Knollys was delighted with the reply. It was invigorating to plan for his family; it took his mind away from the anxieties about his wife.
When he left Mary he went to his own apartments and there wrote at once to his brother-in-law, Lord Hunsdon, and told him that Mary Queen of Scots was very favorably disposed toward his son George, and a royal marriage for George could be changed from a possibility into a certainty.
* * *
IT WAS THE 25TH NOVEMBER before the Conference was opened at Westminster. Elizabeth had refused to allow Mary to appear in person; and the atmosphere of the court was quite different from that of the one which had taken place at York, for Elizabeth intended this to be a criminal court and was determined that Mary should be tried for the murder of her husband. The Earl and Countess of Lennox, Darnley’s parent, had been begging her to see justice done, and her desire was to find a legitimate excuse to keep Mary her prisoner, to avoid meeting her, and to sustain Protestant Moray in the Office of Regency.
Elizabeth could not forget that there were many Catholics in England who did not believe she was the legitimate daughter of Henry VIII, and, if this were indeed the case, the true Queen of England would be Mary Queen of Scots. This doubt of legitimacy which had hung over Elizabeth all her life—especially so in her youth, when with sickening regularity she had been in and out of favor, never certain what was going to happen next—made her suspicious of any who might contest her right to the throne.
She would never forget that Mary had called herself the Queen of England while she was in France. That was reason enough in Elizabeth’s opinion to send her to the scaffold. Elizabeth could not however send her to the scaffold . . . yet; but he could hold her prisoner. That was what she determined to do.
Therefore she would intimate to Moray, who dared not disobey her, that every means at his disposal was to be used to defame the Queen of Scots. She heard most of what was going on; she had alert spies. She had those ministers to whom she playfully referred as her Eyes, her Lids, her Spirit . . . . There was her dearest Leicester whom she would always trust. There were shrewd Cecil, and Walsingham who served her so ardently that he had a spy system, which he maintained at his own expense, and it was all in order to preserve her safety.
It was not surprising therefore that she heard that two bridegrooms had been proposed for Mary Queen of Scots: George Carey and Norfolk!
She was furious, being determined that Mary should have no bridegroom. Unlike Elizabeth Mary was no virgin—all the world knew that; and Elizabeth could well believe that the lecherous creature yearned for a man. Well, she should have none; she could be as celibate as her cousin Elizabeth because this state for them both was the choice of Elizabeth.
She sent a sharp note to Hunsdon expressing her deep displeasure that he should have thought fit to scheme for marriage between his son and the Queen of Scots. She was considering whether it smacked of treason.
She sent for Norfolk, and shrewdly looking him in the eyes asked bluntly if he were planning to marry the Queen of Scots.
Norfolk was terrified. He remembered how his father, the Earl of Surrey, had lost his head for the flimsiest reason by the order of this Queen’s father. Ever since, he had determined to walk warily; and now he saw himself caught in a trap.
He promptly denied that he had any desire to marry the Queen of Scots and that he knew anything of such a plan; and if Her Majesty had heard rumors of it, then it was put about by his enemies.
“Would you not marry the Queen of Scots,” asked Elizabeth artfully, “if you knew it would tend to the tranquillity of the realm and the safety of my person?”
Norfolk, feeling he was being led to betray a desire for Mary and the marriage, replied vehemently: “Your Majesty, that woman shall never be my wife who has been your competitor, and whose husband cannot sleep in security on his pillow.”
This remark appeared to satisfy the Queen, and she dismissed Norfolk with a smile. She even allowed him to resume his presidency of the Conference.
Norfolk was in a cold sweat when he left her presence. He had decided not to dabble in dangerous affairs again. He must be careful during the Conference not to give an impression that he cherished tender feelings for Mary.
KNOLLYS WAS ALARMED. Mary sensed it. And it was not only his wife’s illness which disturbed him. Margaret Scrope had told her that he had had a sharp reprimand from the Queen because he had been too ambitious for his nephew George Carey. Knollys was afraid he was out of favor, and that could be a dangerous thing at Elizabeth’s Court.
“I have not heard recently from my brother,” went on Margaret. “I’ll warrant he is busy on your behalf at Westminster.”
Letters had been coming frequently from George Douglas in France, where he was longing to gather together another army for Mary’s defense.
She thought of him tenderly and often wished that he were with her. But she was glad that he was in France. There he would be leading a more normal life than he could in captivity with her; and she knew that her uncles would make it a point of honor that he was given every chance.
She wished that she could do the same for Willie. Then an idea occurred to her.
She sent for the boy.
