In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  Bessie’s ample bosom shook like jelly as she waved the feathers; Willie stood beside the bed, a worried expression on his face; perhaps he should not have blurted it out like that? But God’s bones, how could anyone prepare a person for such momentous news? Seton stood on the other side of the bed, administering gentle slaps to Mary’s wrist, a supposed sovereign remedy for a faint. They were all looking at her so intently that at the first flutter of her eyelashes, they breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  “I am all right,” said Mary in a whisper. “Help me to sit.”

  The pain in her side was suddenly gone; the pain in her joints was gone. Her head swam a bit, but the gulps of air that she was taking would soon put her to rights. Memory came flooding back. Had she heard correctly? “This is true?” she asked softly. “My brother is dead?” A fleeting memory of James as a boy brought tears to her eyes. Any death was fearful and sad; she crossed herself.

  Willie continued as if there had been no interruption. “Aye, Your Grace, it is true. The Earl of Moray was shot dead with an harquebus in the streets of Linlithgow, by a Hamilton. The courier didn’t know which one. A kinsman of the Duke of Châtellerault.”

  But Mary’s mind had leapt far ahead. With James dead, assassinated, which clearly demonstrated the extent of the unrest and dissatisfaction with his regency and the state of affairs in Scotland, surely now she must be returned to her throne! The people would demand it. Wouldn’t they? She would finally go back to Edinburgh, triumphant, as she had always intended to do; as she was meant to do!

  Suddenly she leapt up and cried, “My dresses! Where are my dresses?”

  Seton marveled at the change in her that just a few minutes had wrought. For weeks past, denied the company and the adoration of other people, on which she thrived, Mary had been sinking into a deep and dangerous melancholy, wilting like a flower out of water. Now she was on her feet, asking for her dresses, most of which had been packed away since they left Carlisle.

  “We must prepare,” said Mary excitedly. “We shall soon be leaving for the north. I am certain of it.”

  Bessie gave a deep curtsey and took the empty tray away. Willie scampered back down the spiral staircase to see what further news he could glean. Seton busied herself lifting the lids of trunks and cases, ignored and neglected for months; their contents must be inventoried anew.

  Only Mary stood still, gazing out of the window, over the rooftops to the sky beyond, to the distant north. That way lay her new life; that way lay Scotland, her kingdom, and her son. Perhaps God had not deserted her after all! Now she knew, now she could see, why despair was so poisonous to the soul. The moribund hope, that she believed had all but died, rose in her breast like a phoenix from the ashes of her desolation and took on new life.

  For the first time, she was glad that her window faced north.

  Chapter 14

  “Trouble me no more about renouncing my crown, for I am resolutely determined rather to die, and the last word I speak in life will be that of a Queen of Scotland.”

  -Mary Stuart

  Somerset House, London, April 1570

  E lizabeth did not, as a rule, hold Council meetings at her private residence of Somerset House; she preferred to meet with her counselors at Westminster. But the ulcer on her leg was getting worse instead of better, and she could no longer delay a meeting of the full Council.

  She lifted her skirts, rolled down her stocking and turned her leg this way and that; the sore was definitely larger today than it had been yesterday. And the bleeding from the bottom of her foot had availed her nothing; indeed, it had only made matters worse! Now she could barely hobble for the pain. Her temper had worsened with the growth of the ulcer; not the best frame of mind in which to greet her victorious Lord Lieutenant of the North, Sir Thomas Radclyffe, the Earl of Sussex! She must make an effort to keep her irritability in check. Things, after all, might have gone the other way in the north. That they did not do so was largely due to the earl’s efforts.

  The north. The subject had become very sore with her; almost as sore as her damnable leg! She had inherited many useful things from her father; her irascible temper was one of them, and that ability to make oneself instantly obeyed. There was no doubt whose daughter she was! But was she to inherit all of his ailments as well? A similar ulcer on her father’s leg had never healed, and had plagued him for years, right up until the time of his death. She would be thirty-seven this year; near to the same age as Henry the Eighth was when he had first injured his leg in that ill-fated joust. The possibility of suffering for the rest of her life with this scourge, as her father had done, did not bear thinking about. She rolled up her stocking and threw down the hem of her skirt with an impatient hand.

