She found him in a sad state and was moved to pity by the sight of his handsome face on the pillows; but when he saw that she had indeed come, Leicester brightened and she quickly discovered the real reason why he had asked her to visit him.
Leicester was in a panic. He had placed himself on the side of those Protestant nobles who had tried to arrange a marriage between Norfolk and the Queen of Scots. He knew that the Queen’s spies were going back and forth between Wingfield Manor and the Court; he knew that Cavendish, who was a messenger for Mary, was also Elizabeth’s spy, and he believed that Elizabeth was aware of a great deal which was going on, and that if she knew he had been intriguing without her knowledge she would regard him as a traitor.
When he considered all these points he did not have to feign illness; the prospect of her wrath, if she ever discovered that he, of all men, had worked against her, was enough to make him want to take to his bed.
But here she was, all solicitous concern for her Gay Lord Robert, as she sometimes called him.
He took her hands as she sat by his bed. “My Queen, my love,” he said, “you know that I would die for you.”
“Now, Robert,” replied the Queen gently, “do not speak to me of dying. You and I are too close to think happily of a world which does not contain the other.”
There were tears in Leicester’s eyes. “I want to assure you of my love and devotion. It is as firm now as it was in the days when we were in the Tower together and I loved you so madly . . . so hopelessly.”
“You were never without hope, Robert,” she told him.
“I hoped then . . . and I hope now, my Queen. I hope for your forgiveness.”
“There is only one thing for which I should never forgive you, Robert,” she told him. “That is—if you die and leave me in this world without you.”
Leicester then knew the answer to the question which had tormented him for the past week: Dare he confess? Yes, he might.
“My dearest,” he said, “there is a plot to marry the Queen of Scots to Norfolk. I am not guiltless. I have made myself a party to this. I felt it the lesser of two evils. The Catholics of the North have been restless since the Queen has been in England and are ready to rise. I thought it wiser for Mary to marry a Protestant and, as Norfolk was willing, I believed it the best way in which to protect Your Majesty.”
“So you entered into plots without my knowledge, Robert?”
“I confess my fault, sweetheart.”
“H’m. Here’s a pretty state of affairs when a queen’s ministers—and those whom she believes she has more reason to trust than most—begin to plot and scheme without her knowledge.”
“It has caused me great disquiet. It is the reason why I am brought to this sickbed. But I could no longer bear to keep this secret from you.” He reached for her hand and covered it with kisses. “I would give my life for you, as you know. It was for your good that I entered into this plot. But now I tell you, for I can no longer bear to have a secret which you do not share. You must punish me as you will. I shall insist always that all I do is out of love of your sweet self.”
“Who else was in this plot with you?”
“Pembroke and Arundel.”
Elizabeth rose from the bedside.
“My love . . . ” began Leicester anxiously.
She stooped over him and laid her hand on his forehead.
“I fear you are displeased with me . . . .” he went on.
“And what do you expect when you plot behind my back?”
“What can I do to win back your regard?”
“Get well. I like not to see you sick abed.”
She kissed him, and when he would have taken her in his arms she laughed and eluded him. “Remember you are a sick man, Robert. Remember too that the Queen commands you to be well. I expect you at Court ere long.”
Leicester was still smiling when she had left him. He felt limp with relief. He thanked his stars, his good looks, and his charm by which he had extricated himself from that dangerous situation.
ARRIVING BACK AT COURT Elizabeth was thoughtful.
Pembroke, Arundel, Norfolk, she was thinking. And so Norfolk fancies himself as her husband, does he? And doubtless she fancies Norfolk. She had been without a husband so long that she will be eager for one, I’ll swear. But she can go on panting for a man, for she’ll not get one!
When she was with her ministers, the Spanish ambassador found his way to her side.
He told her—as he did on every occasion they met—that His Most Catholic Majesty was deeply concerned about the imprisonment of the Queen of Scotland, and he requested Her Majesty to give the matter her attention.
