by Georgina Lee
At twenty-six, she has a statuesque figure and is as tall as George himself, with pretty, dark eyes and fair hair. Her legendary beauty has not been exaggerated, but closer inspection reveals her to be very pale and there is an air of fragile vulnerability about her. She speaks with a lilting Scottish accent although French is her first language, having been brought up since the age of six in the French Court. Everyone knows of her past history. It is a sorry tale of passion, recklessness and lust which has brought her here as a prisoner, a potentially dangerous adversary to the throne of England. The full story is even more shocking than first thought.
Two years previously, whilst Mary was heavily pregnant, she witnessed the fatal stabbing of her loyal secretary, Rizzio. Her courtiers were jealous of him and resented his alleged interference into their political affairs. Lord Darnley, her husband, was suspected of some involvement; his womanising and heavy drinking led Mary to think about divorcing him, but that would have made her heir, James, illegitimate. So when Lord Darnley was found dead in the garden after an explosion, it seemed a little too convenient. Mary had also fallen in love with James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell, a Scottish noble whom she had met in France. Controversy surrounded their marriage as it was alleged he abducted and raped her beforehand.
Rumours were rife that she had claimed she would follow him to the end of the world in her petticoat. Unsurprisingly, her Scottish barons, horrified by these events, forced her to abdicate and will keep her baby son James until he is old enough to rule. Despite raising an army, Mary had to admit defeat of her army at Langside; she then miscarried twins and never saw Bothwell again. Forced to seek sanctuary from her cousin, Queen Elizabeth in England, she now faces an uncertain future. These last three years of her life have been very eventful and she has shadows round her eyes to show for it. Her loyal ladies-in-waiting stand like sentinels in the corner. Mary insists that she is not parted from them. Their disapproval of the present proceedings is palpable as they stare in tight-lipped hostility at George and Bess. Mary goes to the window and her gaze lingers on the view of the surrounding countryside, which is pleasant enough, but isolated, with no sign of habitation for miles.
Her heart had sunk when she saw Tutbury as they approached it earlier. It is surrounded by a high wall with only one entrance and is not the most prepossessing of buildings. She and her ladies wrinkle their noses delicately at the dampness, which is evident as soon as they are inside. The plaster walls are cracked and the timber frames going rotten, for it is used rarely and has been neglected in recent years. Layers of dust, mouse droppings and cobwebs have been hastily swept away, fires lit under disused chimneys and windows cleaned, but nothing can disguise these unsavoury surroundings. Her voice quivering, she continues her complaints to George, who looks slightly awkward as he waits for a chance to reply.
“I came to Queen Elizabeth for sanctuary, as one cousin to another. If our situations were reversed, I would not have insulted her by providing such a place. It is hardly fitting for an anointed queen such as myself. I cannot stay here, I command that somewhere else is found for me.”
“I am afraid that will not be possible, your majesty. My queen wishes you to remain at Tutbury and I can assure you that every effort will be made to make you comfortable,” says George.
Mary’s lip trembles and she sits down, her hand on her forehead. “Have you any idea how it feels to be treated in this way? My own barons have turned against me, I have lost everything. They took away my son, my dear James. I feel as if I have lost an arm without him.” She begins to sob.
“Now I am alone in England and without friends. I hope I shall be allowed to hear Mass and worship, as I have done all my life; your queen will allow it will she not?”
Turning her eyes beseechingly on him, George hesitates, aware that Bess is watching closely.
“You must rest now, you are tired after the journey.”
“I will have some refreshments sent up for you and more fuel for the fire, your majesty,” Bess tells her. “You have your ladies here with you. I am sure we can think of ways to improve these conditions, can we not, husband?”
“Indeed, if at all possible,” George replies stiffly.
He regards her in dismay as her sobbing continued unabated. Women crying always make him cringe with embarrassment. Her ladies glide forward to help her, speaking softly as they offer comfort.
Bess curtseys and George bows uncertainly before they leave. He turns the key and looks at Bess. Now that she is finally here, there seems an air of unreality about Mary’s very existence here. To have the care of a Scottish Queen in England, where she is to be kept as a prisoner is an unprecedented event. Neither Bess nor George have any experience of being a jailor, let alone to a person of royal blood. They are just about old enough to remember the fate that the two Queens Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard suffered when they were taken as prisoners to the Tower, and subsequently beheaded on the orders of their husband, Henry VIII.
George addresses two of the guards who are to be permanently stationed at the entrance to Mary’s chamber.
“No-one is to enter or leave without permission from myself or the countess.”
“Yes, your grace.”
They stare ahead, aware of the seriousness of their orders. There will be no card playing or drinking on this watch. Bess suddenly becomes brisk.
“I will send up a tray of hot food at once. The room is not warm enough, it will have to be kept warmer otherwise she will die of cold. She will need extra bed covers and more candles.”
