In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  But Mary was royal and noble through and through. She closed the chest softly, and turned to Sir Francis. “Thankfully, a kind and generous friend, Master Fletcher of Cockermouth, has seen to my need for clothing, more than amply,” she said. She placed a hand to her ear, fondled one of the pearl earrings that had once lain in Willie’s calloused palm, and added, “And I have become accustomed of late to wearing only these. Please thank Her Grace and tell her that the need I expressed to her now no longer exists, and that I am pleased to be able to return to her this gracious offering.”

  With that, Mary walked to the door of the inner chamber and laid her hand on the iron ring that, with a twist, would open the door. The gesture was unmistakably one of dismissal.

  Sir Francis with relief, and Sir Richard with barely concealed reluctance, bowed and took their leave.

  ###

  Once in the outer chamber, Sir Francis said, “There is another matter, Sir Richard, which we must discuss.” They descended the narrow stairway in silence, maintained until they reached Sir Richard’s apartments. Sir Francis seated himself and Sir Richard handed him a tankard of ale.

  Sir Francis had been shown to Mary’s quarters upon his arrival to await his audience with her. A page had been sent hieing to the fields where the coursing of the rabbits was in progress, and it was there from which Mary had departed with all speed to speak with, at last, someone who had come directly from London, directly from Queen Elizabeth, with messages for her. Sir Francis had watched the coursing of the hares for several minutes before Mary had been successfully hailed by the page; he was aghast at what he saw. It was obvious to anyone who witnessed her expert horsemanship that Mary was a rider to be reckoned with. The tales of her exploits on horseback all had heard, but to actually see her skill in handling her mount, darting and weaving, and then galloping headlong back to the castle when she had been apprised of his arrival and his presence in the castle, had frightened him beyond measure. On no account must the Queen of Scots be allowed to escape; should she succeed in gaining the Continent, she would become an even more menacing danger to England and to their own queen. He took a long pull from his tankard, then set it aside.

  “Sir Richard,” he said, “it would be most inadvisable in the future to allow the Queen of Scotland access to horses. And are the halberdiers at the doors of her apartments all the guard that you have placed upon Her Grace?”

  Sir Richard bristled visibly at what he took as criticism of his management of his royal guest. Guest! Was she, in fact, a guest?

  “Are you suggesting that my measures to protect the queen are inadequate?” he asked.

  Wordlessly, Sir Francis took a second letter from his doublet and handed it to Sir Richard. He broke the seal, read the letter, and then laid it aside. He squarely met Sir Francis’ gaze and said, “I am no gaoler, sir. I am host to the queen’s cousin, nothing more. Am I to take this,” he nodded towards the queen’s letter, “to mean that the Queen of Scotland is a prisoner?”

  It was Sir Francis’ turn to bristle. “No, of course not.”

  “Then what does Her Grace mean by “close confined?” asked Sir Richard. “Are the men guarding the queen there for her safety, or to prevent her from leaving?”

  Sir Francis had lived his life at court, where plain speaking was all but unheard of; the blunt questions bewildered him for a moment. He carefully considered his next words. “The Queen of Scotland has come, unasked, begging the assistance of the Queen of England to restore her to her throne. That cannot be done until the queen is cleared of any involvement in Lord Darnley’s death. Lord Darnley was an English subject and a close kinsman of the queen. Surely you can understand…”

  Sir Richard knew that to be confined to her chambers and forbidden to ride would break Mary’s heart; to see her unhappy would break his own. To be the instrument of her unhappiness he refused even to consider. “Sir Francis, I shall place soldiers in the two outer chambers of the queen’s apartments to ensure Her Grace’s better safety,” he said. “As for restricting her movements, unless I receive a direct order from the queen herself explicitly stating that the Queen of Scotland is a prisoner, I shall never confine Her Grace against her will. I shall take full responsibility for Her Grace; I shall not leave her side whenever she is not in her inner chamber, and I shall stand surety for Her Grace when she avails herself of the exercise that is necessary for her health. But beyond that I am not prepared to go.”

