Mary threw back the covers and as she did so, Seton came into the room carrying a basin of water. Little wisps of steam curled up from its surface. Just as Mary was about to douse her face and hands, another sound surged up from outside. She walked to the window, her long auburn hair still falling loose about her shoulders. The castle courtyard was filled with people. When she appeared, a mighty cheer went up. The people were smiling and calling her name, shouting “Long live Queen Mary!” and other heartening phrases. How good it was to see their excited faces, to hear their happy voices wishing her well!
A fleeting memory of that nightmare ride into Edinburgh just ten months before flashed through her mind. Her hands had been tied ignominiously to her pommel, she was barefooted, and her hair had hung dirty and lank. The faces of those people had been distorted with the wavering firelight of their torches and their ugly expressions; their voices had jeered and shouted oaths at her, calling for her blood. But all that was changed now. She smiled and waved at the crowd of people; these, at least, had forgiven her and loved their queen once more.
Finally Seton stepped forward and said, “Your Grace, the lords await you. We must make ready.”
Mary turned away from the window with a satisfied smile. “Yes,” she replied. “Yes, we must.”
Fotheringay Castle, May 1568
“This place is as cold as the grave!” said Elizabeth, pulling her fur wrap more closely about her. “And the damp!” she cried, raising her eyes to the water glistening on the slimy wall. “I had no idea the place was in such bad repair.”
“Had we known that Your Grace intended to stop here, I assure that we would have made it more habitable,” said Cecil. The queen had become restless in London and had decided to visit Blickling Hall, in Norfolk. Her mother had been born there, and every so often Elizabeth yearned for some sort of closeness to her. She would never discuss these yearnings with anyone, and Cecil often wondered if anyone beside himself guessed the significance of Elizabeth’s treks to places like Hever and Blickling, Hanworth and Beaulieu.
A young page was laying more logs onto the fire; May was an unpredictable month, and with the rising of the wind in the afternoon, the day had turned decidedly chilly. None of the windows had shutters; he guessed that there would be no extended stay at Fotheringay Castle, and that it would not be long before they resumed their journey back to London.
Cecil tried, as unobtrusively as possible, to inch his way towards the window of the small sitting room in which the queen had installed herself. He glanced outside, looking carefully up and down the long road until it disappeared into the trees. Nothing stirred. It was a four-day journey at best from Edinburgh to London, and the queen’s wanderings only added to the delay in receiving dispatches from Scotland. Ten months before, the urgency of messengers riding between the two capitals, as often as not unwittingly crossing each other somewhere in the Midlands, was all concerned with Queen Mary’s latest doings; but since her imprisonment on the island of Loch Leven, news of the Scottish queen had all but ceased. Now the correspondence was mostly concerned with the sale of the hapless queen’s jewels. Elizabeth was engaged in a bidding war with Catherine de’ Medici, who desperately desired to reclaim some of the costly gifts she had once bestowed upon Mary, when she was her daughter-in-law and Queen of France; amongst these was a six-strand necklace of priceless pearls, and another of matchless black pearls. But Elizabeth was determined to own these baubles; Sir Nicholas Throckmorton had been charged with conducting the negotiation for them with the Earl of Moray. Cecil wondered if any news would find them here at dilapidated Fotheringay. He hoped so; the queen had been grievously out of sorts lately, and mayhap some new jewels might serve to lighten her spirits. Heaving a heavy sigh, he had almost turned from the window when he spotted a rider.
It was not long before the sound of spurs on stone rang in the passageway.
The halberdiers opened the door on creaking hinges; a page entered and cried, “Sir Francis Walsingham!”
Cecil looked up in surprise; he had expected a royal courier. Sir Francis was in the employ of Sir Nicholas Throckmorton; perhaps an agreement had been reached at last with the Earl of Moray regarding Mary of Scotland’s priceless pearls. Glancing at the scowling queen, he fervently hoped that if so, the news was good.