“But that will mean more cost.”
“We have no choice. She is a queen and must be treated as one. Those are our instructions.”
“What about her entourage? There is over sixty of them, all standing about and waiting in the hall. What are we to do them? Why were we not told there would be so many?”
“We will ascertain who is the most senior, they can have chambers. The others will have to be content with whatever we can offer for the time being.”
Bess turns towards the kitchens and hurries away. “Will you arrange for more wood to be sent up at once at once?” she barks over her shoulder to him before disappearing round a corner. George walks slowly back to his study. Queen Mary has only been here less than an hour and already he can feel a headache coming on.
Bess and George are not able to speak freely until later that evening when they go to bed. The headache has now become a vice like grip and he feels exhausted. Leaning back against the pillows, he watches as Bess climbs in beside him and she smiles encouragingly.
“I think once we have everything to our satisfaction, the Scottish Queen will soon settle in to her captivity. She must accept her situation, there is no choice.”
“She was very emotional this afternoon,” he replies.
“Would any woman not be emotional under these circumstances?”
“Do not expect me to sympathise with her, Bess. She has brought all this on herself.”
“I know, but I cannot help feeling …”
“It is not our place to have feelings!”
His voice is harsh. “We have been given a task and we must carry it out. I hope you are not going to side with her because she is a woman!”
“Of course not. But a little compassion would not go amiss.” Bess snuggles up beside him.
“We will do our duty as required.”
“I am glad to hear it.” George closes his eyes in an attempt to end the conversation, but Bess has other ideas.
“She is fifteen years younger than me. Would you call her beautiful?”
“Does it matter? I have no opinion on the matter, Bess.”
“Nonsense! You must have an opinion.”
“I have not given it any thought, there are other more important matters on my mind.” He hopes she will leave the subject alone.
“Of course you have! I must be vigilant, I do not want you to become enamoured of her. I can see why she is believed to be beautiful, although
I thought she would be somehow more …”
She frowns, searching for the right word.
“… worldly, especially after all she has been through. Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.” He kisses her forehead absent-mindedly. “Do not imagine I will fall under her spell. There is no chance of that happening when I have you as my wife. Now can we go to sleep?”
“Husband, we have the Queen of Scotland under our roof and in our care. I am far too excited about it to sleep. I will take some tapestries to her tomorrow and ask if she would like to work them with me.”
“Does she really need all those attendants with her? Quite unnecessary in my view,” he observes.
“It would appear to be the case, I did not think there would be so many. I am concerned that Tutbury will not be able to cope with such a number, it is not a large castle is it?”
“No, we have never had more than two score people staying at one time. With the servants and guards as well, we shall be a very large household to feed and shelter, more like four times that number. Then there are supplies to organise.”
George opens his eyes now; his mind begins to race with the thought of everything that needs to be done.
“We will have go further afield if we cannot obtain enough locally.” As always, Bess is ever practical.
“Hmmm. That will cost more.”
“The queen must increase your allowance if needed.”
They look at one another doubtfully. “I am sure she will do so. Then there are the arrangements for the privy. Tutbury has never had to cope with so many people before. I fear it will need sweetening sooner than we had previously planned.”
“Then we shall have to move elsewhere whilst it is carried out.”
“The thought of moving her makes me break out in a cold sweat.”
“Hush! She has only just arrived; she will not need to move for a while yet. I will befriend her and try to gauge her thoughts and plans. You, of course, will do your duty as her jailor. Do not fret; we have good servants and guards around us. They are loyal and will help to carry out our queen’s wishes.”
She turns to blow out the candle beside the bed and the chamber is plunged into darkness.
“Bess, I am sometimes afraid that I am not up to this task.”
“You must not think that – her majesty would not have commanded you to do it if she thought you were not the best person.”
“I could not have refused.” They both know this is true; to have done so would be unthinkable.
“How long do you think she will be kept as a prisoner?”
“Oh George, I really do not know, a year perhaps,”
“A year would not be so bad.”
“One thing we must remember though,” Bess whispers. “If, God forbid, anything should happen to our queen …”
“Do not even think it!”
“… if anything should happen, then Mary would take the throne.”
Neither speaks and he reaches for her hand, for such a thought is treasonous.
“We must take care not to alienate her,” George says cautiously.
“I know.”
“Then there is Sir Francis Walsingham, he has such a way with him that even someone innocent like myself feels guilty when he looks at me; and I have done nothing wrong to warrant his accusatory stare.”
Bess gives a soft laugh. “Yes, I am not looking forward to reporting everything to him either. But we shall be together to help one another. And it will not be forever.”
“True.”
“Just think of how the queen will reward us. And of the prestige it gives us amongst the Court.”
He does not reply and turns away. It is too late for such conversations and he longs for sleep.
