In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  Robert was thoughtful for a moment. “Her Grace mentions allies, not simply one ally. I fear me that if the French and her own Guise relatives fail her, she thinks to appeal to Philip of Spain.”

  All four of them were silent for a moment. All knew what that might mean. Philip of Spain had recently put down a mighty insurrection in the Netherlands, subduing once more his recalcitrant Protestant subjects there. At this very moment a Spanish army of fifty thousand lay just across the Channel in Brussels, under the command of the formidable Duke of Alba. All that was needed was a viable excuse to invade England; Elizabeth had reluctantly, but prudently, already refused a request for military aid from their Dutch co-religionists, and had therefore given the Spanish no opening for retaliation. But now, what better reason could there be to cross the Channel than to come to the rescue of the Catholic Queen of Scotland?

  Mary clearly expected to be brought in state to London, feted, made much of, and given an army. Was she blind? How could she not see that such a thing was impossible? On no account must she ever come to London, where she could be expected to use that mysterious charm to beguile all and sundry. But nor could she be left where she could easily make good on her threat to depart for the continent.

  Sir Francis shifted uneasily in his chair. “We must make her no promises; we must stall, we must dissemble, until we can devise a plan for how to deal with the situation.”

  Elizabeth nibbled a cuticle. Mary, Mary, Mary! She had begun to loathe the very sound of the name! “So we cannot send my cousin back to Scotland, we must not allow her to appeal to either France or Spain, and I refuse to have her anywhere near London. If she is left free in the north she will gather the Catholics around her and, I doubt not, will soon be leading an army south to take my very throne from me! What, then, are we to do, pray tell?”

  Cecil set his wine cup aside and said, “This queen brings death and destruction to all in her path, Your Grace. It was an evil day when Mary Stuart escaped from Loch Leven, and an even more foul morn that saw her set foot on English soil. We do not want her baleful presence within this realm, but nor can we allow Her Grace to seek help elsewhere. We must, then, prevaricate, speak her fair, and ensure that she is content to stay where she is for the time being. But I fear me that it is inevitable that the lady must never be allowed to leave England.”

  “But on what pretext can we hold her?” asked Sir Francis.

  The Earl of Leicester gave a small cough; all eyes turned to him. “The Queen of Scotland has never been cleared of the suspicion of involvement in Lord Darnley’s murder.”

  “And unless and until she is, she can never be allowed to enter into the presence of our blameless queen,” said Cecil loftily.

  Sir Francis frowned in puzzlement. “But no man in England can try the Queen of Scotland for such a crime; should we do so, we are no better than the Scots that our good queen reviles for deposing her.”

  “True, that is true,” said Robert, who was kneading his hands in desperation. He wanted to no part of Mary Stuart, either in Scotland or England.

  Cecil leaned back in his chair; casually, he lifted his wine cup. “No man, it is true, may try or judge the Queen of Scotland. But there is no reason why a queen may not do so.”

  Elizabeth looked up, her face suddenly alight with relief. It was an elegant solution; she would call a tribunal in England at which the peers of the realm would hear evidence; the evidence would be gathered, deliberated, sifted and verified; eventually it would be handed over to herself, and she alone, as an anointed queen, would sit in judgment upon her cousin and fellow queen. Who knew how long such a tribunal would drag on? But until all the evidence had been collected, heard, debated and presented to the queen to consider, and finally, a conclusion reached, she would not consent to allow Mary of Scotland, an accused murderess, to enter into her presence.

  The queen of Scotland was now five and twenty…the very same age that I was, thought Elizabeth, when I first took the throne! In seven short years, she has managed to ruin herself, whereas I…but comparisons were odious. Neither queen had got where they were by herself, by a long stretch. But still…a prisoner, albeit a royal one…

  “Not the Tower,” she said. “It must be an honorable, comfortable confinement.”

  Imprisonment in England; it was the only way. For with Mary Queen of Scots on English soil, she had a wolf by the ears, and no mistake.