He came into her apartment still wearing the sword which no longer looked quite so incongruous as it had when they had escaped across the Solway Firth, because Willie had grown considerably in the last months.
“Willie,” she said, “you are no longer a boy.”
Willie gave his grin. “I’m glad Your Majesty recognizes the fact,” he said.
“And I have a mission for you.”
She saw the pleasure leap into his eyes.
“A dangerous mission,” she went on, “but I trust you to complete it.”
“Oh ay,” said Willie.
“You are going to France, taking letters from me to George and my uncles.”
Willie’s eyes sparkled.
“First it will be necessary for you to obtain a safe conduct from London. So you must make your way there. Send word to me through the Bishop of Ross when you have received it. Then I shall know that you will shortly be in France. And I shall wish to hear from you and George that you are together.”
“And am I to bring back letters to Your Majesty?”
“We shall see. First go to George. He will give you your instructions.”
“We’ll get an army together,” cried Willie. “Ye’ll see. We’ll come and win England from the redheaded bastard and give it to Your Majesty.”
“Hush, Willie. And pray do not speak of a royal person in such a manner in my hearing.”
“No, Your Majesty, but that won’t alter my thoughts. When do I start?”
“I leave it to you, Willie.”
She knew it would be soon. She saw the desire for action in his face.
He left next day. She watched him set out, and she felt very sad.
“Yet another friend has gone,” she said to Seton.
“If it saddens Your Majesty to lose him, why let him go?”
“I think of his future, Seton. What future is there for any of us . . . in this prison?”
“But we shall be back in Scotland one day.”
“Do you think so, Seton?” She sighed. “If you are right, the first thing I shall do is send for George and Willie and try to recompense them in some measure for all they did for me. In the meantime, I like to think of them . . . over there . . . making their way in the world. Because there must be one prisoner, that does not mean there have to be hundreds.”
Seton was silent, thinking: She is melancholy today. She is wondering what is happening at the Conference. Knollys’ depression affects her.
She looked out of the window and saw that the snow had begun to fall.
THIS WAS A SPECIAL DAY. Twenty-six years before, in the Palace of Linlithgow, a baby had been born. That baby was Mary, Queen of Scotland and the Isles.
Mary opened her eyes to see her women around her bed, all come to wish her
a happy birthday; she embraced them one by one.
They had presents for her which delighted her—little pieces of embroidery mostly, which they had managed to hide from her until this morning.
There were tears in her eyes as she cried: “The best gift you can give me is your presence here.”
But it was a birthday, even though it must be spent far from home in a castle which was a prison. For today, thought Mary, she would forget everything else but the fact that this was her birthday. They would be merry.
They would have a feast. Was that possible? She was sure her cook could contrive something; they would invite everyone in the castle. They would all wear their best gowns and, although she had no jewels to wear, Seton should dress her hair as she never had before. They would dance to the music of the lute, and they would forget that they were in Bolton and imagine they were dancing in those apartments which in Holyrood House had been known as Little France.
So the happy day progressed. It was too cold to go out, and a great fire was built up to warm the apartments. Everyone in the castle was eager to celebrate the birthday, and there was an air of excitement from the cellars to the turrets.
Seton dressed her mistress’s hair by the light of candles, and the face which looked back at Mary from the burnished metal mirror seemed as young and carefree as it had before the days of her captivity had begun.
It was her duty, Mary told herself, to throw off gloom, to forget her exile from her own country, that little Jamie was being kept from her, that in London a Conference was being held and perhaps the most evil charges were being brought against her.
The meal was prepared; she heard the laughing voices of her servants as they scurried to and fro; she smelled the savory smells of cooking meats.
And when the table was set in her apartments the whole household assembled there, and she received them like a Queen in her own Palace.
She sat at the center of the table and Knollys insisted on handing her her napkin; Lord Scrope and Margaret looked on with pleasure.
Margaret was getting uncomfortably near her time, and her husband was anxious that she should not tire herself, but she declared she was happy to be there; and when the meal was over, she sat with the lute players and watched the Queen lead the others in the dance.
Mary, flushed with the dancing, her chestnut hair a little ruffled with the exertion, seemed like a very young girl in her excitement.
Knollys watching her thought: How easy it is for her to forget. She was meant to be joyous. When will this weary business end?
It was while they were dancing that messengers from Elizabeth, delayed until now by the bad weather, arrived bringing letters for the jailors of the Queen of Scotland.
Knollys and Scrope went down to receive them. Knollys was startled when he read the letter which was addressed to him; he could only read it again, hoping he had been mistaken.