  No matter what served to distract her, her mind would return to the doings in the north. The rising of the Catholics in the north had been, to her, not just a problem to be solved; it was a deadly insult to one who had been tolerant, in an effort to foster unity in her realm, of those whom she knew broke her religious laws. And how had she been repaid for this forbearance? With insurrection! It seemed incredible to her that any of her people should truly wish to see Mary of Scotland on the throne of England. Mary, who had made such a mess of things in her own realm that she had been forced to flee! She wanted no more risings in the name of Mary Stuart in her realm! But even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew that ridding England of her royal cousin was likely to be a practical impossibility. But perhaps there was another way…

  Elizabeth looked out the window. The sun sparkled on the water of the river. The sky was blue with puffy white clouds, and the breeze that wafted in through the window was warm and inviting. April, to her, was always a month to stir the blood. Just let her get this Council meeting behind her, and she would go sailing on her barge. With her leg in this condition, she could not ride; but she could make shift to get herself down to the water-steps, and show herself to her people from the river. She recognized the paramount importance of doing so, just as her father had. And it was especially important now that James Stewart, the Earl of Moray, had been assassinated. Cecil, Robert, Walsingham, had all begged her not to go abroad, unprotected amongst the crowds, lest an errant bullet should find her as well. But all the more reason…she must demonstrate to her people that she loved them, not that she feared them!

  On the stroke of the hour the men of her Council began to file into the room. Normally, she would have waited until all were assembled and then made her entrance; today, with her leg throbbing, that was not possible. She had arrived early so that they should not witness her limping. When all were assembled she clasped her hands in front of her, leant forward, and regarded them all in silence. Sussex, Arundel, Huntingdon, Walsingham, Hunsdon, her dear Robert, and all of the rest of them. Her loyal men!

  “Well, then, My Lords,” she said, reaching for her wine cup. She took a sip and set the cup aside. “The Regent Moray is no more, and now the French and the Spanish are demanding that my cousin of Scotland be returned to her throne.”

  Cecil leaned forward. “With respect, Your Grace, what else should one expect of the Catholic kings of Europe? But the Lords of the Congregation have refused to have Her Grace back on the throne of Scotland, and with good reason. Are we to turn against our Protestant allies? It is a pity about the Earl of Moray; he proved himself a good and faithful friend to England many a time. But there are others who can be regent.”

  Elizabeth took a long pull from her wine cup. “Whilst it is true that the Protestant Lords want none of Her Grace, the Catholic lords in Scotland and many of the common people do clamor for her return. She is their rightful queen, born of the Stuart line; Catholic or not, right or wrong. And are not the common people, as my good Lord of Sussex so recently witnessed, a force to be reckoned with? And one, I might add, which should neither be taken lightly, nor underestimated.” And for some strange reason, it gave her a perverse pleasure to know that at least some of Mary’s subjects, as ignorant as they were, st
ill loved their anointed queen and remained loyal to her.

  Thomas Radclyff, the Earl of Sussex, who as Lord Lieutenant of the North had led the royal troops that had quelled the rebellion, could not believe his ears. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but for what did we crush the rising in the north, if it was just to place Her Grace of Scotland back onto her throne, after all? For what, then, did so many men die?”

  Elizabeth turned to Sussex with a smile. “Forget not, my good cousin Sussex, that Her Grace of Scotland sought not only to gain her own throne, but mine as well.”

  “I do not forget it, and I hope that Your Grace will not!” cried Sussex in reply. “I should have thought that we would be discussing Queen Mary Stuart’s execution, rather than restoring her to her crown!”

  “Aye,” said Cecil. “I was right amazed, Your Grace, that the Tribunal was closed without severe action being taken against Her Grace of Scotland. I thought it a mistake then and I have not changed my view on the matter. Proof of murder, or at least the Scottish Queen’s complicity thereto, was plain to all except Your Grace, if I may say it. Will you now let this God-given opportunity of Her Grace’s traitorous complicity in the recent rebellion slip through your fingers as well? The Scots queen has proven her perfidy time and again; we ought to put an end to the matter now, once and for all.”

