In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

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  “Faster, faster!” cried Mary, as each hound chased its quarry. Galloping to and fro on her mount, she was helping to roust the rabbits from the stubble of a fallow field. There were a dozen of them rousting from horseback, half again as many walking the furrows beating the stubble with stout sticks and more than twenty hounds giving chase. The frantic rabbits were weaving and darting, trying desperately to avoid the dogs. The very air was rife with the coppery smell of blood as the pile of little bloody corpses grew. There would be rabbit pie, rabbit stew, rabbit pasties; rabbit braised and roasted; of what was left, rabbit sausages would be made.

  Willie would not be separated from the queen, and so he had come along for the morning’s sport. But it broke his heart to witness such a spectacle. He had once kept rabbits as pets on Loch Leven. He loved their warm softness, their trusting way, and the little movements they made with their noses. How he longed to cover his ears so that he should not hear their frightened screams as the inevitable fate overtook each one of the poor creatures. Greyhounds were very fast, and even though rabbits on the run could be swift and had an inborn sense of how to be elusive, not one of the poor creatures had escaped yet on this dreadful morning.

  But even this display of cruelty on the part of the queen could not turn him against her. After all, the people of the castle must eat, and rabbits were food. He just wished that there were a less horrid manner in which to gather them for the pot. It had always baffled him that someone as beautiful and seemingly gentle as Mary could find such pleasure in blood sports; but then she never shrank from making war or doing battle, either, and in the end, he supposed it was the same thing. Had she been less bold, they would all still be on Loch Leven. And she was a queen, a semi-divine being by virtue of her coronation. He truly believed that her actions were inspired by God, whatsoever they might be.

  Mary reined in her horse and when the spirited stallion finally came to a halt, wheezing like a bellows, she leaned down and patted him on the neck. The men took their lead from the queen; soon all of them had reined in and were milling about, allowing their horses to drink from the trough at the edge of the field.

  As she watched them watch her, she bestowed her enigmatic smile on each man in turn. Sir Richard had about him a proprietary air; the Queen of Scots was in his care, and until ordered otherwise, he would take responsibility for her welfare, allowing no other man to usurp his place. Lord Thomas Percy, the Earl of Northumberland, Lord Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, and Lord Charles Neville, the Earl of Westmoreland, had all flocked to see the queen at Carlisle, along with many of the minor gentry for miles around. Together they had all become a tacit conclave of Roman Catholic solidarity. Very early each morning, the secret priest held Mass for them in the dungeons, a place where none dared to go uninvited. It was a secret that bound them all together in an unshakeable, unbreakable unity.

  Willie handed up to Mary a stirrup cup of wine; it was hippocras, the strong, sweet wine that was her favorite. As she sipped it a plan formed in her head. Perhaps when Elizabeth provided her with an army to regain her throne of Scotland, she would not stop there. Perhaps she would then take that very army south again to London… She swirled the wine about in her mouth. It seemed appropriate at that moment to recall that hippocras was also called by some the Blood of Judas.

  But was it not she who had been betrayed? All those years ago, when Elizabeth had ascended the throne of England, everyone had told her, assured her, everyone was so certain that that throne was her own by right. And now it was being said again; Sir Richard, Northumberland, Norfolk, and Westmoreland all believed that she, and not Elizabeth, was the rightful Queen of England. Elizabeth had been born a bastard to Henry of England and his concubine, Anne Boleyn. She, Mary, was indisputably legitimate, and descended from Henry VIII’s elder sister, Margaret. She was a good Catholic; Elizabeth was a heretic. Yes, the throne of England was undoubtedly her own, then. But how to get it, when she had been deprived unlawfully of her own throne of Scotland? When she was little more than a pitiable refugee, dependent upon the whim of that very cousin whom she now thought to displace?

  Mary threw back the last of her wine, tossed the cup to Willie with a dazzling smile, and spurred her horse back into action. All this needed thinking on, but now it was time to course more rabbits.

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  “Will you stay with me, my lord?” asked Mary breathlessly, as she hurried up the winding turret stairs.

