And with that he bowed stiffly and walked from the room without so much as a backward glance.
###
The pearly mist that had lain over the valley at sunrise had dissipated by the time Cecil mounted his horse and left Sheffield Manor behind him. The sweet scent of hay lingered on the air as he rode ever southward. The birds sang sweetly and every now and then a rook cawed in an unguarded cornfield. Peace lay on the land, for which he was profoundly grateful. He spared a regret for the unsettled north, and for the border region between England and Scotland, where constant strife had become a way of life; and for southeast England, where the threat, if not the reality, of invasion ever laid its shadow. But as he crossed the border from South Yorkshire into the Midlands, he reflected that here all was peace and plenty. Nothing must ever threaten this green and pleasant land.
Henceforth, under no circumstances should anyone be allowed to visit Mary Stuart without the express approval of the queen; she should be allowed no correspondence. Did not Satan make it his business to tempt the weak with promises of joy, beauty and fulfillment? Had he not himself longed to slide peacefully under the waves and succumb to her siren song? Mary Stuart, to him, was evil personified; he believed her to be an instrument of the devil, and her inexplicable charm was the bait that enticed the unwary and the unsuspecting into error, ruin, and death. That she seemed unaware of her despicable role made matters even worse. And he knew that she was not without temper or malice, despite her quiet way and gentle manner. He had heard of her avowals of bloodthirsty revenge from Nicholas Throckmorton, and that she had funded a pension for James Hamilton, the man who killed her brother.
Yet even now, he could not help feeling a pang of envy for the men who had bedded her; she seemed able to work her evil spell even when one was not in her presence. But hard on the heels of envy there was pity; he could feel little but sympathy for Darnley, foully murdered, moldering in his grave; for Bothwell, who now languished insane in a Danish prison.
And what of the scores of men who had simply desired her without fulfillment? Those poor souls lay in their tombs, rotted in gibbets, wasted away in prison or dungeon, or lived in penurious exile; think of Norfolk, in the dreaded Tower! He understood now what had happened to these poor unfortunates; they had simply been hit with that ball of fire that was Mary Stuart’s life force, and engulfed in its flames before they even knew what was happening to them. They had succumbed without a fight, had gone gladly to their ruin. And likely would do no differently given a second chance! It was a pathetic shame.
Shame! There was that word again; it had been much on his mind. He had departed Sheffield feeling such shame, and it was an emotion that he had never felt before. It would be a rare man who could walk through Mary Stuart’s fire and emerge unscathed. He had not; his nerves were still raw and he wondered if he would ever recover his complacent peace of mind. But he knew that he had had a lucky escape from temptation, and he intended to make the most of this divine deliverance. That he had been allowed to experience the blackest evil whilst still being able to see it for what it was and avoid it, was a gift from God, and one that he meant to put to good use.
The Council had been right all those months ago; Mary Stuart must die if Elizabeth was to live and reign in safety.
Chapter 15
“To be a king and wear a crown is more glorious to them that
see it than it is a pleasure to them that bear it.”
-Elizabeth I
Sheffield Castle, South Yorkshire, February 1571
M ary stared expressionlessly at the chessboard for so long that Lord Shrewsbury began to suspect that her mind had wandered, once again, from the game. But just as he was about to break the silence, she lifted her arm, seized a rook, made her move, and said, in a barely audible voice, “Checkmate.”
In the long months since Cecil’s visit the past summer, Lord George had sought to distract Mary’s troubled mind by persisting in his tuition of her chess game; but it seemed now that she had surpassed him. Checkmating with a rook was one of the more difficult strategies in chess.
He sighed. Perhaps it was his own mind that was wandering. If it were, it would be no great wonder. Bess never ceased railing at him these days, and the ever-present stress of once again being Mary’s gaoler instead of simply her host, caused his nerves to be constantly raw and on edge. He stole a look at her as she reset the game board. She was beautiful, despite the shadows under her eyes and her downcast expression. Gone was the merry, confident queen and in her place was this apathetic wraith.