“Ah, Sir Francis,” said Elizabeth. “What news of Scotland? No,” she said, holding up a beringed hand. “Do not tell me here. If I am to perish from the cold, I prefer to do it out of doors, not in this evil-smelling place! You, boy,” she said, addressing the page, “find the Lords Pembroke and Leicester and bid them meet us in the garden. Come, gentlemen,” she said to Cecil and Sir Francis. “Let us make our way down.”
It was a short walk to the stairs leading to the passageway that would take them out into the neglected gardens. The stairs themselves were too narrow to conduce to conversation; they were tightly spiraled and had no handrail, save a groove well-worn into the stone wall. When the three of them finally emerged from the archway into the sunshine, Robert and Sir William Herbert, the Earl of Pembroke, were waiting for them.
The garden had a wild beauty that belied its neglected state. The yellow heads of daffodils nodded in the breeze, the lilacs were starting to open, and a hydrangea bush was weighted down with heads of blue flowers. Elizabeth tweaked a sprig of lilac and held it to her nose, then twirled the stem in her hands. There was a brick wall with espaliered fruit trees upon it that had not yet blossomed. At the center of the the grass strip before the wall sat a stone bench; all around it was a carpet of wild daisies. She walked in silence to the bench and then sat down, holding her face up to the sun.
“Now then,” said Elizabeth. “What news, Sir Francis?” She liked Walsingham; he was serious-minded, and was a man of few words.
“The Queen of Scotland has escaped from her prison on Loch Leven and is raising an army, Your Grace,” he said matter-of-factly. “The Scottish lords who are loyal to Her Grace are preparing to do battle with the Earl of Moray, who is mustering troops at Glasgow.”
For a moment Elizabeth was too astonished to speak; and then she slapped her thigh and cried, “Good for her! I am delighted to hear it!” Politically, Mary back on her throne in Scotland could serve to create difficulties for England; but should Mary succeed in reclaiming her rights as sovereign, it would be a blow struck for monarchy everywhere; female monarchy in particular. She was glad that her cousin and fellow queen was set to regain her throne, punish her treasonous lords and restore faith in all God-given monarchy. She still had concerns aplenty about her cousin’s rule, but surely those could be dealt with later?
She had entertained similarly mixed feelings when her own sister had risen up in arms when their brother, King Edward, had died, and the Protestant faction in England had attempted, unsuccessfully as it turned out, to place their cousin Jane on the throne. Mary was the rightful queen, and Catholic or not, the crown of England belonged to her. How was she, how was anyone, to have known at that moment how cruelly Mary Tudor was to act in her effort to bring the country back to the Church of Rome? Besides, Mary Stuart had proved more than once that she was prepared to tolerate the Reformed Faith in Scotland. All might yet be well.
“Sir Francis,” said Elizabeth, turning to him, “you shall ride back to Scotland forthwith and assure my good cousin of our help and support.”
Cecil, Robert and Sir William exchanged uneasy glances; as chief minister, it was for Cecil to speak.
“Your Grace,” he said, “we must be careful how we respond to this new development. We must not give the impression that such support might take the form of military assistance. And need I remind Your Grace that civil war in Scotland could very well result in the French providing what England will not, especially if the Queen of Scots prevails? This is a situation fraught with risk and difficulty.”
“Cecil is right,” said Sir William, and Robert nodded his head in agreement. “And would Your Grace truly wish to see the Queen of Scots back on her t
hrone if she is indeed guilty of Lord Darnley’s murder?”
Elizabeth waved an expansive hand. “I know all that,” she said. “But we must also consider the safety and well-being of the prince. What could be more unstable than a regency for an infant? Even with all the difficulties that may result from my cousin of Scotland regaining her throne, I believe that restoring Her Grace to her rightful position as queen is best in the long run. Kings and queens, my lords, are called by God’s order to our estate, and it is not for mortal man to decide otherwise. And if you will forgive me, the French do not give a tinker’s damn about Mary of Scotland. They will woo whomever is in power. You all know very well that it is not King Charles who rules France; it is the Queen Mother. And a more implacable enemy than Catherine de’ Medici Mary Stuart does not have! I fear me that my dear cousin is as irrelevant to the French as she is to many of her own countrymen!” She held the gaze of each one of them for a moment; no one dared argue that point, because they knew very well that she was right. “And that reminds me!” she said, turning to Sir Francis. “What of my pearls?”
