In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  Her eyes met Willie’s just as George galloped up the hill with many of her lords behind him. The army was now a hopeless mass of confused men. She must flee or face the consequences. And so they had ridden away, and had not stopped until the horses could go no further. They had ridden all night, stopping only to let the horses drink whenever they crossed a brook or a burn. Some of the lords had still wanted to make for Dumbarton Castle, but even they must own that it was now impossible to do so. They would have taken an enormous risk trying to cross the River Clyde, which must eventually be crossed. And so instead of fleeing to the west, they had fled south as fast as they could go.

  The sun was coming up when they finally called a halt. Taking stock of their numbers, their weapons, and their supplies, she first discovered to her dismay that Lord Seton and Lord Hamilton were not amongst their number; they must have been captured. They had no food. There was nothing to be done; the horses were exhausted, as were they. They must sleep. And so had begun the nightmare journey during which they hid from the sun and rode only under the moon. And now, on this third night, even the moon had failed them. But they must head south, away from James, and so they did.

  The steady clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on the ground suddenly stopped; Mary had been almost hypnotized by the swaying of her horse and the sound of the hooves on the turf, so that when it stopped, she jerked alert almost as if she had been asleep. In front of them was a long stone wall.

  “A croft,” whispered Willie, who rode at her side. “Perhaps there will be food for Your Grace, mayhap a bed.”

  Lord Herries walked his horse to hers and said, “Your Grace, we shall ask for help. Stay you here until we return.”

  There were only twenty of them, but it was unlikely that such a small place could accommodate them. If such were the case, they must push on; she would not eat and sleep unless they all could. Lord Herries was gone for what seemed like an eternity. In his absence, the wind rose and the rain stopped. A full yellow moon was now intermittently visible behind scudding clouds. She was miserable with cold, and so hungry she felt sick. And then she saw bobbing lights coming in their direction. Three lanterns, one high up, two down low.

  Lord Herries held his lantern high and said, “The crofter and his wife have invited us all to stay. Your Grace, come with me, and Willie and George; the rest of you go to the barn and take what ease you may. The cottage is small and will not take our numbers.”

  Mary walked her horse the short distance to the low door of the cottage. Willie helped her to dismount and led her inside. There were only two rooms, but each had its own hearth; the fires, which had been restarted as soon as Lord Herries had explained their plight, crackled merrily.

  The crofter’s wife took Mary into the other room and made her strip herself of her wet clothing. Neither she nor her husband had Mary’s height, so once again she was clothed in a borrowed dress that was too short, and whose laces were stretched to the limit. The woman hung Mary’s clothing near the hearth to dry, along with Willie’s plaid.

  “Puir bairn!” she clucked, as she went about her chore of making Mary warm and dry. “I fear me we hae no’ much to spare, but wha’ we hae we will share wi’ a glad heart. My man will make yon men cozy in th’ barn.” She took Mary by the hand and led her out into the main room, where the cooking pot had been placed on a hook over the fire.

  “We ha’ only parritch an’ milk to hand,” she said. “Sit ye doon on yon stool, m’lass, and drink yer fill.” She handed Mary a mug that was warm, having been placed near the fire, and poured a measure of milk into it. When the oatmeal was ready, a dish which Mary had hitherto scorned, she ate it with gusto.

  “I thank you most kindly,” said Mary. Turning to Willie, she said, “Have the others been seen to?”

  “Aye,” said Willie. “And the horses as well.”

  She did not remember falling asleep, but she awoke on the floor near the stool upon which she had been sitting, still clutching the wooden bowl and spoon. The sky had cleared and the slanting rays of the sun filled the little crofter’s cottage with golden light. A horse nickered outside. She sat up, and instantly, Willie was there.

  “All is well, Your Grace,” he said, as soon as she opened her mouth to speak. The men are rested and fed, the horses are game, and the sun is low. We must press on.”

  “And so we shall,” she replied. “Willie, whose land is this? From whom do the crofters hold their tenancy?”

  “From My Lord Herries, Your Grace,” said Willie.

