In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  Sir Nicholas was at a loss to describe the change in Mary; how did one define the outward manifestation of unbridled lust on the face of one who had been so virtuous, so innocent? And this was the queen’s own cousin, regardless of whatever else she was. He must tread carefully. “Her Grace of Scotland is seized by some inexplicable and fervent passion,” he said. “I fear me, Your Grace, that I cannot adequately explain…”

  Sir Thomas had rarely seen Sir Nicholas at a loss for words; but he saw his opportunity and took it. Best to deflect the queen’s attention from his own failure regarding Lord Robert; and coming to the aid of the unexpectedly tongue-tied Sir Nicholas could buy him some much-needed favor with that gentleman.

  “If I may be permitted, Your Grace,” said Sir Thomas, “the lady is quite demented over Lord Darnley and makes no secret of it. In very fact, Her Grace makes an unseemly display of her feelings. She showers Lord Darnley with gifts, which the Scots treasury can ill afford. And now she has bestowed upon him titles and honors as well; she has created him Earl of Ross and Lord of Armanach.”

  “It is true,” added Sir Nicholas, finally finding his tongue. “Had Her Grace stopped there, she might have gotten away with simply arousing the contempt of her Scottish lairds; but now she is preparing to create Darnley both Earl of Rothesay and Duke of Albany. As Your Grace knows, these are titles reserved for Scottish royalty. The court, the Council, the lairds, even the people, are incensed, and swear by all that is holy that they will not have it. But Her Grace is blind to all reason; her behavior is shameless, but she cares not. It is almost as if she has lost her wits.”

  “God’s death!” expostulated Elizabeth. “Is she mad? She tramples upon her own royalty.” She wished that she could exult instead of making a display of disapproval; her cousin’s behavior was dramatically exceeding her expectations. Was the girl demented? But then she had known that Mary was incapable of restraint. So much for the virtuous maiden that all had believed her to be! She thought back to the days when her own Council was decrying her behavior with Lord Robert, and singing her saintly cousin’s praises! Hah!

  “The worst of it is that…” Sir Thomas stopped. He had no wish to overstep his bounds and anger the queen. Lord Darnley was, after all, her cousin.

  Elizabeth turned the beacon of her penetrating gaze upon him. “What is the worst of it?” she asked quietly.

  Sir Thomas nervously cleared his throat. “Well, Your Grace, it is just that…”

  Elizabeth raised herself to her full height and clenched her fists. “What?” she shouted. “Out with it, man!”

  “Everyone can see what Lord Darnley is, Your Grace,” said Sir Thomas. “He has been making his own unseemly displays since his arrival in Scotland. First, openly decrying the Scots court as backward and poor, and now, well…now that he knows that he…forgive me, Your Grace, but now that he realizes that he holds the Queen of Scotland in thrall, and he does realize it fully, he treats all those around him with contempt and disdain. He assaults those who cannot retaliate, or even protect themselves. Those who cannot be assaulted physically he shouts abuse at and threatens. He can hold neither his liquor nor his tongue. His behavior shows him to be little better than a common bully, Your Grace.”

  Elizabeth turned to Sir Nicholas. “And the queen cannot see this?”

  Sir Nicholas shook his head. “No, Your Grace, it seems that she cannot. Her Grace will hear no ill spoken of Lord Darnley. It seems that whereas before, Her Grace was the bewitcher of men, she herself is now bewitched.” It broke his heart to have to say these things; he knew himself to be in the thrall of the Queen of Scotland. He had been captivated by her charm from the first moment he met her at the French court. In thrall! In love, more like. But this he held in his heart as a closely guarded secret. His position prevented him from ever making his feelings known; such would have been out of the question and could have ended his career. The only thing for him to do was to admire the Scottish queen from afar, and serve her as best he could whilst still serving his own queen, as men had done in the days of courtly love. But what could he do for her now? He sighed. He had done his best, and it was little enough. The very reason for his presence back in England was to impart the momentous news that the Queen of Scotland had made a firm decision to marry Lord Darnley, and what he had done to try to mitigate the situation.