  Chapter 12

  “The fine weather of fair promises and the echoes of voices which seem to honor you above all the world should not envelop you in such a cloud that you may not see plain day. They are not so dedicated to adoring you as they make your ministers believe. Be not blind, nor think me blind.”

  -Elizabeth I to Mary of Scotland

  Carlisle Castle, June 1568

  T he warm, reddish stone glowed in the sunset as Mary and Sir Richard rode down the hillside back to the castle, after an exhilarating day at the hunt. Behind them, the stag that Mary had brought down swung from side to side as the huntsmen carried it, slung on a stout pole, on their shoulders.

  “Your Grace is a bold rider,” said Sir Richard. “And thy aim is true with the bow. But thy arrows have pierced more than one heart this day.”

  “Now you are teasing me,” said Mary, with a smug smile. But she knew that it was true; after only two weeks in her presence, and despite the dirty, ragged dress she had been wearing when they first met, already Sir Richard was in love with her. And if his adoring gazes had not given him away, the sullen faces of George and Willie every time they rode out together would have served to enlighten her.

  The horses were tired and ambled along slowly. Mary held the slack reins with one hand, the other hand fussing with the creamy lace at her wrist. She was ragged no longer, thanks be to God! Or more accurately, she thought, thanks to Master Henry Fletcher!

  Sir Richard Lowther, castellan of Carlisle Castle, had ridden out to meet her party after Lord Herries appealed to him from Workington for the protection of the band of Scottish refugees in England. Lord Herries explained that the Queen of Scotland had already sent her queenly cousin an appeal for assistance to regain her throne; but whilst they awaited the queen’s reply they required rescue and succor. Sir Richard had immediately sent his own appeal to Queen Elizabeth, begging for her instructions. But in the meantime, he decided that the wisest course of action was to shelter the Queen of Scotland and her party. Surely Her Grace would not have crossed the border into England without the queen’s leave? He felt certain that he was acting as the queen would wish him to do. After all, was not the Scottish queen Elizabeth’s own kinswoman? Who knew at what moment the order might arrive for Mary to be escorted to London, that she might meet with the queen? If and when such an occurrence ensued, the report of his actions and treatment of Mary of Scotland that reached the queen’s ears must be a positive one. And so Sir Richard had set out with his men to escort the Scottish queen to Carlisle Castle.

  In the meantime, Mary and her bedraggled party departed Workington for Cockermouth. Mary and Sir Richard met for the first time in the manor house of Master Henry Fletcher, where Mary and her party had stopped to break their journey for the night. Master Fletcher had not been able to conceal his delight at playing host to a queen, even a fugitive one. But his delight turned to unconcealed adoration in the first few hours he had been privileged to spend in Mary’s enthralling company.

  Master Fletcher was not a knight; rather, he had made his fortune in trade, as a mercer. Mary had unabashedly bemoaned her ragged state, apologizing for her unqueenly appearance in a most wretched and abject manner. In response to this subtle appeal, it had been Master Fletcher’s pleasure to bestow upon her the silks, velvets and brocades of his trade, in dazzling colors that complemented her complexion to perfection; there were royal purple and delicate lavender; rich, deep blue and forest green; stately burgundy and ruby red. For accent, he provided lengths of cloth of gold and silver, and for trim, the finest lace, golden braid and silver tas
sels. Sir Richard, also hopelessly captivated by the Scots queen, had sent these sumptuous gifts ahead on a fast horse to Carlisle Castle, with orders that each and every woman capable of her needle was to sew day and night to ensure that the queen might have new dresses ready for her upon her arrival.

  Mary sorely missed her jewels, but the ornaments of a queen were less easily replaced. But she soon discovered that no one save herself seemed to notice their lack. Still in possession of only her pearl earrings, she shone with such an inner glow at the welcome she had received thus far in her cousin’s realm that now she missed her trinkets hardly at all. And surely the lack was only temporary; her appeal to Elizabeth for help in regaining her throne had included a request for the clothing and jewels befitting her queenly rank.