“I give the matter attention,” retorted the Queen. “And I tell you this, that if the Queen of Scots does not bear her condition with a little more patience she may find some of her friends shorter by the head.”
A silence followed this remark. Those who were friends of the Duke of Norfolk sought the first opportunity of making their way to his apartments.
They warned him that he was in mortal danger. Someone had betrayed to Elizabeth his intentions toward the Queen of Scots, and Elizabeth’s remark was almost certainly directed toward him.
Norfolk, always on the alert for danger, was far from the Court before that day was over.
ELIZABETH SUMMONED the Earl of Huntingdon to her presence.
“I am sending armed guards to Wingfield Manor,” she told him. “I consider it an unsuitable residence for the Queen of Scots. You will go to Tutbury Castle whither the Queen is being removed. Shrewsbury and his Countess will be with you there. You will keep a watch on them also. There has been too much intrigue. See that there is no repetition of such happenings at Tutbury.”
Huntingdon assured her that he would leave without delay and that her orders should be carried out.
So Huntingdon set out for Tutbury, while the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury left Buxton for the same destination.
VIII
Return to Tutbury
MARY WAS WORKING AT HER TAPESTRY at Wingfield Manor, with her ladies about her, when Lesley’s letter was brought to her. She read it and, noticing her pallor, Seton rose from her work to come to her side.
“Leicester has betrayed to Elizabeth that there is a contract between myself and the Duke, who has left Court with all speed. The Queen has hinted that my friends are in danger.”
“That means . . . ” began Seton and stopped.
“It seems so foolish,” cried Mary impetuously. “Why should Elizabeth object to my marriage with an English nobleman?”
“Perhaps,” suggested Seton, “it was unwise to keep the matter secret from her.”
“Lesley advises me to burn all the letters I have received from the Duke, together with any secret documents I may have in the apartment. He feels sure that a search will be made and that if anything which they can call treasonable is found it will give them the excuse they need.”
Seton said: “I do not think there is a moment to lose.”
Mary nodded, and she and Seton with the rest of the ladies left their tapestry. Mary then went to her table and unlocking a drawer took out certain documents which she threw into the fire.
“Is there anything else?” asked Seton anxiously.
Mary was searching through the boxes in which the few clothes she possessed were kept. She sent her ladies to their own chambers, instructing them to bring out any single thing that could be called incriminating.
The documents were still smoldering in the grate when there was a knock on her door and Hereford entered.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “you are to prepare to leave for Tutbury without delay.”
“Tutbury!” Mary’s voice rose in shrill protest.
“Those are the orders of Her Majesty, the Queen.”
“Oh, not Tutbury. Not that evil-smelling place!”
Hereford answered: “We shall be leaving within the hour.”
“But that is impossible. I am not prepar
ed.”
“Have no fear on that account,” answered Hereford, grimly. “I and my guards will put your possessions together, and the Queen’s orders are that there must not be even an hour’s delay.”
His eyes had gone to the smoldering pile in the grate and he understood. He was too late to find that which he had hoped to send to the Queen. But perhaps there was something left.
Mary gasped with indignation to see his guards already coming into the apartment.
“But this is monstrous! Am I to enjoy no privacy?”
“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon, but I am obeying the orders of my mistress, the Queen of England.”
It was no use pleading.
Within the hour Mary and her suite, in the company of Hereford and his armed guard, had left Wingfield Manor for Tutbury. Hereford was disappointed. He had come to her apartments just too late to seize the documents which he knew must be there. All he had to send to Elizabeth was the cipher she had used in her correspondence with Norfolk. Still, that might prove of some use.
THROUGH THE GOLDEN September day they traveled.
When Mary saw the fortress on the red sandstone rock and the marshy lands surrounding it, her spirits drooped.
Her whole mind and body called out a protest: Not Tutbury!