  “Of a certainty, Your Grace,” replied Sir Richard. He had no intention of allowing anyone into the presence of the Queen of Scotland unless he was there with her. Until he was told differently, he was responsible for her well-being. But it was more than that; he now found that he could not bear to be out of her company. He put that thought away.

  Mary ran up the treacherous winding stairway two steps at a time, as agile as any of the rabbits she had coursed only that morning. At last, Elizabeth’s emissary had arrived, was here in the castle at this very moment, awaiting an audience! Her cousin had sent a near-kinsman to represent her; surely that was a good sign? Sir Francis Knollys was married to Elizabeth’s own first cousin…some said half-sister…the Lady Catherine Carey. Here at last was her summons to London, to Elizabeth’s side, where she would be able to share all her woes, all her needs, with her fellow queen and kinswoman; and where at last she would be given the army she required to wreak vengeance upon her brother, and to take back her throne and her son. Her blood began to race at the thought of riding out once more at the head of such an army!

  “Oh, if only I had time to change my dress!” she cried, holding her skirts high as she ran.

  “Your Grace looks lovely,” Sir Richard panted reassuringly. It was true; her face was flushed from the exercise of the morning, and her forest green gown made her eyes glow like emeralds in firelight.

  At last they arrived at the top of the turret, where Sir Francis awaited her in the anteroom to her chambers. She stopped, smoothed her hair, and then at a silent nod from her, the halberdiers opened the doors.

  Sir Francis had been standing at the window, looking out over the expanse of rolling hills, fields, and forest. At the sound of the swish of metal as the halberdiers uncrossed their weapons, he turned, so that when the doors opened, his first sight was of Mary, her hand to her chest, which was still heaving slightly with the exertion of her headlong climb to the top of the tower. At the sight of her he was at first too stunned to speak; but after a long moment he remembered his manners and bowed. He then approached the queen, went down on one knee, and brushed the back of her proffered hand with his lips.

  It was for Mary to speak first; in a voice as smooth as silk, as sweet as honey, as warm as a fire on a cold night, she said, “Sir Francis, I am so glad that you are come to Carlisle. I pray you, will you please give me all the news of my cousin? What says she of my plight?” She waved a hand at the chairs before the hearth, indicating that the men should sit. “You know Sir Richard Lowther, Castellan of Carlisle, of course?”

  Her voice was hypnotic; the sound of it seemed to produce a glow in his stomach similar to that of strong wine. But he must respond. “Your Grace, I know Sir Richard by reputation, of course, but I have never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance.” Sir Francis inclined his head to Sir Richard, who took the seat next to his own; they both sat opposite the queen.

  Sir Francis thought wryly back to the night at Greenwich Palace just a few weeks before, when he had complacently, smugly, if truth be told, sat and listened as Elizabeth and Cecil lamented over the Scottish queen’s arrival in England, which was both unexpected and unwelcome, and how he had dismissed it all as none of his affair. How stunned he had been when the queen’s golden eyes had fixed upon him and she had informed him that it was he who was to go to Carlisle as her emissary to Mary Stuart. Why, oh why, had he let his curiosity get the better of him that night? If he had stayed away when he spied Cecil stumping towards the queen’s privy chamber on the evening that the
courier had arrived with the news that the Queen of Scotland had come uninvited over the English border, he might still have been at home in London, with his wife, his children and his hounds gathered about him. Instead he had been called upon to make the long, arduous journey to the barbarous north to face a situation that was fraught with danger.

  Sir Francis noticed that Queen Mary wore an elegant green velvet gown, but its elegance stemmed more from its design, its flow, than from ornamentation; the gown was trimmed with a modest amount of golden braid, and the queen wore only a simple pair of pearl earrings. Compared to Elizabeth, who went about each day bedecked as if she were a holy shrine, this simplicity in a queen was indeed refreshing. He recalled that Elizabeth now owned Mary’s pearl necklaces, a situation that had come about in as underhand a way as anything ever had. He heartily disapproved of the manner in which Elizabeth had acquired, at a discounted price, that which the Earl of Moray had no right to sell, and the Queen of England no right to buy. Those ropes of pearls were neither part of the French crown jewels, nor of the Scottish; they were Mary’s private property. His heart went out at that moment to the Scots queen. With her delicate complexion, her skin the color of fresh cream with just a blush of rose, he was certain that pearls suited her as no other gem could possibly do. He was certain that Mary was as yet blissfully unaware of the fate with which her pearls had so recently met, and by all that was holy, he would not be the one to tell her!