  Mary nodded. “Send Lord Herries to me.” Willie ran out and while she waited for Lord Herries, she slipped off the borrowed gown, found her ruined dress, which was now at least dry, and struggled into it. When she reemerged into the outer room, Lord Herries was there.

  “Have you anything on which to write, my lord?” she asked.

  For a moment Lord Herries looked blank, but then he said, “No, indeed, I have not, Your Grace. Nor anything with which to write if I had.”

  Mary looked around the tiny room. There were sheepskins in varying stages of drying strung up across the hearth. She seized the driest, used the poker to withdraw a charred stick from the fireplace, and handed them to Lord Herries.

  “I want you,” she said, “to write a freehold grant to…what is the crofter’s name?”

  “Kenneth, my lady,” said Lord Herries. “And I will do so, with pleasure.”

  When the sheepskin was ready, she added her signature to Lord Herries’ with the charcoal stick, and wiped her hands on her ruined dress. Clutching the sheepskin, she walked outside.

  The crofter’s wife was dispensing hunks of smoked mutton and cheese to the men; she offered Mary a packet wrapped in a broad dock leaf and tied with twine. There was enough for a rough breakfast and a noon-piece later. Mary knew that to dispense so much food unexpectedly must work great hardship on the couple; it was probably all they had. She accepted the packet gratefully, and handed the skin to the man. It was unlikely that either could read; she explained.

  “I am none other than your queen, and this is My Lord Herries, from whom you hold the tenancy of your croft. This parchment says that from this day forward, this land is yours.” She solemnly handed the bulky sheepskin to the crofter. “Guard it well.”

  The crofter knelt before her and wordlessly bowed his head; his wife burst into tears and used her apron to dry her eyes. The man was speechless, but the woman said, between gulping sobs, “Fer a bit o’cheese, smoked mutton an’ hay for yon horses! Oh, Your Grace, we do thank ye!”

  Mary smiled and signaled to Willie to help her to mount. “God bless you,” she said, and at that the party walked south in the dusk, the setting sun on their right. God send that they would reach Dundrennan Abbey by dawn.

  Greenwich Palace, May 1568

  The masque was in full swing; the court was dancing a stately Pavane to the plaintive sound of flute, harp, shawm and rebec. Each couple in the line held their partner’s hand, whilst using the other to hold their masks in place. The rich colors of the courtiers’ costumes vied for glory with the elaborate golden, silver and feathery masks each held. It was such a pretty sight that Elizabeth had elected to sit and watch, rather than participate. She would save herself for the merrier Galliard after the unmasking at midnight, a dance that involved much leaping and twirling, and being swung high into the air by one’s partner. She reached out her hand and grasped Robert’s. The music sounded sweet in her ears, and Robert’s hand was warm in hers. He placed his other hand atop her own and smiled.

  She had been on her throne for almost ten years, and had accomplished much in that time. The currency was stable; trade was prosperous; the navy was strong. She had avoided war by constantly negotiating marriage with one or the other of her potential enemies. It had become a game at which she excelled, and which she thoroughly enjoyed. She had so far successfully eluded Parliament and her own Council on the subjects of marriage and the succession. And now she had her cousin’s beautiful pearls, which d
elighted her every time she looked at them. She idly ran her fingers down the strands of perfectly matched orbs.

  Thoughts of her exquisite new pearls brought the Queen of Scotland to mind. If only there were no Mary Stuart, her life would have been as trouble-free as a queen had any right to expect it to be. As it was, she waited daily for news of what was happening in Scotland. She was of two minds on the subject of her cousin, and indecision always upset her. James Stewart as Regent of Scotland was a safe proposition; both Scotland and England were Protestant by law, and that made for harmony between the two realms. On the other hand, it irked her that an anointed queen had been deposed by her own subjects. Such a thing set a very bad precedent, and for that reason she wished to see her cousin regain her throne. But with that prospect came a host of attendant difficulties. Why could not her cousin simply settle down to the business of ruling her kingdom and stop all her nonsense? As usual, the conundrum swirled around in her brain, distracting her from the lovely scene playing out in the Great Hall.

