his mind. He would not allow Mary to eat any food which was not prepared by her own faithful servants. He dropped hints to Seton who was doubly watchful; so no harm came to Mary through the visit of Borgarucci; and Shrewsbury seized an early opportunity to have the man sent from Sheffield.
How zealous he is to preserve Mary’s safety! thought Bess. Rarely have I seen Shrewsbury bestir himself so much.
She wondered then if he were in truth enamored of Mary. She did not greatly care if he were. All her thoughts were becoming more and more centered on the future of little Arabella.
SETON WAS PREOCCUPIED, Mary noticed, and she believed
she knew the reason why. Andrew Beaton was continually seeking opportunities to be in her company; at first she had repulsed him; now she did not do so. But neither Seton nor Andrew Beaton behaved like two people in love.
Mary thought of them often. If Seton were in love she should marry and go away from here. This could be arranged. Andrew might go to Scotland or, if that was too dangerous, to France. Seton, like herself, thought Mary, had not thrived in these damp and drafty castles which had been their homes for so long. Seton suffered from pains in her limbs similar to those which affected Mary; and a few gray hairs were beginning to show. No one could live in this captivity and not show the effects of it. Mary thought with a start: In a few years’ time, if we go on like this, Seton and I will be old women.
It was characteristic of Mary that, although she herself was unable to escape, and although Seton was her dearest friend, she should consider Seton’s happiness rather than her own.
Seton must marry Andrew Beaton and she, Mary, would do all she possibly could to give them a chance of happiness.
She tackled Seton as they sat at their needlework alone.
“Seton, what of Andrew Beaton?”
A hot flush spread across Seton’s pale face. “What of him, Your Majesty?”
“I think he is in love with you. Are you with him?”
Seton shrugged her shoulders. “If I were, it would be of little consequence.”
“Of little consequence! Seton! What are you saying? I think love is of the greatest consequence. If you are in love with Andrew and he with you you should marry.”
“My family would never permit the match. You know Andrew is only a younger brother.”
“Nonsense!” cried Mary. “I do not believe you yourself are affected one little bit by such a consideration. The Beatons are a noble family. You are seeking excuses. And I tell you this, Seton, that if you decided to marry Andrew, I would, as far as I am able, bestow some title upon him which would make the Setons quickly change their opinion.”
Seton shook her head.