Cecil and Robert were not often in accord on any matter, but their eyes met at this query of the queen’s; how like her to speak with one breath about the rights of Mary Stuart as an anointed queen, and in the next, enquire blithely as to the jewels of which she was so anxious to relieve her!
Paradoxically, Sir Francis saw nothing inconsistent in the queen’s attitude; rightful queens should rule as long as they could hold onto their throne; if they could not, then perhaps God had other plans. Sir Francis said nothing, but reached into his doublet. He withdrew a black velvet pouch held fast by a golden drawstring with thick tassels hanging from it, similar to the one which held the Great Seal of England. He bowed gravely and held it out to the queen with both hands.
Elizabeth drew open the golden cord and upended the pouch. Into her hands fell a wealth of pearls, some white with a pinkish cast, and others as gray as the clouds that now brooded on the horizon.
“God’s blood!” she cried. “They are exquisite.” She slipped the strands over her head; they fell to a length even below the bottom of her stomacher. She admired their luster in the fading light. Perhaps it would be better after all if Mary failed to regain her throne… Thoughts of Mary’s jewels brought Catherine de’ Medici back to mind. How disappointed the Queen Mother of France would be not to have won back Mary’s pearls!
“My Lords,” said Elizabeth, “Queen Catherine has always hated my cousin, and mark my words, has no loyalty to her whatsoever. I am certain she cares not whether Mary of Scotland lives or dies, is free or languishes in prison. And the Earl of Moray has no desire to clasp Madame Serpent to his breast. England, being Protestant, makes a much better ally, I trow!”
“But is that not the point, Your Grace?” said Robert carefully. He had never forgotten Elizabeth’s plan to marry him to the Queen of Scotland; he shuddered every time he thought about it, and what his fate might have been, married to such a treacherous woman as Mary Stuart, whose husbands had met such bad ends. “It matters not whether Queen Mary or the Regent Moray rules in Scotland; France will still seek an alliance with them. We should take no action, do nothing that will push them into the arms of France…or Spain.”
Elizabeth regarded the four men blandly, idly fingering the pearls with which she was so pleased. “I believe that the Scots know on which side their bread is buttered, My Lords. Regent Moray would much prefer a Scotland free of French influence; and should my cousin manage to regain her throne there would be no faster way to lose it again than to bring the French Catholics back into Scotland to meddle in their affairs once more. Nor will Her Grace do anything which might endanger her chances for the English succession…or those of her son.” She narrowed her eyes. “We shall wait and see, My Lords, if my cousin is able to win back her crown. England shall not interfere; and words of encouragement and support cost us nothing, after all.”
The men were silent; perhaps all that the queen said was true.
She smiled. “Come, My Lords, let us see what dismal Fotheringay can provide in the way of a meal and a bed. And then let us all depart upon the morrow. There is much to be done, and the affairs of the Queen of Scotland are not our only concern.”
The sun was low on the horizon when the group made its way back into the castle, Elizabeth still fondling her pearls.
Cadzow Castle, May 1568
The Queen of Scotland and her loyal lords, along with the beginnings of an army, had ridden in easy stages the forty miles from Niddry to Cadzow Castle. As they rode, their ranks swelled; there were many who were still loyal to the queen, and deplored the treatment she had received at the hands of her bastard brother. The queen’s army, now nearly six thousand strong, was closing in on Glasgow. Day by day, as they neared the city where Mary knew that James was mustering his own forces, the fire in her eyes grew until she was surprised that it did not burn her to cinders where she stood.
But she had learned some lessons in the years since her return from France, a pampered child with no experience of rule…or of men, for that matter! She had a worthy Council, and she must at least appear to listen to their advice, whether she intended to avail herself of it or not. But on one thing, at least, all were agreed; she must formally renounce her abdication and her consent to the coronation of her son.