  Cecil loathed such show, but he knew that the queen reveled in it, and God knew, she had little enough to distract her from the cares of state. With all his heart he wished himself at home at Cecil House, in bed with a hot brick to his back and another to his feet, his wife soothing his brow with a cooling cloth. But as long as the evening went on, he must stay within call. His sharp eyes, not diverted by watching the dance, noticed a royal courier entering the hall. He seized his stick, hauled himself to his feet, and began walking towards the dais where the queen sat with Lord Robert. As he made his way through the press of courtiers, the courier reached the queen, bowed, and held two sealed letters up to her.

  Elizabeth took the letters, broke the seal on the first one and began scanning the page. Suddenly she stood up and cried, “God’s bloody eyeballs!” The music stopped; the dancers stood frozen in position. She arose, signaled for the music to resume, and made her way to the small privy chamber behind the dais.

  This was exactly the type of occurrence that made him stay in the palace until the queen retired for the night; that way he was always on hand, as many of the Council were not, to hear firsthand what was afoot, and to be amongst the first to proffer his advice on any unexpected matter that should arise. It also saved him the journey back to the palace, when inevitably, he would be recalled to the queen’s side.

  When he entered the room, Robert was pouring wine for himself and Elizabeth. Just as he made to close the door, Sir Francis Knollys appeared.

  “Come in, both of you, and close the door,” Elizabeth said. She paced the room with her arms clasped about her. Robert held out a jeweled goblet, which she indicated he should set down on the table next to her chair. After a few moments of tense silence, she cried, “And what do you think she has done now?”

  The men waited; she would tell them in her own good time, in her own way. There was no need to ask who “she” was; they all knew.

  Suddenly Elizabeth stopped and leaned on the edge of the table that held her wine cup. “Mary Stuart has been defeated in battle by the Earl of Moray and has fled across the border. She is now on English soil. In my very realm!”

  Cecil felt his heart skip a beat.

  Robert broke out in a cold sweat. What on God’s earth would he do if Elizabeth decided to renew her desire for him to marry the Scottish queen?

  Sir Francis Knollys simply looked detached; he was sympathetic to the dilemma that Mary of Scotland presented to the queen, but it was none of his affair. He was married to Elizabeth’s first cousin, Catherine Carey, the daughter of Mary Boleyn. Elizabeth was unfailingly kind to her Boleyn relations, and many was the time that he had benefitted from his wife’s family connection with the queen. There had been persistent rumors that Catherine’s father was actually Henry the Eighth, and not Henry Carey, which would have made Catherine Elizabeth’s half-sister; but regardless of his wife’s true relationship to the queen, through her, he enjoyed life as a privileged courtier and a member of the Privy Council.

  “God’s teeth!” exclaimed Robert. “Where is she? From whom has this message come? What does it say?”

  Elizabeth wordlessly bent to retrieve the first letter from the floor, where she had dashed it as soon as she entered the room. She now read it in its entirety, and then tossed it into her chair, where the second letter lay, still sealed.

  “It is from Sir Richard Lowther, the Deputy Governor of Carlisle Castle,” she said, resuming her pacing. “He says that he received a letter from Lord Herries seeking permission for the Queen of Scots to take refuge in England, after her forces were defeated in pitched battle outside of Glasgow. She apparently fled with a small party of men and has turned up in Workington. How dare she cross the border into my realm without my leave? Sir Richard, absent any firm instructions, erred on the side of caution and escorted Her Grace to Carlisle Castle. Where, Christ on the cross! …the Catholics are flocking to see her, and she is actually holding court there, whilst Lowther awaits the queen’s pleasure!” Once again she dashed the letter to the floor in disgust.

  The last thing she wanted was Mary of Scotland in her own realm! Standing up for a fellow monarch who had been ill done by her subjects was not the same thing at all as being asked to shelter a rival queen whose seemingly spellbinding personality bordered on the supernatural. Elizabeth eyed the men; they dared not speak the words that she knew must be on all their minds; that this was what came of sending encouraging messages to her cousin, those empty promises that had cost her nothing! She had a sneaking suspicion that all of her fair words were now about to exact a heavy price.

  “She must be sent back to Scotland and restored to her throne at once,” cried Elizabeth. “I have had enough of my cousin’s traitorous relations and disloyal subjects, and so, I trow, has she!”