  Burghley House, Huntingdonshire, July 1568

  The pond at Burghley House was small, but ideally situated; any breeze that blew through the valley touched it, and its view of the house and gardens was incomparable. The day was very fine, and the little barge in which they all sat was well-appointed and very comfortable. As the boat glided aimlessly on its surface, Elizabeth idly trailed her hand in the cool waters of the pond.

  Lady Cecil and the queen lay back on a cushioned settle, conversing in Greek, much to Elizabeth’s delight. There were few people with whom she could discourse in that ancient language; but like Elizabeth herself, Lady Mildred had received a classical education in a family that believed in teaching their girls alongside the boys. Lady Mildred had also served briefly as one of her ladies-in-waiting. Elizabeth always looked forward to her visits with Lady Mildred, and enjoyed them immensely.

  Cecil dozed, his head cradled on a velvet cushion. The heat of the sun, the droning of the insects, the gentle rocking of the vessel, the lazy lap of the water against the sides of the boat in the warm breeze, all conspired to render him comfortably drowsy. When at last he succumbed, a loud snore startled the ladies; with their hands to their mouths, they stifled their titters, lest they should wake him.

  Just as Elizabeth felt that the afternoon could not have been any more felicitous, a movement caught her eye; a page was hurrying towards the little pier. What now, she wondered? Was she never to have a moment’s peace?

  The page stood on the little bank, a frantic expression on his face. Reluctantly, Elizabeth shook Cecil’s shoulder; he awakened with a start and an inelegant snort. She nodded towards the impatient page. With a sigh, and much the same thoughts about their interrupted respite that Elizabeth had entertained a moment before, he seized the oars and rowed the little barge back to the pier.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” said the breathless page. “But Your Grace asked to be informed immediately if a messenger from Scotland arrived.”

  “And I take it that one has?” she growled, her hand shading her eyes from the glare of the sun.

  “In a manner of speaking, Your Grace,” said the page with a deep bow. “Sir Francis Knollys has arrived.”

  “The man himself!” she exclaimed to Cecil. “I did not expect that.”

  Once back in the house, Elizabeth and Cecil hurried to the privy chamber where Cecil conducted his business. Sir Francis was sitting in a chair when the door opened, but he quickly arose at the sight of the queen. He stood, hat in hand, a hangdog expression on his face. After all, the queen had simply bid him send word, she had not explicitly asked to receive that word from his own lips. What would his welcome be?

  “Your Grace,” said Sir Francis nervously. “I…”

  Elizabeth was bursting to know; perhaps it was best that Sir Francis had come himself. After all, he must have witnessed the moment when Mary had been presented with her gift. No written message could have conveyed the scene so vividly.

  “And how liked Her Grace of Scotland my offering?” she asked, her tongue firmly set in her cheek, her fingers ostentatiously entwined in Mary’s pearls.

  Sir Francis hesitated; the only sounds in the room were the buzz of the bees in the roses climbing outside the window, and the annoying cracking of his knuckles. He was unaware of the habit; he only did it when he was extremely nervous.

  “Well, out with it, man!” cried Elizabeth. “Did she scream? Did she cry? Did she tear her hair?”

  Had he but known it, the very same thought went through his mind that had visited the Que
en of Scotland when she had opened the trunk from her cousin that day at Carlisle. Only someone with common blood, only someone of a jealous and vindictive nature, would have planned, could have executed, such a shabby trick. Sir Francis had much admired Mary’s calm, poised response, which did not even extend to sharing with Sir Richard, who had been there in the room with them, what the chest contained.

  He had tried, later, to excuse what his queen had done by assuring her that it was all a misunderstanding; a maidservant’s error, perhaps; the cloth and tattered linen was surely meant not for the queen, but for her servants? A feeble explanation; Mary’s servants were never so ragged as that, or if they were, the contents of the chest ought to have contained the remedy for it. The Scots queen had smiled, placed her hand soothingly atop his own, and assured him that she was convinced that that was what it was…a careless error. But he could tell from the look of hurt she tried to conceal that she knew exactly what was meant by the ugly gesture. She was now in her cousin’s realm, and dependent upon Elizabeth’s charity. Evidently, that charity was to be despised.