Mary sat on her throne in the Great Hall at Cadzow Castle, regarding the throng of men; she raised her hand, and immediately, all were silent. All eyes turned to her. Each man’s face wore an expression that reflected his own individual thoughts, whatever those might be; but as diverse as those ideas, notions, ambitions and motivations probably were, every countenance had one thing in common. To a man, they were all aware of the inexplicable power she possessed; that magnetism, that mystical allure that was a combination of the awe due to true royalty, her undeniable beauty, and that magical charisma.
And as odd as it may seem, she knew with certainty that the outward symbols of royalty played a large part in the respect and reverence due to a queen. That point had been driven home painfully and forcefully during her horrendous entry into Edinburgh after Carberry Hill. She was very grateful to Lady Seton for her foresight in ensuring that if her escape were successful, that she should have at least some of the trappings of royalty, which apparently were needed to maintain her regal estate. In simple language, clothes mattered. In her purple velvet gown and borrowed jewels, she looked every inch the queen she was. There must be no more men’s garb or armor. She now believed that part of the reason these men were willing to throw their lot in with hers transcended her irrefutable sovereignty; she was certain that many of these men, in their secret hearts, wished to help and support her, to protect and defend her, because of her sex. Never again should she put that very potent weapon aside!
“My Lords,” she said, her voice carrying from one end of the great room to the other, sounding like the velvet of her gown might feel on the skin; soft and smooth, as long as one did not go against the grain! “I come before you a queen, and not a captive in the hands of unworthy men and traitors to Scotland whom English gold has corrupted.”
A spontaneous cheer went up; she waited until their voices died on the air.
Mary let her eyes wander about the room until she had enthralled them all with her piercing gaze. Her voice rang out once more. “And you in this room are the only true nobles of my realm.”
The cheers rang out again. She waited, her eyes glittering and her creamy skin flushed with the emotion of the moment. As she turned her head, the gemstones in her bejeweled hairnet reflected the sunlight slanting in through the windows. She gazed about the room; all eyes were upon her. Despite being shut away at Loch Leven she had heard from George and Willie that there were many Scotsmen who had not accepted her forced abdication, even amongst the Protestant nobility.
The moment was upon her; it was time. When the room was once again silent Mary stood up from her throne, raised herself to her full height and s
aid in a ringing voice, “I do hereby swear before Almighty God that my abdication, and my approval for the coronation of my son, Prince James, to be made king of this realm in my stead, was forced on me upon pain of death and extorted by fear; I therefore hereby foreswear all such doings.” At this, she looked towards Sir Robert Melville and George Douglas, who nodded their heads in confirmation of her words.
“Hear, hear!” shouted the lords.
Lord Seton arose and declared, on behalf of the queen’s Council and of all the lords, as well as those not present and for whom he stood proxy, that Mary’s abdication was nullified. The bond refuting her abdication and declaring the Earl of Moray a traitor was then spread on a table and for the next hour, the only sounds to be heard were the shuffling of feet and the scratching of the quill as those present, eight earls, nine bishops, eighteen lords, twelve abbots and nearly one hundred barons, signed the document of her reinstatement as queen. As each man signed, he approached the throne to kiss her hand, swear his fealty and pay her homage.
As the men filed slowly past, her mind returned to that awful day at Loch Leven when James had come to tell her that she must abdicate. She had refused, of course; but it had quickly become evident that the Earl of Moray would brook no refusals. What had she not been threatened with on that terrible day? He would drown her in the loch; he would set her adrift on the sea, alone, in a boat, and she would never be seen or heard of again. At last, with her half-brother’s knife at her throat, she had been forced to sign the deed of her abdication. Had any queen ever been so vilely treated? She shuddered when she recalled the cold glitter of James’s eyes as she had signed away her birthright. Well, she would have her revenge on him now. She had the support of many lords and many of her people; she had an army. She had even received encouraging letters from Elizabeth, lauding her bravery and wishing her well. She was convinced in herself that without the Queen of England’s violent protests, she might very well have been killed after Carberry. Such thoughts heartened and reassured her; if aught went wrong, she knew she could always fall back upon her cousin of England, on whom she apparently could rely, and who could be depended upon to assist her. Had not Sir Nicholas Throckmorton assured her many times of her cousin’s wish to see her regain her throne?
In High Places Page 36