As soon as she entered her old apartments that evil smell assaulted her nostrils, bringing with it memories of sickness.
How could she endure those bleak rooms, one above the other, connected by that cold stone staircase?
Tutbury seemed to her a place without hope.
She was anxious on account of one of her women—Margaret Cawood, wife of Bastian, who had been married at the time of Darnley’s murder—for Margaret was pregnant, and Mary was wondering how she would fare in the cold of Tutbury during the winter months which lay ahead.
There was more to concern her than a cold and uncomfortable house. Hereford was handing her over to the Earl of Huntingdon who, he explained, was to take the place of the Shrewsburys as her keeper.
Mary was aghast at Elizabeth’s choice, and she thought there was some sinister meaning behind it, for Henry Hastings, Earl of Huntingdon, the son of Catherine Pole and therefore a descendant of the Duke of Clarence, had royal connections and a remote claim to the throne.
Such a claim might have made him extremely unpopular with Elizabeth, and she was naturally watchful of him; but she knew that he would be more eager than most people in her realm to prevent a marriage between Mary and Norfolk, that he would be very anxious to incriminate the Queen of Scots if it were possible to do so—and therefore she considered him highly qualified to have charge of Mary at this stage.
He received the Queen respectfully but coolly, and as she was conducted to those well remembered and much loathed apartments she felt that the walls of Tutbury were closing about her forever.
MARY STOOD BENEATH the vaulted ceiling and covered her face with her hands to shut out the sight of the place.
Seton, close to her, whispered: “Your Majesty, do not despair.”
“It is this place, Seton. I loathed it from the moment I entered it. I loathe it even more now that we have returned to it.”
“Let us hope there will be another move, ere long.”
“We can always hope.”
“Who knows what will happen, Your Majesty? The Duke has had to retire from Court, but there are still your friends in the North. Perhaps they will come marching to Tutbury and carry you away.”
“Who knows? Meanwhile we stay here. Oh . . . this smell, Seton! It makes me feel so ill. And what of Margaret? How is she? How did she endure the journey? Is she resting now? She should.”
“Before the child is due we shall be away from here,” soothed Seton. “Have you noticed we never stay anywhere long?”
“It may be that I shall be carried from here in my tomb.”
“Your Majesty, it is unlike you to despair so soon.”
“Blame the stench, Seton. But listen, you see who our jailor is. I shall never feel safe while he is here. He is a claimant to the throne of England. Why, if Elizabeth were to die without heirs, I believe he would try to take the crown. And here am I at his mercy. What do you think, Seton? Will it be the poison cup? Or a dagger while I lie abed?”
Seton saw that the Queen was near hysteria and she wondered how to comfort her. Secretly she was cursing the walls of Tutbury which she hated as fiercely as Mary did.
“There is someone at the door,” she said.
“Go and see who is there and say that I am too weary to be seen this day.”
Seton went, and Mary heard her say: “Her Majesty is indisposed and wishes to rest . . . .”
But Seton was thrust aside and when the Countess of Shrewsbury came into the room, Mary gave a cry of pleasure. Nothing could have pleased her more than to hear that the Earl and his wife were reinstated in their old posts and that the Earl of Huntingdon was to be dismissed.
“Your Majesty,” said Bess, curtsying.
“It gives me pleasure to see you,” Mary told her. “I trust this means that Huntingdon is returning to London.”
Bess grunted angrily. “Oh no. He is to remain here. He is to be our jailer. The Earl and I are his prisoners even as Your Majesty is. Have you ever heard the like! We are prisoners in our own castle!”
Mary was speechless. Not so Bess.
“I shall not allow it, of course. I will tell Huntingdon that neither the Earl nor myself will stomach any interference in our doings. I shall keep a sharp eye on Master Huntingdon. I believe he begins to understand that.”
“You are, like myself, out of favor with the Queen,” said Mary.
“I displeased her by saving my husband’s life.”