She moves position too and settles down to sleep, trying to push the niggling misgivings about Mary’s care to the back of her mind. All her friends have been very impressed with the news that the Shrewsburys are to act as Mary’s jailors. It is a clear sign from Queen Elizabeth that they are trusted and loyal members of her court. Bess cannot help but feel some sympathy for Mary. She is obviously someone who allows her heart to rule her head, has made some catastrophic errors of judgement, and is therefore paying the price. The thought of ever being separated from her own children and kept as a prisoner in a foreign land fills Bess with horror. She resolves to show Mary some kindness, which, if matters did change in Mary’s favour, would only be to Bess’ advantage.
George is lying beside her in a stew of worry and anxiety. This task is going to be more of a challenge that he had first believed. There are so many aspects of her security and care to plan and carry out. Already he has spent a considerable sum of money and Queen Elizabeth has not paid him a farthing yet. He should have penned a letter to Sir Francis by now telling him of Mary’s arrival, but he would have to do it in the morning. He tries to ignore the pounding of his heart and the pain from his gout, which has flared up again. Sighing heavily, he pulls the covers closer and resentfully notes that Bess is now snoring lightly.
On the other side of the castle, Mary is tossing and turning in her bed as she listens to the steady breathing of her sleeping ladies. She is very tired after the journey and the shock of seeing her accommodation, which was not at all what she had expected. She misses being outdoors and the freedom of riding or walking wherever she chooses. Most of all, her baby James is always on her mind and she worries whether he is being looked after lovingly, although she has been assured that he is being well cared for. When she had been told that the Earl of Shrewsbury and his wife were to be her jailors, she tried to find out as much as possible about them. She knows that the earl is rich and powerful, and that Bess has been married three times before. Naturally they are both of the new faith and enjoy Queen Elizabeth’s favour. Her first impressions of them are that the earl is a fussy, nervous man, but his wife seems sympathetic and slightly in awe of her. Mary realises that somehow she must turn events to give her some advantage. She is still a queen after all and they are merely subjects. Throwing back the covers, she gets up and walks over to the window. The moon shines silently on the icy ground and all is still outside. Beneath her stands a lone guard, his breath visible in the cold air. She can just make out the figures of two more at the entrance gate. There are many more, some of whom have ridden with them from Bolton Castle. Escape is not going to be easy. She wonders again what her followers are planning, for she has every faith that God will come to her aid.
Shivering, she gets back into bed and tries to sleep, but it is just before dawn when she finally closes her eyes and her unhappiness is blotted out for a few precious hours.
Bess is as good as her word and the next morning, after breakfast, appears at Mary’s door with a servant carrying her needlework basket and some embroidery panels. She finds her charge and two of her ladies-in-waiting reading quietly in a circle round the fire. The ladies have been unpacking Mary’s belongings for the chamber looks more comfortable with velvet cushions and heavy drapes at the windows to keep out the draughts. On a chest at the far end there is a large crucifix with two candles on either side, together with a Bible and rosary. Bess curtseys and waits as Mary closes her book.
“I see you have brought me something to pass the time, countess.”
“I have, your majesty. I hear you are a skilled needlewoman. I too, love to sew. If it would please you, I thought we could sew together.”
The servant lays the basket and tapestries on the table and leaves, eyeing Mary carefully as she does so.
“I have all the time now to devote myself to such an occupation. Pray be seated.”
One of the ladies-in-waiting pulls up a chair for Bess and she sits down. To her surprise, she sees that a silk canopy has been erected since her last visit yesterday, which Mary goes to sit underneath. Intricately embroidered, are the words: En ma fin est mon commencement. She notices Bess looking at it.
“Do you speak the French language, countess?”
Bess f
lushes, she is sensitive about her lack of formal education.
“I do not, your majesty.”
“It translates as ‘in the end lies my beginning’ – it is my cloth of state.”
“It is very fine.” She cannot help but feel at a disadvantage to this young and beautiful woman sitting in front of her. Mary seems to have recovered her composure from yesterday and, even in the captivity in which she finds herself, there is no doubt she has a regal bearing. Reaching into a coffer beside her, she brings out some examples of her own work, which feature Biblical and classical themes and places them in front of Bess.
“You are very accomplished, I have rarely seen work of such a high standard,” Bess eventually observes grudgingly, as she studies them.
“Thank you. I have some pattern books too, we can use for inspiration.”
They begin to thread needles and start to sew. The ladies-in-waiting, both called Mary, sit apart, also sewing. For a time the only sound is the crackle of the logs that burn in the grate.
“I hope the extra wood and bed covers are to your liking. And your chef prepared your meal this morning as you wish,” says Bess, her head bent over her work.
“I have little appetite.”
“Then we must find dishes to tempt you.”
“With no access to the fresh air, I doubt I shall want to eat very much. I am used to being outdoors.”
“I am sure exercise in the open air will be permitted.”
“I should like that. I miss riding very much, I am accustomed to riding every day.”