It was unfortunate that Bess had conceived the notion that he had fallen in love with Mary; from there it was no great distance to assuming that they were lovers. But Christ on the Cross, he thought to himself, where and when should such a thing even be possible under Bess’s eagle eye? He was charmed by the Queen of Scots, to be sure; but still, he had always striven to maintain a prudent manner where she was concerned, and that did not include envisioning himself in her arms. His contemplations of Mary’s strange allure, restricted by his limited imagination, were pure and tended towards the chivalrous. But Bess’s constant harping on the subject had at last drawn a picture in his mind that now would not be removed. This fantasy troubled him, and served only to add to the tension in the castle. He dare not act upon such a fancy; but now it haunted him, waking and sleeping.
He looked up and realized that the board had long since been reset and that Mary was staring down at it wordlessly. What a pair they made! He was just about to make his opening gambit when a commotion outside the door to the queen’s sitting room diverted his attention.
The door opened and Seton rushed in, her face flushed and her manner hesitant and uncertain. Lord George had rarely seen Seton flustered, but she appeared so now. She even forgot to curtsey before addressing the queen.
Mary looked up with a wan smile. “Yes, dear Seton,” she said. “What is it?”
“If it please Your Grace,” she said, “the Bishop of Ross is here. That is, he has just arrived at the castle. And begs an audience with Your Grace.” Her eyes glittered expectantly. Surely this must be good news?
Mary was allowed no visitors without the express permission of Queen Elizabeth; she looked doubtfully at Lord George.
To see her so uncertain of herself, she, who used to be so airy and confident, smote his heart. “I will go and see what is afoot, Your Grace,” he said.
Mary nodded and turned away apathetically. The Bishop of Ross was her ambassador to the English court; no doubt Elizabeth had sent him to harangue her once more to acknowledge her abdication and her father-in-law’s regency of Scotland. Never!
She gazed out of the window. The day was waning and the watery sun, never very strong at this time of year, was pale yellow behind wisps of gray clouds. Her only view was of the steep hillside upon the very top of which stood the alder trees under which she had received Cecil so many months ago. The trees were all leafless and bare now, and the hillside was barren and brown with last summer’s dead bracken. A dismal sight indeed! She was certain that Bess had chosen these rooms for her because of their dreary and depressing view.
But what did it matter? What did anything matter now? She was alone except for Seton and Willie, and the few servants necessary to her comfort. A queen, even a deposed one, could not be without some service; Seton refused to leave her, and even when she sent Willie away to join George in France, he had become ill on the road to Hartlepool, where he was to embark, and had returned to the castle. And then refused to leave. The only reason her other servants were allowed to stay was because she paid them herself out of her French dower rents; without them, even the most menial tasks would have fallen to Seton and Willie.
Her gaolers now provided little in the way of upkeep for her; rather, the boot was now on the other foot. Elizabeth had at last begun to send a stipend, and combined with the contribution of her own funds, Bess had no choice but to cease carping about money. Instead, the Countess now kept up a runnin
g invective concerning Lord George’s supposed infatuation for her. Bess was anything but subtle, and the situation had become embarrassing for everyone. But the earl was steadfast in his attentions to her, claiming that it was his duty to see her well-cared for and comfortable. Pushed too far one day, he had even told Bess that if the sight of him performing his duty was distasteful to her, then she had his leave to go back to Chatsworth. Bess had responded to that suggestion with a hearty guffaw. As if she would leave him alone to pursue his passion for the Queen of Scots!
Mary’s reverie was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Seton bobbed a curtsey, announced Lord Shrewsbury and the Bishop of Ross, and withdrew. Lord George had expected the arrival of the bishop to light Mary’s eyes, but at the sight of her ambassador, she simply maintained the glum expression that was her perpetual mien these days.
Lord George bowed and withdrew, leaving the two of them alone together.
###
Mary forced a smile, held out her hand, and said, “It has been a very long time, Father. I hope I see you well.” Perhaps he would hear her confession while he was there; for all Elizabeth’s bleating about tolerance, she was allowed no priest and had not heard Mass since her days at Carlisle.