  Elizabeth shifted her painful leg on the stool that lay hidden under the great oak table. Finally she said, “But My Lords, consider; we have no evidence that the Queen of Scots either knew of, or approved of, this insurrection in the north, nor have we any proof of her complicity in it. And even if had we had, Her Grace will have broken no laws here that could result in her execution. Mary of Scotland is no subject of mine! And I begin to question that we may continue detaining Her Grace here in England. It is time to rid the realm of…” she thought of her aching leg, hidden beneath the table, throbbing on the velvet-covered stool, “…this canker sore from our land. There will be nothing but strife and woe for us as long as Mary Stuart remains on English soil.”

  “Then let the Treason Laws be changed!” cried Robert. “Then may we execute Her Grace of Scotland and neither England nor Scotland need fear her henceforth!”

  Elizabeth laid her white, long-fingered hand on Robert’s arm. She knew his great fear of the Queen of Scots, and was secretly glad of it. But even if the Treason Laws were changed, she would never countenance having the blood of her cousin on her hands. Never! Had not her own father been guilty of the judicial murder of her mother, an anointed queen? She hated Mary Stuart, she was afraid of her, and was, if truth be told! …jealous of her. But she did not want her dead. There must be another way...

  “Execution!” she cried. “Have any of you thought of the consequences of such a drastic act? To execute Mary Stuart would raise a backlash from the Catholic powers of Europe as would overwhelm us! Have we not just escaped calamity and disaster in the north? The execution of the Queen of Scots would cause to rain down upon us a retribution such as should make us shudder to think of it! I want to be rid of her, I want her out of my realm, but I do not want her blood on my hands! There has been naught but worry, contention, intrigue and now, violence, ever since Her Grace fled over the border from Scotland! Well, I say she shall return there, and good riddance! If that means restoring her to her throne, then so be it! We shall impose such conditions as shall be advantageous to England, and have done!” There followed a ringing silence wherein no one dared to speak.

  Finally, Cecil leaned forward. “Your Grace,” he said quietly. “You speak of consequences for the execution of the Queen of Scots from the Catholic powers on the Continent. Methinks that neither France nor Spain desires, nor have they the resources, to interfere in the affairs of either Scotland or of England. Had Philip of Spain or Charles of France any intention of invading England on any pretext whatsoever, they would have done so by now. Even when Philip of Spain had a perfectly valid excuse for invading England, he did not do so.”

  It was difficult to argue with that; the Duke of Alva and King Philip himself had been livid with anger when five of their ships, laden with Italian gold, had been driven by storms in the Channel to take shelter in English ports. The money they carried, eighty-five thousand pounds, was a loan to Philip of Spain by Genoese bankers for the pay, long overdue, of Alva’s troops in the Low Countries. England’s own exchequer being low on funds, Elizabeth, ascertaining that the money belonged to the Italians until Alva signed for it, seized the gold and assumed the loan. The Genoese bankers agreed that England’s credit was, at the time, better than Philip’s and were content with the arrangement. There had been some unpleasantness in consequence; Alva seized English assets in Holland and she had retaliated similarly in England. But no hostilities of a martial nature resulted, and the affair had soon blown over.

  Elizabeth had always striven to manage the affairs of England like a thrifty housewife. Financial solvency had seemingly never been a concern of any of her immediate predecessors, indeed, not since her Grandfather, Henry VII, sat on the throne. But it was of great concern to her, and she could have cried with vexation to realize that the northern rebellion had drained the exchequer of almost every ducat of the windfall of Italian gold. Execute Mary of Scotland, indeed! England literally could not afford to do so!

  “The treasury, my lords, is all but bare as a result of this uprising,” she said. “If we were to execute the Queen of Scots, we must be prepared for the consequences. Would any of you care to foot that bill? A forced loan from each of you to the crown, perhaps?”

  No one stirred; no one responded. Forced loans from the nobility were very unpopular; even more unpopular than taxes.