  Just as the hunting party approached the castle courtyard, a company of men came clattering across the drawbridge, under the portcullis, and into the courtyard. Sir Richard and his brother, Gerard, who was also hopelessly smitten with the beautiful Scottish queen, turned their horses across Mary’s as if in protection of her. If these men were friendly and meant no harm, why had they sent no outrider to announce their imminent arrival? And what on earth had possessed the porter to allow them through the outer defenses without his leave? Sir Richard’s questions were answered when the men came to a halt just a few feet away, in a shower of gravel. To his great surprise, and not a little annoyance, he recognized Lord Thomas Percy, the Earl of Northumberland. He had no choice but to give way to one of such high rank. Sir Richard and Gerard reined back their mounts until they were on each side of the Queen of Scotland.

  For a long moment no one spoke; the Earl of Northumberland openly stared at the vision that was Queen Mary of Scotland. The sun was now low on the horizon, and its slanting rays shone golden, full in Mary’s face. Her auburn hair was lit by it, as if it were for a moment ablaze; her green eyes glittered and reflected the yellow light. On this day she had elected to wear a striking red velvet dress; it was always wise to wear bright colors at the hunt. It seemed that Lord Thomas was struck speechless at the sight of her. Sir Richard, who knew with certainty what the earl was feeling, having experienced it himself, felt his lip curl in amusement; undoubtedly, another of the enchanting queen’s metaphoric shafts had found its mark in the earl’s heart.

  Mary was a queen; it was for her to speak first. She knew by the livery on the earl’s escort who he was. She held out a creamy hand and said, “Welcome, My Lord, to Carlisle. You know my lord Sir Richard Lowther, of course.”

  Lord Thomas took the hand of the queen and held it to his lips. He must reply; what had she said? “Yes, Your Grace, indeed, I do. Your Grace, I am here at the behest of the Council of the North at York; word of Your Grace’s arrival in England was sent on to me at Topcliffe from Workington. I am to take charge of Your Grace, until the queen has made her pleasure known.”

  Sir Richard thought quickly; The Council of the North had not the authority to make such decisions. He would not hand the queen over to anyone without the authorization of Queen Elizabeth herself. It was a hundred miles from Topcliffe to Carlisle; but it was two hundred from Topcliffe to London. Lord Thomas was acting on his own authority, not the queen’s.

  “Lord Thomas, you are welcome at Carlisle, of course,” said Sir Richard smoothly. “But I fear me that I can allow no one, including yourself, to take charge of the Queen of Scotland without express orders from Queen Elizabeth.”

  Lord Thomas’s eyes smoldered with resentment, but a row would have been most unseemly; the Queen of Scotland was not a bone over which two dogs should fight. His only choice was to give way gracefully and await the queen’s instructions. Perhaps he had been overbold in coming to Carlisle and making such demands. But Jesu, the journey had been worth it! He had never seen, never known such an intriguing person as the Queen of Scotland. He looked forward to making her better acquaintance whilst they all awaited Elizabeth’s orders as to what was to be done with such a rare, exotic creature as Mary Stuart.

  ###

  Mary had always been accustomed to good food, and had a hearty appetite; but never in her life had she experienced hunger in the true sense before the nightmare days of her flight from Langside. Never again would she be able to take food for granted. So as she sat at supper in the Great Hall of Carlisle Castle, she found herself looking forward with more than her usual delight to each course of the evening meal. Ten months of forced inactivity on Loch Leven had somewhat curbed her healthy appetite; but now that she was allowed to ride every day, even when the weather had others casting a wary eye at the sky, her appetite had returned. She had missed riding and hunting during her captivity on Loch Leven, and now she felt that she could never get enough exercise. She was near to outriding and outhunting even Sir Richard himself; and all the activity conduced once again to a craving for, and an enjoyment of, her food.