John Lesley, the Bishop of Ross, was one of her most steadfast supporters. He was one of those who had accompanied her from France to Scotland after François died; he had been a privy councilor, and had served as one of her commissioners at the Tribunal at York. He now served as her ambassador at the English court, where, good man, he never ceased to complain of the injustice done to her by her cousin. If he was here to importune her to ratify her abdication and to confirm the Earl of Lennox in his regency, she must not mind. It was likely the only way that Elizabeth had agreed to allow him to visit her.
The Archbishop kissed her hand and was about to seat himself when he noticed that the fire was burning low. He seized the poker, stabbed at the logs, which flared brightly, and then sat down across from her; she had abandoned the game table near the window, with its bleak view, and now sat in a chair near the hearth, her chin on her hand and a faraway look in her eyes.
“I am well, Your Grace,” he said. “But I cannot say the same for you. You are thin and pale. Have they allowed you no exercise? Have you enough to eat?”
Strange questions to be asking a queen, she reflected wryly. Mary laughed, and the sensation was a strange one. She could not recall when the last time was that she had felt at all merry. Bishop Lesley was a blunt, straightforward man, traits that she much admired; raised in the subtlety of the French court, she had at first found his forthright manner unnerving, but she had come to appreciate how much time such an approach could save. And it often afforded her an occasion for amusement.
“I have little appetite,” she replied, with a shrug. “Which is perhaps a good thing, since I have been allowed no exercise since being removed from the manor house to the castle. The Countess begrudged me every mouthful when my desire for food was keen; but now that I am receiving my dower money from France, I pay my own way. It is indeed ironic that I have little desire for food now that I have such plenty at my disposal!”
The bishop fingered his beard. “The queen has dismissed me from court,” he said.
Mary’s mouth formed itself into a round “o” of astonishment. “Dismissed…? But then who shall speak for me at the English court? Why, dismissed?”
He searched her face; his beady black eyes and hooked nose reminded her of a bird of prey.
“According to the Queen of England,” he said, cocking one of his formidable bushy eyebrows, “a deposed queen is in no need of representation at court. I protested, but Her Grace would have none of it. I begged leave to repair here to Your Grace to inform you of the situation, and she said I could go to the devil as far as she was concerned. But the queen is a stickler for protocol; a few days later the warrant arrived at my lodgings at Holborn granting, and I quote,” he said sarcastically, “‘The Bishop of Ross, erstwhile ambassador to the deposed Queen of Scotland, permission to attend an audience with his sovereign lady, and for Her Grace to likewise receive her minion, so that she may be informed of his status.’ The cheeky chit!” Had he not been addressing the queen herself, he would have spat into the fire in his contempt.
The bishop was relieved to observe the spark of anger ignite in Mary’s eyes. It was evident from her demeanor that her reduced circumstances had caused her to fall prey to despair and lethargy, those deadly sins. Such attitudes could be lethal in that they robbed the mind of the will to live and the body of its vitality. He needed the strong, impulsive warrior queen with whom he was so familiar, if his schemes for her were to succeed. He could see that if she were left to languish in her apathy much longer, that she would lapse into such a state of melancholy as would resemble little more than a living death.
It shall not be, he declared to himself. It must not be! For even though he was a bishop, a man of God’s Holy Church, he, like so many others, had fallen prey to Mary’s allure. But his dreams of her were not of a physical nature; they involved seeing her back on the throne of Scotland and, God willing, that of England, too. She had failed before, yes, but he believed that her failure had been inevitable with a Protestant government already in place by law in Scotland when she arrived from France all those years ago, and an ambitious bastard brother to contend with. Well, Moray was no more, and laws could be changed. But to proceed, he needed both her consent to, and her active participation in, his plans.
He regarded her dispassionately for a moment. The fire was still there, smoldering in her eyes. Now was the time to strike, while the iron was hot. He leaned forward, his hands planted firmly on his knees.