Elizabeth was displeased with Mary’s jailors. They had shown too much leniency toward their prisoner; and had indulged in schemes for her marriage. Elizabeth therefore proposed to deprive them of their duties, and they were to prepare to conduct the Queen of Scots to Tutbury Castle, where the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury would be her new keepers.
“Tutbury!” he murmured. And he thought of that bleak Staffordshire castle which was one of the most comfortless places he had ever seen, lacking the chimney tunnels which were a feature of Bolton Castle and which had helped so much to make the large apartments bearable during this bitterly cold weather.
Knollys was filled with pity for the Queen of Scots who was so surely at the mercy of the Queen of England; he was even sorrier for himself. He had offended Elizabeth, and who could know where that would end! How could he have guessed that she would have taken such a view of his attempt to marry his nephew to Mary? George Carey was a kinsman of hers, and she had always favored her relations—particularly those on her mother’s side, for those on her father’s might imagine they had more right to the throne than she had.
There was a postscript to the letter. He was not to leave Bolton until he did so with the Queen of Scots. It would be his duty to conduct her to Tutbury and place her in the hands of the Shrewsburys.
He thought of Catherine, his wife, who was so sick and asking for him.
He let the letter drop from his hands and sat staring ahead of him; then he noticed that Scrope was as agitated as he was himself.
He tried to thrust aside his personal grief and said: “But Tutbury . . . in this weather! We could not travel there while the blizzards last. It is too dangerous.”
“Tutbury . . . ” said Scrope as though repeating a lesson.
“Yes, I suppose she tells you what she tells me . . . that we are to be relieved of this task, and that it is to be handed to the Shrewsburys?”
“Yes,” said Scrope as though dazed, “she tells me that. But . . . how can I move her? How could she go now?”
“We shall have to wait until the weather has improved a little,” said Knollys. “She will be reluctant. Remember how difficult it was to remove her from Carlisle.”
“I was thinking of Margaret . . . .”
“Margaret!”
Scrope tapped Elizabeth’s letter. “The Queen orders that Margaret is to leave Bolton without delay. She expects to hear that she has gone before Christmas.”
“But in her condition!”
Anger blazed in Scrope’s eye. “She suspects Margaret of meddling to make a match between the Queen of Scots and Norfolk; therefore she says, pregnant or no, Margaret is to leave Bolton without delay.”
“But where . . . ” began Knollys.
Scrope spread his hands in desperation. “I do not know. I cannot think. But unless I am to displease the Queen still further I must set about finding a lodging for Margaret without delay.”
Outside the wind howled. Knollys was thinking of his wife, who was dangerously ill and asking for him; Scrope was thinking of his, who would very shortly bear their child. Elizabeth was telling them that their personal affairs must not be put before their duty to her. Not that they needed to be reminded of how implacable could be the wrath of a Tudor!
They did not return to the birthday party.
Knollys said quietly: “There is no need to tell her tonight that she is to be moved to Tutbury. Tomorrow will suffice.”
“TUTBURY!” cried Mary, looking from Scrope to Knollys. “I cannot go to Tutbury in weather like this!”
“Those are our Queen’s orders,” said Scrope. Mary noticed that his expression was blank, his face gray, and she believed that he was afraid because this meant that he had failed and for this reason the charge of her was being transferred to others.
“I shall refuse,” retorted Mary. “I think there are occasions when your Queen forgets that I am the Queen of Scotland.”
Knollys looked at her dully. What did rank matter to Elizabeth! All she cared was that her desires be gratified.
“We can make the excuse of the bad weather for a while,” answered Scrope. “But we should begin to make our preparations.”
“I have heard that Tutbury is one of the bleakest places in England and that Bolton is full of comfort in comparison.”
“Doubtless much will be done to make Your Majesty comfortable.”
“I refuse to consider making the journey until the winter is over,” said the Queen.
Neither Scrope nor Knollys attempted to advise her; they were both thinking of their personal problems.
Later that day Mary discovered the reason why, when one of Lady Scrope’s attendants came to her and asked if she would go to her ladyship’s apartment as she was too unwell to come to her.
Her pains cannot have started yet, Mary thought. It is too soon.
She hurried to Lady Scrope’s bedchamber and there found her lying on her bed.
“Margaret!” cried Mary. “Is it indeed . . . ?”
“No,” said Margaret. “But I have bad news. I have displeased Elizabeth and . . . for my punishment
I am to be banished from Bolton.”
“Banished! But you cannot go from here in weather like this . . . in your state.”
“Those are her orders. I am to leave at once.”
“For where?”
“We do not know. But Her Majesty insists that I am to go . . . presumably because he does not wish us to be together. She has heard of our friendship and . . . ”
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.
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