  Sir Richard sat on Mary’s left side, having been forced to give pride of place on her right to the Earl of Northumberland. He watched her indulgently as she avidly eyed the dish being set before her. It amused him to see a woman eat with such enthusiasm; he was glad that Carlisle was able to present such delicate dishes to the queen. There were spicy chutneys and delicate white manchet bread; game and fish, both salted and fresh, and meats of all sorts, all smothered in spiced or herbed sauces; potages and stews that made the mouth water; syllabub, sweets and comfits, and all manner of fruits in various jewel tones, preserved so beautifully that they were almost transparent; a staggering variety of nuts and dried fruit, and intriguing confections, such as sugar-coated ginger and caraway seeds set in honey. Mary’s own stag had been made into a toothsome venison stew and crusty, golden turnovers; he felt his heart swell with love as he watched her daintily bite a delicate half-moon with her white teeth into the meat pie that she held in her hand. Fastidious in the extreme, each mouthful was followed by a subtle dabbing at her lips with a linen square. He could watch her for hours; it mattered not what she was doing.

  Lord Thomas was usually put off by the sight and sounds of a trencher-woman at table; but Mary was able to consume prodigious quantities of food without seeming at all repulsive.

  At the end of the meal the subtlety was brought in; this evening it was a model of the castle, exact in every detail, made from marzipan. Mary was granted the privilege of taking the first tit-bit from the structure, and laughing like a girl, she chose the model of the tower that had been set aside for her use during her stay at Carlisle. She broke the confection into three pieces, offering a piece each to both Sir Richard and Lord Thomas. Both men tried their best to brush their hand with her own in the exchange.

  Mary was still delicately licking her fingers when a page entered the hall with a parchment under his arm; Sir Richard may be outranked by Lord Thomas, but Sir Richard was still the castellan of Carlisle. He took the missive, broke the seal and scanned the page.

  “God’s blood!” he cried. “The Duke of Norfolk has arrived.” He felt his ire rise; here was yet another noble, come uninvited, to try to wrest the great prize of the Queen of Scotland from his grasp. If only word from Queen Elizabeth would arrive, to confirm his custody of the Queen of Scots! He was certain in himself that given a choice, Mary would prefer to stay where she was, under his benign aegis. To the waiting page he said, “See the duke comfortable and advise His Grace that I shall wait upon him anon.”

  Tearing himself away from Mary was difficult, but he must prepare to receive the duke. Norfolk was the premier peer of the realm; it was possible that he had been sent by the queen, but if that were the case, there should have been a second letter for himself from the queen, and there was none.

  He turned to Mary and said, “Have you everything you desire, Your Grace?”

  Mary’s eyes searched his for a long moment. Then she leaned towards him to speak, and instinctively, he leaned in as well. Her lips were practically touching his ear; her warm breath sent chills down his spine when she whispered, “I am vastly contented, Sir Richard
, except for two things. I am anxious to hear from my cousin, of course; for that we must continue to be patient. But it has been long since I heard Mass.”

  At her words, his heart swelled with love once again, and seemed as if it were near to bursting; great lights seemed to explode inside his brain. Of course, he knew that Mary was Catholic, all the world knew as much; but to trust him, the loyal subject of a Protestant queen, with such a request, made him ache with love for her. Like many in the north, he paid lip service to the law that mandated the Protestant Book of Common Prayer, and which necessitated the hateful Communion Table. Also like many in the north, he knew a priest who still celebrated Mass in secret. He trusted Mary completely; and this mention of Mass showed that she also trusted him.

  He twisted in his chair so that he was facing her, and she did likewise. He took both of her hands into his own, looked into her eyes, and whispering so that he could not possibly be heard above the din of the ongoing meal in the noisy Great Hall, he said softly, “Your Grace, rest assured that you shall have your Mass. I must go now; but we shall speak of this again, bye and bye.”

  Mary watched Sir Richard out of the room and then turned her attention back to Lord Thomas. As that gentleman discoursed upon the glories of his own Alnwick Castle, and George and Willie stood behind her chair as sewerers, she felt a warm flush of satisfaction well up inside of her. Everything was going to be all right; the fears of Lord Herries and the rest of her advisors about her choosing to flee to England instead of France had been unfounded. Already she was beloved by the Englishmen whose acquaintance she had made; it was only a matter of time before Elizabeth sent for her and they would begin assembling an army to retake her throne. And now, she had as much as been guaranteed that soon she would be able to hear Mass once again.