Finally, Elizabeth donned a fine muslin gown, so gossamer that it almost floated on the air as Beatrice lifted it over her head. A small wooden block sat beside the tub; Beatrice handed her up and saw her safely into the water, then departed with the stack of clothing.
Elizabeth closed her eyes and gave herself up to daydreams of Alençon. He could arrive at any moment. She must be prepared. She would leave her face painted this night.
Supper was brought and eaten; there was nothing left to do save find some occupation that would serve to distract her from the long hours of waiting ahead of her. A book usually put her mind at ease; but on this night Plato failed to charm her, and after reading the same page three times, she set the volume aside.
She walked to the window. It was dark outside and she could see nothing. She must wait for the dawn to keep her vigil at the top of the turret, searching for the flying colors that would herald the arrival at last of a French ship. She turned away with a sigh. The nights were turning chill, even if the days were still warm and golden. And it always seemed colder near the water. She sat down in a chair near the hearth, where an applewood-scented fire blazed merrily. But it was not long before she was on her feet again. There was nothing for it; she was doomed to wear a path that night between the hearth and the window.
Sleep eluded her for hours; but finally exhaustion reigned and when she awakened it was full light. The room was bathed in a golden luminosity that presaged good weather; she smiled to herself. The vagaries of the weather had been her greatest fear, but the day looked to be exceedingly fine. She arose from the chair with a lightness of step and an enthusiasm that she had not felt for many a day. Today would be the day; she could feel it.
The window seemed to draw her like a magnet. Once again she approached, lifted her eyes to the horizon, and searched for a ship. But even should she spy the faint smudge that appeared between the sea mist that lingered over the water and the faint outline of the French coast that could be seen on a clear day, it would be quite some time before such a vessel were close enough to discern if the ship were flying French colors. But still she stood rooted to the spot, willing something, anything, to appear and give her hope.
And then suddenly to her disbelieving eyes, a ship did appear. It must be him; it had to be him. No, it could be a merchantman. Or any number of different vessels, from anywhere. Dover was a busy port. I refuse to go on like this, she said to herself. But she knew it was hopeless. Still she stood staring out of the window, willing the ship to move faster. Willing it to be flying a French flag.
The better part of an hour went by and still Elizabeth could not bring herself to look away. Time seemed to be standing still; the ship seemed to have come no closer. Finally, she turned away in frustration, only to find herself back again staring at the faint outline of the ship. It was large enough to be a carrack; but would it be flying a French flag? Would it be the vessel that was to bear Alençon to her?
This is lunacy, she thought. I must have some occupation to divert me or I shall surely run mad. But here at Dover, where her very presence was a closely guarded secret, there were none of the usual duties or distractions. No audiences to hold; no contentious Council meetings to attend. She was unused to being idle. Even when on Progress her mind was kept busy; even more so perhaps than when she was in London. On Progress, some business of state must still be seen to, but there were also pastimes such as hunting, hawking, and the pageants and entertainments prepared for a queen. There was no time for idleness, no time to give one’s self up to quiet reflection, or in this case, exasperating impatience.
She stood staring at her writing desk. Should she call Parry and work on her letters? No. She simply could not concentrate on anything more substantive than that tiny ship so far away on the water. With an impatient shrug, she walked back to the window. The sight at first startled her; the ship had seemed so far away when she turned her back; but now it could be seen for a substantial vessel flying a French flag and a royal standard. It was still some distance away, but it now came forth on the tide with an inexorable inevitability. Suddenly an unreasoning fear beset her. What would he think of her? Would he think her beautiful? She had been, once…
She ran to the table on which was laid her looking glass. She lifted it and studied her face. Mrs. Frankwell had clucked like a distracted chicken over her decision to leave the paint on her face all night; even had the French prince arrived, surely the queen would not have received him until the following day…? But then, it was not Elizabeth the queen who awaited Alençon, it was Elizabeth the woman. This morning had seen them face the dual task of removing the paint, and then applying it anew. She laid the glass aside.
A gentle knock upon the door of her outer chamber brought her out of her reverie. “Ah, Parry!” she exclaimed. “I fear me he is here at last!”
