In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

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  Mary’s face was flushed from the short walk back to her rooms from the garden. Although the color made her look healthy, Lord George knew that this was far from true. He remembered well hearing tales of the days when the Queen of Scots could tire three horses at the hunt, outshoot her contemporaries at the archery butts, and still have the energy to dance until the wee hours. It smote his heart to see her so changed from the lively, healthy creature who had been given into his charge so many years ago. And now a short walk could make her breathless!

  He watched as Mary approached the cage with the songbird in it that he had given her just after Kinsey’s death. He had felt that the time was not yet right to present her with another pup; he had thought the idea of a bird to be a splendid one. She seemed to enjoy caring for animals, and the bird would suffice until she had recovered enough from Kinsey’s demise for him to give her another little dog.

  The day he had presented the bird to her, she had thanked him well enough but had regarded him strangely for a moment as she accepted the little wicker cage. And then he had turned so red that she asked him if he was all right. He had never, to his certain knowledge, blushed in his life, but he did so at that moment. To give a person who was a prisoner, a bird in a cage! It had not been deliberate; there had been no intentional wish to hurt, as there would have been had Bess presented the captive Queen of Scotland with a caged bird, but he was embarrassed nonetheless. He had only wished to please her, and had thoughtlessly taunted her.

  But after the puzzled expression left her face, Mary had only smiled and made much of the little bird, who was already singing its heart out for the beautiful queen.

  “What is troubling you, My Lord?” asked Mary. She had been filling the little bowl in the cage with fresh water from a flagon, waiting for him to speak. He did not do so, indeed, the look in his eyes made her think that his thoughts were far away.

  He had done her no favor by waiting so long to tell her; and now that he had insinuated himself into her presence, the swift cut was best. He took a deep breath.

  “Sir William Kirkcaldy of Grange has been executed, and Sir William Maitland of Lethington has died in prison, Your Grace,” he said.

  Stupid, clumsy oaf! He thought to himself. The queen blanched, swayed, and fell backwards; thankfully, it was into the chair next to the bird cage.

  “Oh, Your Grace,” he cried. “I am sorry. I…”

  Mary looked up at him with haunted eyes. “How long have you known?”

  The truth was always best. “Three days,” he replied, like a chastened school boy.

  The tears welled up in her eyes. “My poor Fleming!” she cried.

  How very like Mary, he thought. Her first thought was not for herself, or for her own heartbreak at the news, but for Mary Fleming, one of her Four Maries, who was the wife of Maitland of Lethington.

  Lord George walked to the sideboard and poured two goblets of wine; he handed one wordlessly to Mary. He had requested that even Seton wait in the outer chamber whilst he broke the news. A valuable lesson that he had learned from being married to Bess was that sometimes, silence was best. He was silent now. He sat in the chair opposite Mary’s and sipped his wine.

  Mary stared out of the window, the slow tears cascading down her cheeks. Sir William Kirkcaldy had served her father and been a thorn in the side of her mother; Kirkcaldy had opposed her marriages to both Darnley and Bothwell. He had sided with Moray at the time of the Chaseabout Raid, and for his defiance of his queen, had been forced for a time to seek refuge in England. But he had fought for her at Carberry Hill, and it was he to whom she had surrendered herself on that fateful day, knowing that with him she would be safe from her enemies. It was he who had led her down the hill to face her brother, and he who had protected her on that nightmare ride into Edinburgh. It was the Scottish way to change sides; she must not mind. But was it not this seeming inability to remain loyal to a single ideal, this tendency to follow one’s heart instead of one’s sovereign, that would doom Scotland forever from being able to unite and stand alone as a sovereign nation?

  She sighed, and used her linen square to dab at her eyes and nose.

  Lord George longed to reach a hand out to her, to comfort her, but he dared not.

  The little songbird in his cage bobbed and weaved and jumped, and sang very sweetly. Even in her extremity, Mary spared a moment for the little bird, and touched his cage with gentle fingers.

  Still the slow tears fell, making crystal tracks on her cheeks, as she turned her thoughts to Maitland. Sir William Maitland of Lethington had served her loyally as secretary; he had acquitted himself well as her ambassador to Elizabeth’s court.

  It was true that he was one of those who had conspired to poor Davey’s death, but she had been true to her vow and forgiven him. He had repaid her for this redemption many times over the years of her confinement in England by constantly acting in her interests and forming a party to restore her to power in Scotland. It was this that had resulted in his presence in Edinburgh Castle, and had led to his capture and death.

  She dropped her head into her hands, but made no sound. Without looking up she said softly, “So much death. And all my fault.”

  As much as he loved her, he was still a man of high principle; what she said was true and he would not contradict her. Did not his own fate hang in the balance because of the Queen of Scotland? He was banished from the court as long as it was the queen’s pleasure that he serve as Mary Stuart’s goaler; his marriage was all but wrecked because of Bess’s fanatical jealousy of the queen, and her vile accusations about his intentions towards his charge; and God help him, she was right and it was true. He loved the Queen of Scotland. But he dared not let it be known by word or deed. He was alive, and where there was life, there was hope; but Mary had ruined his life as surely as she had any of the men who were now moldering in their graves in her cause.

