In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  The men unconsciously leaned back in their chairs and heaved a collective sigh of relief. This was the queen’s majesty at her best; acting one part, but playing another, and delay, delay, delay. Cecil, who knew her better than anyone, remarked wryly to himself that this strategy smacked strangely of all of Elizabeth’s past promises to marry.

  Sir Francis Walsingham was a silent sort of man; he rarely smiled, let alone laughed, and he spoke only when he needed to. He kept his own counsel. He fingered his beard, an unconscious action that helped him think more clearly when his mind worked to sort out information. That Mary Stuart was a threat to both Queen Elizabeth and the realm of England, he was in no doubt. He had heard all that was said and made his own decision; he would see to it that Parliament changed the Treason Laws so that any person, man or woman, English subject or not, who conspired to the harm of the queen or the realm would be subject to the most dire consequences: death. Such men...and women… would be executed not as martyrs to their faith but as traitors to England.

  And then he would make it his business to ensure that proof in plenty was found of Mary Stuart’s treachery.

  Chatsworth House, Derbyshire, May 1570

  “Oh!” cried Mary, as George Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury, with a grand flourish, knocked over her king with a flick of his bishop. He did not cry “Checkmate!” as he might have done, because he did not want to discourage the Queen of Scots from playing with him. Mary studied the board quizzically. “I thought for certain that this time, I should win. What did I do wrong?” she laughed.

  It was gratifying that the earl had succumbed completely to her charm. She had always known that he would, if only she could gain access to him; but Bess had always intervened, claiming that the earl could not be bothered with her, he was busy, or he was much engaged elsewhere. But as soon as word was received that Her Grace of Scotland was to be restored to her throne and was to be treated in a manner more befitting her status as a queen, the earl had insisted upon a closer acquaintance with the lady. With the result that he was now as much under her mysterious spell as Sir Richard, the Duke of Norfolk, or any of the other earls had been.

  As the Earl explained Mary’s deficient strategy and began resetting the chessmen for another game, Bess stabbed her needle into her canvas with such venom that she missed a stitch and had to withdraw it and begin again. There was a great deal wrong with the strategy of the Queen of Scots, and not just on the chessboard! The fact that she was here, an uninvited guest in their home, a veritable parasite, proved that!

  Bess looked over the top of her embroidery frame at the pair; their heads were bent together over the chessboard as George Talbot expounded on the incorrect moves Mary had made in the previous game, and how to avoid them in future. Bess had been born a yeoman’s daughter and was a self-made woman; but the urge at that moment to return to her roots and bite her thumb at Mary was overwhelming. She fought the impulse down. She was a lady now, and could not indulge in such guttersnipe conduct.

  Bess had been annoyed when informed by her husband that they must, until further notice, act as unofficial gaolers of the Scots queen for Elizabeth. But she had been well and truly vexed when she realized that this meant that she could no longer come and go as she pleased, or live where she wanted to. No, because, Mary Stuart must be kept under guard in a fortified castle! And so they had been forced to bide at gloomy Tutbury, forbidding Sheffield, uncomfortable Wingfield Manor…all owned by her husband, and all equally unsatisfactory. All through these months, since they had been saddled with this royal barnacle, she had pined for her beautiful Chatsworth.

  And finally, here they were, but on very dear terms. For the tables had turned, and with the assassination of the queen’s half-brother, it appeared that Mary Stuart was to be restored to her throne. But these things took time, of course. So now they were ensconced in the luxury of Chatsworth, and Mary had gone from being a pitiable refugee and unofficial prisoner to Queen Mary of Scotland for whom nothing was too good. Now Her Grace of Scotland must have the best bedroom, the finest food, expensive French wines. And just as Bess had predicted in Coventry, there had been not so much as a farthing in reimbursement from Elizabeth. There was talk of an allowance to defray the expense to which the Shrewsburys were daily being subjected for Queen Mary’s upkeep, but so far that was all it was…talk. And with Mary’s imminent restoration to the throne of Scotland, now it was all, “Yes, Your Grace; No, Your Grace; Let me kiss your arse, Your Grace!” It was too much to be borne. And no end in sight!