  Cecil stirred uneasily in his chair; he and the Earl of Moray, as Regent of Scotland, had come to some very beneficial agreements over the past ten months of Mary Stuart’s captivity, agreements that he did not wish to see upset or put aside because the earl did not seem able to keep his she-wolf of a sister under lock and key.

  “Your Grace,” said Cecil carefully, “now that the Earl of Moray is rid of the Scottish queen, it is unlikely that he can be convinced to take her back.”

  Elizabeth stopped her pacing in front of Cecil’s chair. “Not convinced to take her back…? What choice does he have, pray tell?”

  “What is the other letter?” asked Robert, who had hitherto been silent, sipping his wine.

  “I know not,” said Elizabeth. She seized it from the chair where she had flung it, broke the seal and started to read. “Jesu! It is from the queen herself. She demands my protection, and an English army to win back her crown! Is she mad? I cannot make war on Scotland to please a queen who cannot hold onto her own throne! Listen to this! ‘I am counting upon Your Grace’s promised friendship and assistance…’” She read on in silence for some minutes.

  Cecil looked at Robert, and they both exchanged glances with Sir Francis. One could not say ‘I told you so’ to a queen…so there was nothing they could say.

  There was no need; even at that moment, as she read Mary’s letter, Elizabeth recalled the effusive words with which she had written to congratulate Mary on her escape from Loch Leven, on the ‘joyful news of her happy release’. And now see what had happened!

  “Listen to this!” cried Elizabeth, holding the parchment up to her face, ‘I have barely the clothes I stand up in. I entreat Your Grace to send to fetch me as soon as you possibly can, for I am in a pitiable condition, not only for a queen, but for a gentlewoman, all of which grievous touches my regal estate and my honor.’ And whose fault is that, I ask you? I wanted her restored to her rightful throne of Scotland, not to come a-begging here in my realm! What are we to do? Can we not force the Earl of Moray to take her back? Can we not negotiate a settlement between them, whereby James rules with Mary as titular head, but with no queenly power? By God, if she had paid as much heed to ‘her regal e
state and honor’ as she had to Lord Bothwell, none of this need ever have happened!”

  “Your Grace, that is a pipe dream if ever there was one.” said Cecil bluntly. Then more gently he said, “Your Grace, be reasonable. It is not to England’s advantage to work to restore the Queen of Scotland to her throne when we already have a friendly and Protestant regime in place there. We simply cannot even consider assisting a Catholic queen in ousting a Protestant government. And if Your Grace has forgotten it, then I trow that others have not, that this very same queen has schemed and plotted against you since the beginning of your reign; she once claimed your throne as her own, displaying your royal arms as if they were her own by right, and proclaiming you a bastard to the world.” He shrank from using the one word that he knew Elizabeth hated more than any other; but he must make her see sense.

  He had expected a fit of temper, but to Cecil’s surprise, Elizabeth’s face took on a sorrowful look. “You are right, of course,” she said. “And there is another matter. If restoring the Queen of Scotland to her throne is not possible, would not returning my cousin to Scotland at all put her in peril of her life? If not from her own brother, then from the other lords? I cannot in good conscience knowingly send my cousin and a fellow queen to her death.”

  It was a valid concern; whether or not James Stuart would kill his own sister was a subject open to debate, but there certainly were many others amongst the lords of Scotland who had no such qualms. One certainly could not rule the possibility out.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” said Sir Francis, “but if we refuse to help the Scottish queen, will she not simply appeal to the French? Certainly her Guise relations would assist her. And is she not entitled to the status and revenues of Queen Dowager of France in that country?”

  Elizabeth had crumpled the parchment in her hands in her anger and perturbation; she now unwrinkled it and folded it smooth. Pointing with a delicate white finger, she cried, “She has the audacity to threaten that very thing here! Listen to this! ‘If for any reason I cannot come to you, seeing that I have come freely and thrown myself in your arms, you will permit me I am sure to seek assistance from my other allies; for thanks be to God, I am not destitute of some.’ That is a subtle threat to solicit help from the French! What does Her Grace of Scotland think to do, bring them here, then march on Edinburgh? Not from my realm, sirs!”