  “But Your Grace,” said Cecil, “what of the Protestant Lords? How shall they…”

  Elizabeth banged her fist down onto the table. “Let the Lords of the Congregation look to their own affairs, as I look to mine! I am weary of reigning over both England and Scotland! I, my lords, do not seek another’s crown, as does my perfidious, disloyal, treacherous, deceitful, untrue cousin!” Her eyes flashed and with every outburst, her leg throbbed with pain. She strove for calm; she leaned back in her chair and sipped her wine.

  “Now, my lords,” she said quietly. “Under what conditions would England agree to see my cousin restored to her throne?” She held up those extraordinary hands and began ticking the points off one by one on her fingers. “Her Grace must renounce all claim to the English throne, and ratify the Treaty of Edinburgh; Prince James must be sent to England as a hostage for my cousin’s good behavior; the Mass must be outlawed in Scotland, and the Protestant faith upheld; and Her Grace must agree not to remarry without my permission. Lastly, the castles of Dumbarton and Edinburgh must be garrisoned by English soldiers.” There was a time when Mary had indignantly refused to consider any conditions at all; but that time was past. Elizabeth believed that Mary must by now be desperate for her freedom, and likely would agree to anything to regain her liberty, let alone reclaim her crown. But she knew that the Protestant Lords of the Congregation would never agree to any of it, and that was her trump card.

  “Your Grace,” said Sir Henry Hastings, the Earl of Huntingdon. “I beg of you to reconsider. The Queen of Scots grew up petted and pampered at the French court and has no head for politics. She truly believes that her subjects have sinned grievously in rebelling against her as they did, and that their perfidy cancels out any misconduct on her own part. Her Grace cannot be trusted under any conditions; Your Grace will never be safe whilst Mary Stuart remains under house arrest in England, let alone on her throne in Scotland. It would be madness to place her there. Whether proof exists or not, it is well known that Her Grace had full knowledge of the uprising against Your Grace, and sought to gain your throne as well as her own. She is guilty, all know she is guilty, and she must be brought to the block. It is the only means by which to assure Your Grace’s safety, to protect the Protestant faith in both Scotland and England, and to guarantee the peace of the realm.” With that, the e
arl sat back and braced himself for a blast of royal anger.

  But Elizabeth only smiled and regarded each man in turn. England could not risk the execution of Mary Stuart, because she could not risk the possibility of an invasion by either Charles of France or Philip of Spain on Mary’s behalf; both had threatened to do so if the Queen of Scotland was not restored to her throne. Therefore, subterfuge was required; England must be seen to be taking steps to restore her cousin’s crown, now that Moray was dead.

  Elizabeth took a deep breath and another sip of her wine, and then she leaned back in her chair. Here was the final test of her strategy.

  “Have I convinced all of you, My Lords, that my policy is to restore my cousin to her throne?” Her question was met with stony silence. “Hah!” she cried, and then she slapped the table with the flat of her hand. Even Cecil was fooled! “Good!” she cried. “For if I have persuaded all of you that such is my intention, then the French and Spanish Ambassadors will likewise be convinced. I have no wish to call the bluff of either the king of France or the king of Spain, my lords. Placing my cousin back onto her throne would, of necessity, be a long, drawn-out process. There must needs be a lengthy period of preparation, followed by much negotiation.”

  Understanding dawned on some faces.

  “My lords, do you not see?” she cried. “The thing will take so long, that in the end, it will die a natural death. While I cringe at the thought of my cousin’s continued presence in my realm, I am resigned that there is no feasible alternative. Execution is certainly not one! We need peace, my lords. For peace means growing trade, lower taxes, and energy and money that would be expended on war being channeled into the pursuit of prosperity instead of destruction. We shall talk and talk of Mary Stuart’s restoration to the Scottish throne, but in the end we will accomplish nothing.” She was silent for a moment and then she said, “I made a promise to the Earl of Moray that I would never release the Queen of Scots. It is to England’s advantage to keep that promise, my lords. The fly in the honey is that we must keep Her Grace here in England, alive and unharmed.”