  Most galling of all was that although Bess had succeeded early in their ordeal in winnowing Mary’s suite of retainers and hangers-on to the barest minimum, now, with the elevation of her status, most of them were straggling back. There had been so few of Mary’s suite when they first arrived at Chatsworth that meals could be taken in the Small Dining Room. Now so many of them had returned to Mary’s service that supper this evening must needs be taken in the Great Hall. The ducats were simply flying out the window!

  “Oh, Your Grace, really!” cried Lord George. “Now I must believe that you are letting me win. No one loses at chess in only two moves.”

  Mary stared helplessly at the chessboard. “I seem to have no head for the game,” she said with a shrug of her elegant shoulders and an apologetic smile. “Come, let us play nobbin.”

  And that, thought Bess acidly, was a gross understatement. Mary of Scotland was no strategist, and never would be. Did not her present circumstances bear that out? She was impulsive, rash, and no planner. Stupid woman! It was no wonder she had come to grief! In order to win at chess, or in life, for that matter, one must constantly be three or four moves ahead of one’s opponent.

  Lord George shook his head regretfully. “There will be no more games for me this day,” he said, with a hangdog expression. “I fear me that I must spend an hour with my accounts before supper.” Bess was very thorough; she tallied all the accounts first and then expected him to check them for accuracy. He knew better than to point out her rare error; he simply fixed it and then gave his assent to her reckoning. Thus was the peace kept!

  “Come, Your Grace,” said Bess sweetly. “The afternoon light is perfect for embroidery. Let us ply our needles together before supper, whilst the Earl dallies with his tally sticks.” Bess was a past master at knowing on which side her bread was buttered; for now, she must appear to be delighted that she had been given the honor of being bled white, and for the privilege of spending their own precious money on Mary Stuart. She had changed her demeanor to Mary, if not her true attitude, as soon as the order had come from Elizabeth to begin showing the Queen of Scotland all due respect. But to make up for this infuriating, incessant kowtowing she was now called upon to demonstrate, she railed mercilessly at George in the privacy of their rooms at every opportunity. Venting her spleen at her husband was the only way to relieve her anger at the whole sorry situation.

  Mary groaned inwardly; the afternoon light beckoned to her in quite a different manner. Oh, to ride, to hunt, to be out of doors on such a day! But now that she was once again truly a guest instead of a prisoner, one must be polite to one’s host and hostess. And even though her status had been elevated, there was still an unspoken caution about how she was to be treated. Had she expressed a desire to ride, she would have been permitted to, but not without a full complement of men to escort her. She had found, even with her new status, that there was a fine line between being under house arrest and being provided with the protection deemed necessary for the safety of a queen.

  In any case, it was too late in the day now to raise such an expedition; perhaps tomorrow.

  Mary settled in to a comfortable chair with her embroidery. Bess was right about the light; never had Mary seen such an extraordinary sight as Chatsworth in the golden afternoon sun. Bess had seen to every detail of the place, from the digging of the ornamental fish ponds to the glazing of the multitudes of glass windows, the panes having come from Bess’s own glass works. Here was no d
reary castle, but a manor house of extraordinary beauty. The house itself rivalled any palace that Mary had ever seen, even in her beloved France. And the gardens and grounds were exquisite.

  Mary regarded Bess speculatively as she sewed. Here was a woman who had not only met her cousin of England, but who had once been one of her ladies for a time, when she was married to Lord St. Loe. She longed to meet her cousin; she had always felt that had she been allowed to see and speak with Elizabeth face to face, that the same charm that had ensnared so many others would have worked its magic on her. Perhaps Elizabeth believed that, too, and that was why she would not consent to a meeting, and continued to persist doggedly in this resolve.