  “Your Grace, I fear me that it is certain that Her Grace of Scotland means to marry him.” There; he had said it; now before Elizabeth could explode in rage, he must tell her what he had done to try to help. “But she has agreed, at my request, to wait three months before doing so.” He had extracted this promise from the Queen of Scotland not as an English diplomat, but as a friend. If only he could buy time for her to perhaps see the grave mistake she was about to make, to understand the sheer madness of it. Mary liked him; she trusted him. In the name of their friendship she had agreed to wait. But she had made it plain that she was not doing so to placate the Queen of England; she had agreed solely because, for one thing, royal weddings took time to plan, and…well, Sir Nicholas had always been a good friend to her and she could see how very troubled he was at the thought that she was about to take an action that might distress the Queen of England, to whom he owed his allegiance.

  Elizabeth was so delighted she could have clapped her hands with glee. But she could not let on to these men how pleased she was that her cousin had taken the bait; she could not show her elation. She would do so later, when she was alone with Cecil; but not now. Now she must show the anger of a queen at being defied.

  Elizabeth’s eyes flashed and she began to pace up and down the gravel path of the knot garden. “Darnley is an English subject and of royal blood and cannot marry without my permission as his sovereign! Sir Nicholas, you will go back to Scotland immediately and order the Earl of Lennox and Lord Darnley to return to England at once.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” replied Sir Nicholas.

  She whipped around in a swirl of silken skirts to face Sir Thomas. “Sir Thomas, you will cause to be drawn up at once a warrant for the arrest of Lady Lennox. I want my cousin in the Tower by nightfall, do you hear? She shall stand surety for the good behavior of her menfolk!” Oh, it was too delicious! Mary and Darnley were about to fulfill all her expectations, and that was the perfect excuse to clap her haughty cousin back into the Tower! Oh yes, she knew what Margaret said about her behind her back; that all the world knew that the Queen of England was both bastard and heretic, with no right to the throne! Let her cousin cool her heels and her sharp tongue in the Tower for a spell!

  She watched as the two men bowed themselves from her presence and hurried back to the palace. She stooped, plucked a sprig of lavender, and held it to her nose. It had been a good afternoon’s work.

  Sandgate Castle, Kent, May 1565

  Lady Mary Grey stood on the battlements of Sandgate Castle looking out over the Channel. The day was warm for May; even the steady wind off the choppy water did not feel cold. The sun sparkled gaily on the waves as they rolled to the shore. A great expanse of sandy beach lay before her, endless and wide in both directions. Perhaps later she would descend from the castle heights and walk there. She must do so before high tide; the water sometimes reached the very walls of the castle when the tide was in.

  She leaned her arms on the gray stone and cupped her chin in her hand. She had been sent ahead, alone except for a small escort, to see to the preparation of the castle for a visit from the queen, who had expressed a desire to assess its defenses whilst on this year’s summer Progress. And Lady Mary knew that sometimes, Elizabeth simply hated the sight of her and wished to be rid of her. So why not send her inconvenient, unwanted cousin away from the court to this lonely, desolate place?

  That suited Lady Mary; she preferred to be alone. She had learnt that the very sight of her usually evoked only one of two responses in most people; pity or repugnance. Even her own mother had loathed the sight of her! That her mother did not love her she had come to realize ear
ly in her life; but even worse, her mother, the Lady Frances Brandon, the redoubtable Marchioness of Dorset and Duchess of Suffolk, seemed to blame her for her malady. Surely that boot must be on the other foot! She had not asked to be born, and she certainly had not asked to be born an “ugly crook-backed, misshapen dwarf,” as the Spanish Ambassador had described her to his master. She knew this because she had seen his letter with her own eyes. Whether or not Elizabeth had purposely left the Spanish ambassador’s intercepted letter where she could not help but find it was a matter for conjecture; but Lady Mary suspected that her cousin had indeed done so.

  Lady Mary was also certain that Elizabeth did not employ her as a waiting woman out the kindness of her heart; she did so only that she might keep an eye on her because of what her sister Katherine had done. Poor Katherine; even though her sister had treated her as cruelly as their mother had done, she could not help but feel sorry for her now. It was a new experience to be able to feel pity for her beautiful, coddled sister! And it gave her an inexplicable feeling of exultation to be able to feel sympathy for someone, anyone; it was usually herself who was the object of pity, and pity’s sister, contempt.