Parry smiled. “There is no need for fear,” she replied. “Your Grace looks lovely. It may be sometime before the prince’s arrival at the castle. Would Your Grace care to sup whilst you wait?”
Ever the sufferer of a nervous stomach, the very thought of food at that moment caused a wave of nausea to sweep over her. “Nay, Good Parry,” she said, placing a loving hand on Blanche’s cheek. “I shall receive the prince here in my rooms with no ceremony. Perhaps then we shall sup together.”
The waiting should have been easier now that she knew he had at last arrived, but she was still damnably unable to focus or concentrate upon anything for more than two minutes together. “Leave me, Dear Parry,” she said. “And when next I see you, I hope it shall be with the prince of France in thy wake!”
She gave herself up to simply sitting in a chair by the window. The men were as busy as a colony of ants about the ship; if she were lucky, perhaps she would be vouchsafed a glimpse of him…
The light in the room had changed subtly when she realized that Parry was shaking her awake. She had slept fitfully the night before; nothing caused age to show in one’s face quite so much as lack of rest. She must have dozed off, listening to the waves hit the shore in monotonous rhythm, listening to the incessant cries of the wheeling seagulls. How lonely they sounded! Perhaps their keening would sound differently after she and Alençon had met and pledged their final troth…
She noticed that Blanche’s face held an expression not of great joy and delight, but of sorrow.
She sat up, instantly alert. “Dear Parry, what is it?”
“I fear me,” she said, “that the prince has not come after all.” There was no possible way to say it than simply to say it.
Elizabeth’s mouth opened slightly; she tried to speak but her jaw jerked uncontrollably.
“The prince has been detained in France by his brother, the king,” said Blanche gently. “His Grace was only just able to send his man, Simier, to inform Your Grace of this most unfortunate situation. The prince has been consorting with Huguenots and religious moderates; he gathered a following and issued a proclamation against the corruption of King Henri’s reign, promising protection to any who would support his own bid for the throne. It was feared that civil war was to be the inevitable outcome of such an attempt at insurrection. Even the Queen Mother was unable to dissuade Monsieur from his purpose. With this unfortunate result, I fear me. Even Queen Catherine cannot persuade Henri to release him. The two brothers are known to have always been bitter rivals. And Henri is king now.”
Elizabeth sat as still as a statue in her chair. The words had reached her ears, but her mind had not yet drunk them in. Her plans for Alençon’s visit, her dreams of what they would say, what they would do, refused to be set aside by the impact of what Blanche was saying. And then the dream vanished as surely as if it had been a marsh mist. There would be no marriage. There would be no subtle revenge upon Robert for his faithlessness with Douglass and Lettice. There would be only the long, lonely years ahead.
At that moment, another thought pushed its way into her consciousness. She had once faced this very same dilemma and had decided t
hat she would opt for marriage. Now there was only one path for her to tread…if she must be a virgin queen, then by all that was holy, she would be one to be reckoned with. It was all that was left to her now.
Chapter 21
“You may judge whether poor prisoners are glad not to
be forgotten by their old friends and relations.”
-Mary, Queen of Scots
Wingfield Manor, Derbyshire, May 1576
M ary sat in the plush velvet chair that Lord George had had the steward carry out onto the finely clipped lawn for her to sit in. She turned her face up to the sun to feel its warmth, a gentle breeze playing on her face. The month was May and the weather was very fine. A fearsome ague had laid her low at Twelfth Night; it was a recurrence of the old tertian fever she had contracted in her youth whilst in the marshy areas around the coast of France. Her recovery had been slow, and her convalescence was taking longer than ever before. Ah well, I grow old, she thought with a wistful shrug. And if she needed any reminder, her aching bones were further testament to it, forsooth!
Still, it was wonderful to be able to venture outside her rooms to feel the sun on her face and the wind in her hair. Security had become decidedly lax since Bess’s departure for Chatsworth, much to Lord George’s relief, as well as to Mary’s delight. When in health, she was now permitted to ride, to hunt and hawk, to run her greyhounds, and to practice her archery.