  They stitched in silence for a while and then Mary asked, “What is she like, my cousin of England?”

  Bess was a literal person without imagination about people; it was places and things that she loved. The question confounded her for a moment. “What is she like,” repeated Bess blankly. Her opinion that the Queen of England was a brash harridan who owed her money certainly could not be shared! “She has a keen wit,” Bess replied. “And the temperament of her forebears.” A compliment and an accurate observation that anyone might have made.

  “I have heard,” said Mary casually as she threaded her needle, “that my cousin possesses extraordinary vanity.”

  “That is so,” replied Bess. Again, a fact that few would have disputed.

  The conversation was in danger of dying from inanition when Mary was suddenly visited by a brilliant inspiration. One should not expect to get without giving; what did she have to give that would inspire the iron-willed Bess to discuss the queen with her? That Bess was completely immune to her charm was disappointing and vaguely annoying. But if there was one thing that she knew about the Countess of Shrewsbury, it was that she could be bought. How many times had she overheard Bess…she suspected purposely…ranting and raving about what her upkeep was costing them? And now, at long last, she finally had some money.

  There was no longer any excuse not to send her dower rents from France directly to her; it was her own money and Queen Catherine should never have been sending it to her brother to begin with. But with the Earl of Moray dead and in his grave, and Elizabeth overseeing the negotiations with the Protestant Lords of the Congregation for her restoration to her throne, the money was now coming directly to her.

  Mary laid down her needle. “Good Bess,” she said sweetly. “I fear me that I am a mighty burden to you and the earl all this while.”

  The Queen of Scotland seemed to have a commendable grasp for the obvious, thought Bess sourly. “That is so,” she replied. It was an ungracious answer, but there it was. She was nothing if not honest and she had never made any claims to diplomacy.

  Mary regarded Bess owlishly. “You and the earl must permit me to make amends when my funds arrive.”

  Bess visibly brightened, and the perpetual expression of disdain that she wore lifted a bit.

  “I wonder why,” persisted Mary, “the queen does not marry? I know that the English Parliament and her Council have never ceased urging Her Grace to do so. And of course,” she said in a whisper, even though they were alone in the grand room, “the Earl of Leicester importunes her as well.” And perhaps a little flattery might serve to open Bess’s lips? “I am certain that there are none who know the queen as well as you do.”

  It was true, she had been close to Elizabeth at one time, and had known the queen well. But for Bess, that intimacy had ended when Elizabeth threw her into the Tower for her supposed complicity in the clandestine marriage of the Lady Catherine Grey. It was so unfair, so unjust! The witless baggage had come to her, in the middle of the night, blabbering her tale of woe and begging for help. Bess had refused to have anything to do with the worthless chit and had gone straight to the queen and told her what was afoot; that her cousin had married without royal permission and was expecting a child. Elizabeth assumed that Bess had been a party to the whole plot, had gotten cold feet, and in fear for her own life, had betrayed her cousin’s trust. Elizabeth had turned cold, deaf ears to Bess’s vehement denials. It was not until later that Elizabeth believed that she had had nothing to do with the whole sorry episode and released her. But Bess had had a good scare, and had never forgiven the queen for her rush to judgment.

  She eyed Mary speculatively over her embroidery frame. Unless she missed her guess, here was another one such as Catherine Grey. Mary was a queen, it was true, but she seemed just as witless as the Grey chit. She, Bess, had started from humble beginnings and was now the second richest woman in England after the queen; Mary Stuart had been a queen since she was six days old, but now here she was under house arrest in a foreign land, to which she had had to flee after losing her kingdom. So who was the better woman?

  And what harm was there in a good gossip, thought Bess.

  Bess smiled her cat’s smile and threaded her needle anew. “There is much speculation on the matter of the queen’s refusal to marry,” she said. “Most believe that the queen refuses to marry because she knows herself to be barren.”