  But was it not ironic that Elizabeth felt that because her sister Katherine had married the Earl of Hertford without royal permission, thereby breaking the law, that she, Lady Mary, must be kept under the royal eye? Who would want to marry her, after all? It was true that she had, as a young child, been betrothed to her cousin Arthur, but that match had been agreed when she was still in her cradle, long before it became apparent that there was something dreadfully wrong with her. It was not until she was nearing the age of six years that her mother realized that she was a dwarf. Her betrothal had been broken; no one wanted to take the risk that their own issue might perchance be so afflicted!

  And now here she was, aged five-and-twenty years, still unmarried, and likely to remain so. Likely! Certain. No man would ever want to marry her, and Elizabeth’s royal permission would not be forthcoming even if someone did. She wished for the hundredth time that Elizabeth would release her from the royal service; but then how would she live? Her mother had left almost her entire fortune to her second husband. The miserly bequest that she had left her daughter was not enough to allow her to live independently. If Elizabeth did not employ her, she must needs throw herself onto the charity of relatives. And she knew from experience that no one wanted her.

  The sound of a footstep behind her on the flagstones made her turn her head.

  “I am sorry, my lady, that I was not here to greet your arrival,” said the man, with a courtly bow. “Have you been properly attended in my absence?” It was a fair question; regardless of Elizabeth’s feelings about formally naming an heir, the Lady Mary Grey was next in line to the throne of England, after her sister Katherine, who was now disgraced and confined in the Tower. It was a bit ludicrous, really; her sister was too feather-brained to ever rule a kingdom, and no one would have taken kindly to the idea of a dwarf as their queen. But there it was.

  This man must be the castellan. Lady Mary smiled and extended her hand. “Is that Master Keyes, then?” she asked. She was of royal blood and had the manners to match her station, regardless of her malady. But it was with an enormous effort that she kept her astonishment in check. Never had she seen a man so tall. He was a veritable giant. The irony of it struck her at that moment and she had to stifle a laugh; surely if she herself was the shortest woman in England, here before her must be the tallest man. But it was more than that; his head and arms seemed elongated and were somewhat misshapen.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I am Thomas Keyes. At your service, my lady.” He bowed over her hand and brushed it with his lips. It sent a shiver up her spine. And despite her grievous malady, her hands were normally shaped and were actually quite lovely.

  Master Thomas saw not a dwarf, but a girl with lovely gray eyes, soft white hands, impeccably dressed. She was like a little doll. He had said his piece; it was for her now to reply. In a way, he was glad; for if he had been obliged to speak he was afraid that he might have made a pun about her eyes; they were gray, and her name was Grey. He was always thinking of puns and found them quite amusing.

  Lady Mary smiled and said, “Well then, Master Keyes, if you are the castellan then your name is most apt!”

  For a moment he was struck speechless; that was one pun that had escaped him until this moment! Thomas Keyes, keeper of the keys of Sandgate Castle. Suddenly he let out a roar of laughter…here was a woman after his own heart! “Oh, Your Grace,” he said, through his hilarity. “Oh, I do love a good pun. I had just thought of one myself, but…” Oh, dear. He should not have said anything. She was a lady and might be offended by his humor.

  “Oh, do tell!” cried Lady Mary. “I am also much amused by a good pun.”

  Thomas ran a sheepish hand through his hair. “Well, it struck me just now that you have gray eyes, and that your name is Grey.”

  “Yes,” she laughed. “You might say that I am a Grey lady!” No one had ever noticed her eyes before. They were her best feature, along with her hands. Of all the children and grandchildren of the Princess Mary Tudor, sister to Henry the Eighth of England, only her sister Katherine had inherited her legendary beauty. And of all of them, only Mary had been vouchsafed her gray eyes. She knew because she had once been startled by a portrait of her grandparents; her grandmother’s eyes were her own.

  “Well then, my Lady Grey,” he said, and when he spoke, his lips curved in a most entrancing smile, “I understand Your Grace has come to oversee the preparation of the castle for the queen’s visit.”