  In fact, having spent even just those few moments in Mary Stuart’s enthralling presence, his whole mission seemed to sour in his mouth, and he now dreaded that which he had come to say on behalf of the Queen of England. Well, best get on with it, then.

  “I have a letter for Your Grace from the queen,” he said. He pulled the missive from his doublet; it seemed to burn his fingers and he would, at that moment, rather have handled a live snake. He reached out and handed the letter to Mary, who leaned forward in her chair to receive it from him. As the parchment changed hands, their fingers touched briefly; it was as if a powerful vibration shook him at her touch, making his hands tremble. Mary must have felt it, too; she looked at him quizzically as she took the parchment from him.

  She broke the seal, unfolded the letter, and began to read. She looked, at first, very hurt; then her expression of sadness turned to one of smoldering anger. Finally, she crushed the letter in her hands. Had there been a fire in the hearth, she would have flung it there to burn, burn, burn…

  Mary stood up and began pacing the room. Finally she stopped, her eyes seething with anger. “I have waited long for my cousin to provide that which, as a kinsman and a fellow queen, I have every right to ask! She refuses all! I am not to come to London, nor to meet with Her Grace; she refuses to receive me until I am cleared of suspicion in Lord Darnley’s death! And there is to be no army for me to use to quell my enemies and restore me to my throne!”

  Sir Richard bent to retrieve the queen’s crumpled letter from floor; Mary made no move to stop him.

  She rounded on Sir Francis. “I see now that my cousin means to speak me fair and play me foul!” Mary’s eyes filled with tears of anger and frustration.

  Sir Richard read the document. There was to be a tribunal at York; there the evidence against Mary in the murder of her husband, Lord Darnley, was to be reviewed and a brief sent to the Queen of England. Conversely, the facts of the situation that had led to the Scots’ unconstitutional rejection of their anointed sovereign were to be likewise reviewed. Elizabeth, as a queen and Mary’s peer and kinsman, was to decide who was right or wrong, guilty or not guilty, and what was to be done in consequence of her conclusions. Mary might be restored to her throne, should she be acquitted of Darnley’s death; or, if found guilty, she would be kept from her throne and…what? Banished? Imprisoned? In England? In Scotland?

  “It is simply not to be borne!” cried Mary. The promise to examine the Earl of Moray’s actions was all well and good, but an examination of her own, and Bothwell’s conduct, might very well not stand up to close scrutiny. And her brother had those damnable letters! Mary gave her head a regal tilt and said, “The Queen of England has no legal right to try a foreign queen for an alleged crime that took place outside her own realm! The very suggestion is absurd! I am a sovereign prince and will have no judge but God!”

  Sir Francis sat with his hands clasped between his knees, a doleful expression on his face. “My mistress is very much grieved that she is unable to receive Your Grace at present on account of this great slander of murder. Once Your Grace is purged of this heinous charge, I do assure you that there is none with whom my queen would rather meet and take to her side.”

  Mary eyed Sir Francis coldly; suddenly he felt as if the sun had disappeared behind a cloud. “Very well,” she said quietly. “If my cousin refuses to assist me with money, troops and arms, then I shall go to France. Or Spain. I have other allies, sir. And kindly recall that I have made many wars in Scotland; I pray that I do not to have to make more in other realms.”

  At this the spell that Mary had cast upon Sir Francis lifted momentarily. “Think not to threaten the Queen of England in her own kingdom,” he said sternly. “Remember, Your Grace, those with two strings to their bow may shoot more strongly, but they rarely shoot straight.”

  Mary’s eyes flashed. “Think not to threaten me, sir, when I have such friends as I have!”