  In that moment Sir Francis realized his mistake; he should have remained at Carlisle with Queen Mary until summoned back to court. Had he described in a letter the Scot queen’s gracious reaction to the insult perpetrated upon her by a fellow queen, he could imagine what his own queen’s reaction should have been upon reading it. Elizabeth would certainly lose her temper, throw the missive to the floor or into the fire, rant and rave. But instead of sending a letter, he now stood before the queen himself. His heart quailed. But he took strength from the memory of the Scottish queen’s reception of Elizabeth’s slight; if the Queen of Scotland could be gracious in such a situation, then he must likewise show some courage on her behalf. He would not lie and tell his queen that which she so obviously wished to hear.

  “Her Grace of Scotland thanks you for your offering, Your Grace,” said Sir Francis. “But owing to the generosity of another, she has no need of the items sent for her relief, and has returned them.”

  Elizabeth pursed her lips. Sharp retorts rose to her lips, but she held them back. Before she could decide what to say, Sir Francis’s eyes took on a faraway look.

  As if in explanation of such a response to Elizabeth’s petty insult, he said, “I found Her Grace of Scotland to possess a gracious manner, a most impressive intellect, and an eloquent tongue. In fact, Her Grace is a most notable woman. She stands on no ceremony, save a kissing of her hand upon meeting. She always waxes pleasant and is familiar with all. She never fails to display a generous heart and a pleasing countenance.”

  “Indeed?” said Elizabeth dryly. She had longed to ask the question to which Sir Francis had just unwittingly responded. What was she like, this rival queen? Well, she had her answer! How she longed to meet this enigmatic cousin of hers, and how she dreaded it! What alchemy did Mary possess that caused her to fascinate so completely all with whom she came into contact? That Sir Francis had evidently fallen victim to Mary’s legendary charisma was patently obvious and most disturbing; she had chosen him to go to Mary on her behalf because of all her men, she had believed that he, staunch Protestant that he was! …would have been the last person to succumb to her Catholic cousin’s captivating personality. For Sir Francis to fall under her cousin’s wicked spell was not just a disappointment, it was a rude awakening and a dire warning. She would have thought him immune if anyone was!

  Elizabeth’s smoldering eyes were not lost on Cecil; he could see that Sir Francis’s laudatory words about her cousin had disturbed and irritated the queen. He recalled with some amusement a comment that the Spanish ambassador had recently made; that if the Queen of Scotland were to come to court, that she and the Queen of England would be at loggerheads within a week, owing to the difference in grace and beauty between them. And this from a diplomat who otherwise gave every impression of being most impressed with the Queen of England!

  “What other impressions have you formed of this paragon?” asked Elizabeth, her lips pressed into a thin line.

  Sir Francis, still apparently under the spell of the captivating Queen of Scots, shook his head. “There is another side to Her Grace, of course,” he said. He dare not repeat the words spoken by Mary in private against Elizabeth, during her tearful rages. But still, he must answer. “Her Grace possesses stout courage; her recent deeds more than amply demonstrate this. But…”

  Finally! she thought. “But what?” she asked tartly.

  “Your Grace, I believe this lady to be capable of bitter violence; she has a great fire in her stomach and a fearsome desire for bloody vengeance against her enemies. I am convinced in myself that nothing shall stay her hand when it comes to satisfying her appetite for revenge against her brother and her traitorous Scottish lords. Her Grace of Scotland has the courage of a man, a masculine bellicosity, but in the pleasing form of a woman. While Her Grace can be most gracious and charming, she can also be intractable and defiant.” At that moment, Sir Francis entertained much the same thoughts that Willie had on the day of the rabbit coursing; it was indeed a mystery how someone as tender, as lovely, as Mary Stuart seemed to be, could be so bloody-minded and vengeful. How to explain such a paradox? “Her Grace is bold and fearless, completely unafraid of peril; and yet this recklessness exists side by side with a fragile femininity, a most gentle manner…I fear me that I cannot explain it…I fear me I do not know what is to be done with such a one as the Queen of Scots.”