  “I have,” replied Lady Mary. “But I fear me that my neck is grievous sore from looking up at you! Will you lift me onto the embrasure?” It was a subtle acknowledgment of their respective deformities.

  Without hesitation, Thomas reached out and lifted her onto the ledge between the merlons. If Lady Mary had felt a spark at the touch of his hand on her own, this contact was positively electrifying. But now she was able to meet his gaze more comfortably. Their eyes met and held for a long moment. And then she said, “We shall have much to talk about, you and I, to ensure that the castle is ready for the queen’s arrival.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “That is so, Your Grace.”

  And then she remembered her desire to walk on the beach. How pleasant it would be if they could discuss the details of the royal visit whilst strolling along the shore…

  Oxfordshire, July 1565

  Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden pew in the small parish church of St. Nicholas at Rotherford Greys. She detested weddings, but she could not shun this one. These were the nuptials of Sir Henry Knollys, the eldest son of her first cousin, Catherine Carey, Lady Knollys. She was careful to show distinct favor to her Boleyn relatives; they were her mother’s people, and were not blessed with inherited authority as were her powerful Howard relations. They depended entirely upon her favor for their places at court. Lady Catherine was the daughter of her mother’s sister, Mary Boleyn. Indeed, many believed that both Catherine and her brother, Henry, Lord Hunsdon, were not her cousins at all, but her half-siblings. It might be true; her father had had an affair with Mary Boleyn before he married her mother, Anne Boleyn. And from what she had been able to glean of those times, the affair had not ended after her aunt was conveniently married off to a gentleman of the king’s privy chamber. But sibling or cousin, it mattered not, she was obliged to attend this wedding. To absent herself would have been an unforgivable slight and would send the wrong message to the court about the standing of both the Careys and the Knollyses in her esteem.

  But Christ on the Cross, she wished this were over. The bride looked radiant; this marriage was that rarity in Tudor England, a love match. Elizabeth almost snorted aloud. Love! Was it contagious? Her worthless cousin on the Grey side, Katherine, had married for love, without royal permission, and was doomed to disgrace for the rest of her days, separated from her husband and children at the qu
een’s pleasure. And now her cousin Mary of Scotland had married for love, and she an anointed queen! It was a daft thing to have done; and so much for her cousin’s promise to Sir Nicholas to wait! That in itself would have been bad enough, but Mary had had the temerity to marry Henry, Lord Darnley, another royal cousin. Mary was a queen regnant and could do as she pleased, as long as she was willing to suffer the consequences of her rash actions; but Darnley was an English subject, of royal blood, and could not marry without the consent of his sovereign. A consent which she certainly had not given! Far from it! She had ordered Darnley and his father, the Earl of Lennox, back to England from Scotland in May, on their oath of allegiance as Englishmen. But had they obeyed her? They had not! Darnley had sent back an insolent reply to her message that he did very well where he was, and had no intention of returning to England at his cousin’s whim. As for his mother being thrown back into the Tower, as far he was concerned, she could rot there!

  It did not matter that this was exactly what she had planned that Mary and Darnley should do; they should both realize their folly in good time. What chagrined her was that Mary had, at least she thought so now, married for love.

  It simply was not fair. It seemed that everyone else was willing to throw caution to the winds, and was able to contrive their stolen happiness, except her! No, she must think of England first, to her own loss and sorrow.

  These daytime thoughts were enough to madden her past bearing; but her night thoughts were infinitely worse. She knew what the night would bring for this couple, now exchanging their marriage vows in front of the rose-swathed altar; hot, wet kisses; eager naked legs entwined; their flesh, as the Bible said, becoming one for a brief time. Katherine and Hertford had enjoyed it; Mary and Darnley were enjoying it. And tonight, this couple, who at this moment stood gazing into each other’s eyes and looking so happy, would enjoy it. But would she ever do so? No, she would not; she could not. Loneliness and heartache were the fate of a virgin queen. Tears of self-pity welled up in her eyes and spilled over. She knew a moment of panic lest she should be discovered, but it was all right; several other ladies were also sniveling.