  Mary’s eyes glittered with malice. At last, someone who would share rumor and conjecture with her about her queenly cousin! Mary looked around her, even though the room was still empty of anyone save themselves, and then she leaned forward conspiratorially. In barely a whisper she said, “Why would she believe such a thing? How could she know it? Is it true, then, that the queen and the Earl of Leicester are lovers?”

  Bess shrugged. “No one knows for certain, of course. But it has been many years now since the queen ascended the throne. And Her Grace and the earl are as close as ever. There could be many reasons for this. But methinks that one of them is that he must get some favors from the queen. And the earl’s name has never been linked with any other woman, barring a brief, and some say unfounded rumor, that he once dallied with the queen’s cousin Lettice.”

  Mary narrowed her eyes. “I remember the talk,” she said. “That must have been four years ago, or more. Lettice was with child at the time, was she not?”

  “Indeed, yes,” said Bess authoritatively. “But the child does seem to bear a fortunate, if disappointing, resemblance to his father, the Viscount Hereford!”

  Mary laughed. “How providential!”

  “And,” said Bess, warming to her subject, “let us not forget that her own father murdered her mother! That would be enough to put any woman off of matrimony!” Too late Bess realized that before her sat a woman who had only just recently been accused of murdering her own husband; a rarity for her, she blushed scarlet.

  But Mary was too enrapt with the first intimate discussion she had ever had with anyone about her enigmatic cousin to realize Bess’s faux pas. “Yes, I suppose that would put one off!” she replied with a smile.

  It was not until the golden light streaming in through the windows began to wane that the tête-à-tête between them tapered off and finally died. During that time Mary and Bess discovered that despite their mutual but unspoken dislike for each other, they got on well enough together while they sewed and gossiped about others…especially about the Queen of England. Both women harbored an inferred antipathy for Elizabeth that found an outlet in their unlikely alliance over their embroidery frames.

  ###

  Supper in the Great Hall was a crowded, noisy affair. The Earl of Shrewsbury rather enjoyed entertaining, and begrudged the expense far less than he let on to his wife. After all, for all her harping and complaining, the cost to maintain Mary of Scotland had so far been borne out of his own purse, not Bess’s. But he understood that regardless of whose pounds and pence were being assailed, Bess looked upon their joint funds as her own and was therefore affronted.

  Mary was in her element in the Great Hall. As a royal person, she was seated at the cross table that transected the two great wings of other diners. As her host and hostess, the Earl was placed on her right hand and Bess on her left, presumably the places of most honor.

  Bess was annoye
d to notice that for the better part of the meal, Lord George spent most of his time facing Mary and listening to her inane conversation. She would have something to say to him about that later! About the fact that Mary’s hand lay for most of the meal on the Earl’s arm she could say or do nothing. Suddenly the recent chess games in the solar flashed through Bess’s mind. Mary was, in her estimation, the very antithesis of clever; and nobody had ever yet gotten the better of Bess of Hardwick…and Mary of Scotland was not going to be the first to do so!

  Penshurst Place, Kent, July 1570

  In the remote areas between villages the sounds of a large party traveling on the road did not exactly fall into silence, but rather into an interesting quiet; horses nickered and neighed, their harness jingled and the steady clip-clop of hooves could be heard. Cicadas buzzed in the bracken and the banks of yellow gorse, and the birdsong was as lovely as any church chorus. The day was warm and had it been still, might have been unpleasant; but the delightful breeze that blew in from the east kept the heat from feeling oppressive.

  Elizabeth had always felt that the county of Kent was England at its best, with its unusual oast houses for drying hops, and charming windmills. She stuck her head out of the window, that she might better see the meadows filled with yellow buttercups, laced with wild red poppies and purple scabious. Fields of golden-green hops waved in the wind. As they made their way south to Penshurst from Igtham, the ancient forests of the High Weald appeared. At the edges of the trees there bloomed the delicate white and lime-green lily-of-the-valley, making a stark contrast to the dark green of the shady woods; its perfume wafted over them on the breeze.