“England has fallen into a dreadful state for loyal Catholics,” he said. “A decree has been issued by Elizabeth demanding that all English Catholics living abroad return to England or suffer forfeiture of their goods. Crucifixes and rosaries have been outlawed. Heavy fines are to be levied upon those who refuse to attend the heretic services. Anyone bringing a papal bull into England shall be adjudged a traitor and will suffer the traitor’s death. And now a Parliament is to be called from which all Catholics are to be excluded.” The bishop shifted in his chair. “If things are allowed to go on in this manner much longer, I fear me that the heretics will soon take to wholesale murder.”
Despite the now blazing fire on the hearth, Mary shuddered. She was not so young that she could not remember the dreadful burnings of Queen Mary’s reign. Perhaps the Protestants now wanted their revenge. Her eyes filled with tears.
“A dreadful state of affairs indeed,” she replied. Then suddenly she smote the arm of her chair with a loud smack of her hand. “Oh, if only I were free! If only there were ought that I could do!”
Bishop Lesley sat back, crossed his legs, steepled his fingers under his chin and narrowed his eyes.
“You must help them, Your Grace,” he said. His eyes were riveted on her and in the reflection of the firelight, seemed to glow like burning coals.
Mary’s eyes grew wide with astonishment. “I, help them?” she cried. “But what can I do, imprisoned here in this dreary castle as though I were a criminal? ‘Honorable confinement’, indeed!” she cried on a sob. For such was what Elizabeth called it!
“Ah,” he replied quietly. “But there is much that Your Grace can do. Elizabeth is no queen; she is bastard, heretic, tyrant and usurper. The persecuted Catholics of England and Scotland look to Your Grace for deliverance from their woes. There is a way. Elizabeth will never keep her promises to you. Your Grace’s liberation can only be gained by looking elsewhere.”
Mary leapt from her chair with the grace of a cat; despite the lack of exercise which plagued her so, she was still lithe and lissome. She began pacing the room. To witness the return of her nervous energy was encouraging. Here was the queen he needed! The indifferent, dispirited creature who had greeted his arrival would not be of any assistance to him, if his plans were to come to fruition.
He wanted revenge upon the bastard English queen; he wanted to see the true faith restored to both Scotland and England.
Mary stopped her wild pacing and slammed the flat of her hand down onto the table beside her chair. “Then my good sister and cousin surely must pardon me,” she said bitterly, “if she will refuse to further my cause, and I turn in my desperate need to foreign princes to effect my freedom! For that, surely, is the only way.”
The bishop nodded his head. “Indeed,” he said. He glanced nervously towards the door. “Your Grace, I fear me that our time may be running short. Does Your Grace recall Roberto Ridolfi?”
“Indeed I do,” she said excitedly. “The Florentine. He is an agent of Pope Pius. He brought funds into England that the pope contributed to the rising in the north. Fully twelve thousand crowns, if I remember. Is he not in the Tower for his trouble?”
The bishop snorted. “He is as slippery as eel,” he said, somewhat fondly. “Ridolfi has managed to exonerate himself. A most careful man, and one whom, I believe, can be trusted. Try as they might, neither Burghley nor Walsingham were able to find any evidence of his activities in support of the Northern Rebellion.”
Mary cocked her head questioningly. “I am sorry, whom?”
The Bishop of Ross shook his head. “I forgot me,” he said bitterly, “that Your Grace is a reigning queen falsely imprisoned and kept from her throne! Do they tell you nothing? Cecil was raised to the peerage as Baron Burghley of Stamford not two weeks since.”
Mary narrowed her eyes. Cecil had served Elizabeth for years, since before she became queen; why ennoble him now, out of the blue, as it were? Cecil had been drawn to her, she was sure of it; his hurried departure from Sheffield and his hateful parting words indicated as much. He was charmed by her, but despised himself for it. He seemed as if he had aged ten years between his arrival and his departure. An interesting reaction to her allure…and one that Elizabeth had recognized and rewarded!
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