  Perhaps those who believed there to be something uncanny about the Queen of Scotland were right.

  As if she had read his thoughts, Mary extended her hand, cool and soft, and laid it gently upon his own.

  “Poor Lord George,” she said, the tears still glistening on her lashes. “I have ruined everything for you, have I not? I am sorry.”

  “Oh, Your Grace,” he replied. “Pray do not trouble yourself over me when there are such friends to be mourned.”

  Mary shook her head. “No. It is true. You are ever required to be the messenger to me of evil tidings. Alas! From this day forth, I shall never hear or speak of Scotland more.”

  Chapter 19

  “The country was full of men who thought that they could make a

  better job of leading it; but all accepted that, for His own

  inscrutable reasons, God had entrusted that task to Elizabeth.”

  -David Loades, Elizabeth I

  Greenwich Palace, December 1573

  E lizabeth sat in the alcove that was the most pleasant place in her privy closet, because it afforded her a view of the gardens and the river beyond. A ship’s bell clanged in the distance. She could just make out the keening of the seagulls she could see riding on the air, their wings outstretched and unmoving in the stiff breeze. The weather had been fine for most of December, and then, just before the Christmas revels began, a biting wind swept across England from the northeast. With it came the snow. But she did not mind; it should be cold in the wintertime. It was the natural order of things.

  Outside, the gardeners were busy at their work, harvesting the orange and red rose hips from the hundreds of rose bushes that graced her view from the palace. The sight of them brought to mind rose-scented snowball fights, one of the purposes to which the rosehips would be put. After the snowball fight, her golden warming ball would be prepared for her; inside the intricately wrought double walls hid a glowing coal wrapped in a thickly greased woolen cloth. Many people pined for spring, and she loved all the seasons; but wintertime was her secret favorite.

  All of th
is brought her thoughts back to the Christmas before, when she had stood at her window at Hampton Court Palace, gazing out over a scene very much like this one, and waiting for Robert to come to escort her into the Great Hall. That was when she had drawn, for the second time, what Robert claimed was an erroneous conclusion about him and Lettice. But her instincts were usually right. And now, in her hand, she held a document that would, once and for all, settle the matter. Walsingham had developed for her, at his own expense, a highly effective network of spies, not only at foreign courts, but at her own. With this result. She eyed the document warily; part of her longed to pounce upon it without delay and the other part of her was reluctant to read it and know the worst.

  She laid the missive aside and cupped her chin in her hand. The sounds of the keening sea gulls and the ship’s bells were joined by the banter and laughter of the gardeners as they went about their task. She sighed, and tears welled up in her eyes, blurring the view outside the window into a shimmering medley of colors and shapes. It was an open secret at court that Robert was indulging in an affair. The only question was, with whom? She had always thought that such a thing would make her angry, but to her great surprise, it did not. It made her very, very, sad.

  Her Good Moor, Sir Francis Walsingham, had returned home from France the previous spring. For his loyal service and to compensate him for his harrowing ordeal in Paris at the time of the great massacre, she appointed him to the Privy Council and made him her Principal Secretary.

  And that was another thing. Poor Cecil was feeling both his gout and his years. She had no wish to push him into the grave, and so she had relieved him of the onerous task of serving as her chief minister. Walsingham now held that post. When Sir William Paulet, the Marquess of Winchester, had died recently at the unheard-of age of eighty-nine years, she appointed Cecil to take his place. Lord Treasurer was also a difficult post to fill, but it was far less arduous than acting as her Principal Secretary. The thought of Cecil growing old and infirm smote her heart, and made her eyes fill with tears once again. But she had to smile through them when she recalled Cecil’s recent complaint that so far, he had been relieved of nothing; he now functioned as both treasurer and secretary, between Walsingham’s quest for knowledge and her own reluctance to adjust to the changed situation which she herself had wrought. But things would settle down eventually.

  Her eyes strayed to where she had laid Walsingham’s report. She knew that all of these ponderings and reflections were merely a stalling tactic. As queen, she was often called upon to dissemble, to mislead…to lie. But one must never lie to one’s self. The letter must be read. She reached for it.

  She studied Walsingham’s red seal on the parchment. A piece of it had chipped away, and she worked idly at the remainder with her fingernail. She knew the worth of her new secretary of state, her sly, clever Moor. He never shied away from telling her that which she needed to hear, whether she wanted to hear it or not. And forsooth, he was none too gentle about it sometimes, either! This was especially true where religion was concerned. Indeed, how could it not be, after his harrowing experience in Paris? She disliked fanatics, but Walsingham was not really that; he simply had strong opinions about what ought to be done. She knew that he and Cecil were in league together to convince her to take the offensive on the religious issue. But their counsel must be seen for what it was; most men were warlike, and so made wars. Her own point of view on ruling England, and seeing to its weal, was that of a thrifty housewife. There was a vast gulf between such philosophies, and she had no intention of changing her position on the matter. This difference in viewpoint placed her at odds with many of the men on her Council. But God, in his inscrutable wisdom, had placed the welfare of England into her hands, and no other’s. She would do as she saw fit.