  But Elizabeth understood only too well. She gazed with a raised eyebrow and eyes full of scorn at the little wet patches that appeared at the corners of Sir Francis’s mouth when he attempted to describe the enigma that was Mary of Scotland. She longed to chide Sir Francis, to reproach and scold him for his weakness where such a guileful female was concerned. But what good would that do? It was obvious that her fascinating cousin and fellow queen possessed a full panoply of feminine seductiveness and charm, alongside a warlike and adventurous nature; a most dangerous combination. This was indeed a formidable adversary. Never, never should Mary be permitted to come to London, to practice her black art on the Parliament, nor should she be allowed to attend the tribunal at York. Were she allowed to appear, to speak, there was little doubt as to what the outcome would be. And that she could not allow.

  The queen was silent for so long that Sir Francis awakened as if from a spell to an icy fear. Had he said too much? Said the wrong thing? Expressed himself ill? Suddenly he felt like the poor rabbits must have felt on that dreadful day when he had arrived at Carlisle Castle and witnessed the coursing of the hares. How to redeem himself…?

  “Your Grace,” he said carefully. “I feel compelled to inform you that the Queen of Scots would find no difficulty in departing from Carlisle Castle if she so chose. The castellan there has all but refused to confine her in any manner that would suggest that Her Grace was anything more than a royal guest. And Her Grace’s skill on a horse is well known. Might I suggest…”

  “Remove her to Bolton,” said Elizabeth tersely. “See to it immediately, Sir Francis.”

  He stared at the queen aghast. “I, Your Grace?” Part of his reasoning in risking an appearance before the queen in person when he had not been explicitly bid to return to court was a hope that his remaining in the south would be a fait accompli. Was he now to be sent back again to the volatile north?

  While Sir Francis fretted over facing yet another tedious journey, Elizabeth nibbled a cuticle and tried in vain to fight the sick feeling in her stomach. The rot had already set in; it was obvious that her nefarious cousin could not be permitted to remain at liberty in the north, to seduce the men and rouse the Catholics against her. Rumors reached her daily of the excitement that Mary’s presence in England was fomenting. A pox on Mary Stuart! Why could she not have remained in her own realm, and caused her trouble there?

  Suddenly Sir Francis saw a way out of his dilemma. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but if the lady is to be removed to Bolton Castle, would it not be better if Her Grace w
ere placed into the custody of Lord Scrope, to whom Bolton belongs?”

  “Aye,” said Elizabeth. “Henceforth, my cousin shall be in the charge of Lord and Lady Scrope.”

  Sir Francis felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders; but before he could even begin to rejoice, the queen drew another breath and said, “Your task, sir, shall be to accompany Lord Scrope, and turn my cousin from her Catholic faith. That would serve to neutralize the religious threat. Only then can we feel secure.”

  Sir Francis felt his heart drop to his feet. How would he ever succeed at such a task? He was not unaware of the many moths that danced about Mary Stuart’s seductive flame. He knew of the Masses being said in the dungeons of Carlisle. He knew that many of the men who danced attendance on the Scottish queen were Catholics who only pretended to the Protestant faith. The north was rife with such. All of a sudden he felt very, very, tired.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but what I am to tell the Queen of Scots regarding her expectations of England, and of Your Grace?” He had waited upon the Scots queen every day at Carlisle, and she never failed to remind him of Elizabeth’s promises.

  At this, Elizabeth’s temper, which had been smoldering since the interview began, erupted into a frightening rage. “God’s blood, who is this cousin of mine, that she expects all the world to condole with her? By all means, Sir Francis, please be so kind as to inform Her Grace of Scotland that not many do! The fine weather of fair promises which seem to honor her above all the world should not envelop her in such a cloud that she may not see plain day! Never once has she seen fit to own any responsibility for the tragedies that have overtaken her! She has arrived in her present state through naught but her own willfulness. Am I to blame that my cousin has lost crown and throne, rank and revenue, through her own mishandling of her affairs? Shall I then be supposed to risk my own crown, and to spend England’s own precious ducats, not to mention her blood, to help such a one regain all that she has lost in such a manner? I tell you, I shall not! Remove her to Bolton Castle at once, and see to it that she remains there!”