Mary was smiling; it was surprising how the gloom of the last half hour was being dispersed by the dynamic Bess.
“We shall stand no nonsense from him!” went on Bess. “Nor should Your Majesty.”
“I shall certainly not do so.”
Bess smiled. “If there is aught Your Majesty requires, I pray you make your wishes known to me. I shall do my best to see that they are carried out.”
“I pray you be seated,” said Mary. “I would hear news of the Earl’s sickness and recovery.”
Bess sat down and they talked; and as they did so Mary realized that now she had a firm ally in the castle. Bess intimated that she would be watchful of Huntingdon, and she warranted that if two clever women put their heads together they had nothing to fear from meddling Earls.
When Bess had left, Seton noticed how the Queen’s demeanor had changed.
MEANWHILE ELIZABETH had summoned Norfolk to appear before her at Windsor. She sent similar summonses to the Earl of Arundel and Pembroke, Lord Lumley and Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, whose names had been given her by Leicester, those noblemen who, with himself, had banded together to bring about Mary’s marriage to Norfolk.
Norfolk, who was at Kenninghall, wrote to Elizabeth pleading sickness which prevented him from traveling. Meanwhile Arundel, Pembroke and their friends, having obeyed the Queen’s summons, were promptly arrested and conveyed to the Tower, where they were questioned in the hope that they would incriminate the Queen of Scots in treason against the throne of England.
They assured their questioners that Mary had had no designs on Elizabeth’s crown and that the suggestion of marriage with Norfolk had not come from her.
Meanwhile Elizabeth had sent a peremptory order to Norfolk. Sickness or no sickness, he was to present himself to her without delay.
In great trepidation Norfolk set out, was arrested on the way and taken straight to the Tower.
When the news of his arrest was brought to Elizabeth she showed grim satisfaction. She was going to teach the premier peer of England a lesson. But there was one other at whom she longed to strike. Ever since she had heard that Mary had allowed herself to be called Queen of England she had been watchful of her. She had attempted to capture Mary on her return from France to Scotland; she would never be a
t peace while Mary lived; and when fate (in the shape of the folly of the Queen of Scots) had delivered Mary into her hands she had been exultant.
She longed to sever that beautiful head from those graceful shoulders. She hated the Queen of Scots for many reasons. Mary was beautiful, infinitely desirable, and men were ready to risk their lives and fortunes for her. They said the same of Elizabeth; every day there were courtiers to tell her she was the most beautiful woman in the world. She was their Gloriana, the mistress of her male subjects, all of whom groveled at her feet and capped each other’s flattering comments. Yet, thought Elizabeth in one of those rare moments when she faced the truth, how many would be prepared to worship her if she were the poor prisoner in the castle of a jealous enemy?
That was one reason why she wished to be rid of Mary. A poor reason, admitted Elizabeth the Queen. The true reason was not that of the vain and simpering woman. It was a Queen’s reason: She threatened the crown. She could be a figurehead to Elizabeth’s Catholic subjects. Those who questioned the legitimacy of the marriage between Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn might call Mary, not Elizabeth, the true Queen of England: therefore Mary must die.
But there must be a good reason for her death. It was not wise to set a precedent for the murder of Queens. Royalty must be respected. A case must be proved against Mary; and even then Elizabeth would not happily sign the death warrant.
She went to her council and there railed against the perfidy of Norfolk.
Timidly her councilors pointed out that in negotiating for marriage, Norfolk had done nothing in law to incur a severe penalty.
She had become suddenly furious with them. “What the law cannot do,” she cried, “my authority shall effect!”
Then because she suspected she might have shown her fears of Mary too openly, which would have been unwise, she played the emotional woman, pretending to faint so that the councilors brought vinegar and restoratives to revive her.
But she always knew when she had gone far enough. Recovering from her “faint” she graciously told her courtiers that she feared at times she was but a weak woman, and she thanked them for the good counsel on which she knew she could always rely.
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