  She had been thinking moments before that one might lie to all and sundry as the occasion warranted, but it was hardly wise to deceive one’s self. Facts must be faced and dealt with most carefully, especially where religion was concerned. While it was true that she had been able to strike a remarkably successful balance in England between the Protestants and the Catholics, it was becoming evident that this compromise was breaking down. She was aware, thanks to Good Walsingham, that an alarming number of Catholic priests were entering England uninvited. While this was bothersome, Walsingham’s very efficient network of spies had confirmed that, so far at least, their purpose seemed to be less to proselytize than to see to the spiritual needs of England’s existing Catholics. As far as she was concerned, if their purpose was indeed to sustain and succor the faithful who found it difficult to change, then she saw no reason to trouble an already fraught situation. But their very presence on English soil was a source of unrest, especially when they were heard to proclaim against her, and said with great vehemence that it was Mary, and not herself, who was the rightful queen. She did not care of fig for such opinions, and she never failed to fix a gimlet eye upon those who did. But the situation was gradually deteriorating, and was beginning to threaten her policy of peace at any price. If things continued as they were, she might be forced to take action. That would be a very great pity indeed, for it would be like stirring up a hornet’s nest.

  The irony for her was that a more serious threat to her religious settlement was beginning to emerge from Protestantism itself. Continental Protestant factions not satisfied with the Church of England were becoming increasingly vocal…and radical in their views. Anabaptists, Zwinglians and Calvinists had taken to speaking against the Anglican Church, not only from the Continent, but on English soil, and were apparently beginning to believe that they could do so with impunity. It would be a supreme irony if she were forced to burn Protestants for heresy just as her sister Mary had done during her ill-fated reign.

  These fanatical sects had a litany of reasons for their dissatisfaction. They complained in particular of the inadequacy of an ill-trained clergy who had not the ability to write the goodly sermons expected of them for the Protestant Sunday service; and in general, that the entire Church of England was only a small step removed from the very popery that it sought to replace.

  But she herself must take a wider view. Her priorities for England’s weal were, first and foremost, England’s autonomy, in both religious and secular matters; and that could be accomplished only by maintaining her own absolute authority as queen. This was completely at odds with the idea of her taking a husband, and yet there were still men on her Council who urged her to do so. Well, she thought, if she were going to marry after all, she must do so soon, before her courses ceased and she no longer had any hope of producing an heir for England. Until that day dawned, she must continue to rely upon the people’s religious and superstitious awe of her, that unquestioned semi-divinity that her coronation had bestowed upon her. Some might question her legitimacy, but none could question, after all this time, that she was her father’s daughter and his direct heir, as well as the anointed of God. On these rocks must her supreme authority stand. And not to put too fine a point on it, she had proved time and again over fifteen years upon the throne that she was quite capable of ruling England, and of acting as a reigning sovereign. Her sister had failed in that regard, and so had her cousin of Scotland. But she had not failed. And there was still much that needed to be accomplished for the good of England.

  A log in the fireplace chose that moment to disintegrate, its fiery embers collapsing with a whoosh. She turned in time to see a shower of sparks fly up the chimney. She arose and added another log to the fire. She took up the poker and idly pushed it into place. All the time the picture that burned in her brain was not that of the flames before her, now roaring again and glowing red, orange, white; it was the parchment which lay upon the table behind her, its seal now frayed and chipped from her worrying of it earlier.

  She heaved a sigh that was broken by the threat of tears and turned back to the table.

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  How long she sat there she never really knew, but when she finally stirred, t
he fire had been reduced to a pulsating heap of glowing embers and gray ashes. The time for the candles to be lit for the evening was long past. Walsingham’s letter was gone; it no longer existed. She had calmly laid it on the fire hours before and watched the flames consume it until it turned black, curled up, and floated silently up the chimney. But its words remained behind and continued to burn in her memory.

  Robert had not lied to her; he had had no affair with her cousin Lettice.

  The truth was much worse. Douglass! Another treacherous cousin! But the morass that Robert had landed himself into went beyond mere…what? Infidelity?

  Ah, that word… but to call his treachery with her cousin infidelity was patently unfair, was it not? How could she even think it? Was Robert her husband? He was not. She had no claim on him, except that of a sovereign on a subject. Rather less, really; he had asked her countless times to marry him, and she had refused him repeatedly, sometimes with scorn. She knew that he loved her. But he was a man. He needed that which she could not give him. Was he to blame for that?

  The slow tears rolled down her cheeks. It was full dark outside; the torches in the garden and at the water steps had been lit. Between the last glow of the fire on the hearth and the flickering and dancing of the flames outside, she could see the reflections of the tears on her cheeks.

  So Robert was married, and Douglass with child. And not for the first time! And he had taken the risk of marrying her despite her cousin Frances’s dire threats. She had never liked either of her Howard cousins; haughty, insolent chits, both of them.