  Mary was far too upset to think clearly, but Sir Richard’s very blood froze in his veins as he read the queen’s letter. What was to become of the Queen of Scotland now, he wondered? For he found Queen Elizabeth’s letter to be most threatening, and the implications of those threats did not bode well for Mary. He looked up to see her standing in the middle of the room, as still as a statue. Her eyes were filled with tears, but her face was, for just a moment, expressionless. Tears fell unheeded down her cheeks. In that moment such a wave of tenderness smote him that it almost bowled him over where he sat. It was all he could do to prevent himself from rising, striding over to her, taking her in his arms and kissing away her tears. Thankfully, the spell that had him in its thrall was broken when Sir Francis arose and walked over to her.

  “How can she expect it of me?” cried Mary piteously. “To submit willingly to such an inquiry would be to accuse myself before the entire world, and that I shall never do!”

  Both men were transfixed by her manner; there was no hiccoughing, no snuffling, no red, swollen nose, no screwing up of the mouth or eyes. The beautiful tears simply welled up in her eyes and spilled over, making crystal tracks down her face.

  Sir Francis had ever been susceptible to the weeping of women; he had a wife and three daughters who had learnt very early that this was so, and had many a time used tears to get that which they wanted from him. He knelt at her feet, a pained expression on his craggy face; he raised his hands up to her, which were clasped together in supplication. “I beg of Your Grace, please, do not weep. If you are innocent of my Lord Darnley’s death, then certainly you have naught to fear, and all will be well!”

  At these words Mary dashed the tears away and cried, “Thanks be to God, I am innocent! And you may inform your mistress that if she thinks to try me for Darnley’s murder, then she will have to try Moray as well, and half the lords of Scotland! And what of Rizzio’s cold blooded murder, that was done before my very eyes? Is not poor Davey’s death just as evil in God’s eyes? I see no mention of justice for him! And why will she not meet with me? I should gladly deny all to Her Grace’s satisfaction, privately, if only she would! I am no basilisk, that she should fear to be in my very presence!”

  Sir Francis, still on his knees before the queen, looked miserable; he dared not tell her that Elizabeth had remarked with no little venom that she had already besmirched her own reputation by defending Mary up to this point. For his own part, had he been asked his opinion, he was, albeit sorrowfully, convinced of Mary’s guilt in the death of her husband. Her hasty marriage to the man accused of his murder and her untimely pregnancy seemed pr
oof enough that she had wanted Darnley dead.

  “And I pray thee to tell me, please,” cried Mary, “what is that?”

  The non sequitur caught both men off guard; they followed the slim, pointing finger to the wooden chest that had been placed beneath the window nearest the door.

  Oh, God in heaven, thought Sir Francis, this was only going to make matters worse than they already were. Mary had begged piteously in her first letter to the queen from Dundrennan Abbey for clothes and what jewels Elizabeth could spare, as Mary had escaped Langside with only the clothes she stood up in, and those were much the worse for her ordeal. But Elizabeth was quite incapable of parting with any of her clothes or jewels, which to her were the very stuff of royalty. Mary felt the same way; never should she forget her ordeal at Edinburgh the night she had been forced to enter the city to the jeers of the populace in the disgraceful too-short red dress, without even shoes to her feet. Master Fletcher had amply provided the clothing that Mary so desperately needed, so that she had forgotten her plaintive pleas to her cousin for queenly attire.

  Mary strode to the chest, threw up the lid and briefly rifled its contents. The sight that met her eyes was so incredible that her brain could hardly credit what her eyes were seeing. A length of black silk so old that it shone with a rusty hue; several items of tattered linen; no shoes; no boxes that might have held jewels.

  In that terrible moment, she realized that her cousin, far from helping her, meant to harm her. But one can only get so low, feel so abandoned, be so devastated; and as she had so boldly told Sir Francis, she had other friends. But by this one gesture, Mary suddenly saw clear through Elizabeth, although she had never met her. Elizabeth was half a commoner; this niggardly display was evidence of her cousin’s common side, her Boleyn side, her vindictive, jealous side, the hateful side of her that could not be curbed by what royalty she possessed by virtue of her Tudor blood.