When in health; the words saddened her. When she was young, she had never ailed for anything. Her rude good health had often been a subject for remark and admiration; and sometimes chagrin, especially amongst those who wished her ill. But things were different now. She had a mysterious pain in her side that came and went, and often laid her low, and she suffered periodically from a most annoying catarrh that afflicted her throat. So many years of forced inactivity, sometimes in damp and unhealthy accommodations, had finally taken their toll. She was only thirty-and-three; but her looking glass did not lie. Silver glinted amongst the chestnut of her hair, and her eyes were now framed by fine lines.
She looked over at Seton, who was feeding a pair of doves from her hand. Seton had always been overly sentimental about animals. But the ultimate fate of the doves that lived in the dovecote could not be avoided; they were bred to be eaten. But that did not stop Seton from loving them. She had even caged two of them to save them from their destiny, and it was these, now very tame, that Seton was feeding with crumbs of manchet bread.
Seton was now in like case with herself, in that there were silver streaks amongst the brown of her hair, and her face showed the ravages of too much heartache, just as did her own. She was aware that she was apt to brood upon her own sad story, but whenever she found herself slipping into a dangerous melancholy, she had only to steer her thoughts to poor Seton to alleviate her own sorrows. Seton had once been loved by Christopher Norton, the son of a northern knight, Sir John Norton; but he had been executed in the aftermath of the great Rising of the North. Seton had been devastated; so much so that in her great grief and sorrow she had taken a vow of chastity, thinking, in her great heartbreak, never to love again. But three years later John Beaton fell in love with her, and Seton was surprised to find that her heart had healed and she could love him. He bravely crossed the water and went all the way to Rome to seek out the pope; nothing would do but that Seton’s vow of chastity should be lifted and she absolved from it, that they might marry. Hopeful letter followed hopeful letter. And then one day a joyful letter arrived, announcing that Beaton’s long journey had borne fruit; Seton had been released from her vow by the pope himself and was free to marry. A jubilant Seton awaited with great anticipation the arrival of her lover back in England, that they might marry at last. But the news that finally reached them at Sheffield was not of Beaton’s arrival, but of his death by drowning in the stormy seas of the English Channel. Seton had wept bitterly and would not be comforted. That was three years ago and more. Mary sighed so heavily that Seton turned from the doves to look at her.
“Ah,” said Seton, “what causes you to sigh so, dearest lady?”
It was a valid question; there were many things that troubled her, and Seton was the only person who was privy to all of them. Seton was much more than merely a servant to her as queen; she was childhood playmate, friend, confidant, and companion in her exile and imprisonment. Seton reached a comforting hand out to her; the fingers were skeletal and as pale as fresh cream. They clasped hands; no words were needed. Both knew of the other’s heartbreak and woes; none better. Seton turned back to the gently cooing doves.
Mary looked about her. The garden at Wingfield had never been as grand as that at Chatsworth, or any other place where Bess laid her hand; Wingfield was Lord George’s estate, and Bess cared little for it. But for Mary, Lord George had had the garden taken in hand and the result was spectacular. The grass was as finely clipped as a carpet, and as green as emeralds; the flowers all around were a riot of color. A silky turkey carpet had been laid under her chair, covering the grass at her feet
She knew that Lord George loved her; it was an unspoken, unmentionable and yet undeniable thing between them. And yet the feelings that engendered it were as alive as the flowers in the vase on the table beside her. Britton had brought the flowers at Lord George’s behest; every time Mary beheld Eleanor Britton, it seemed as though she were gazing into a mirror on the past. So had she been young and beautiful once! She knew full well the attraction that Eleanor Britton held for Lord George; she was neither shocked, nor did she mind. In point of fact, Mary considered it the highest compliment that Lord George had taken her as his mistress simply because of the girl’s uncanny resemblance to herself. She had been raised at the French court; far from shocking her, such things seemed perfectly ordinary.
A movement at the line of trees beyond the manse caught Mary’s eye; she turned to see a man beckoning to her from the wood’s edge. Her eyes went wide; it was James Beaton of Trochrig, the Archbishop of Glasgow. Her hand went to her throat; it had been many a long day since she had seen him. She was on her feet in a trice and running towards him, her aching bones forgotten. He was not in his ecclesiastical robes, but she should have known him anywhere.
It was her mother, Marie de Guise, who had petitioned Pope Julius III to appoint Beaton to the archbishopric of Glasgow. For eight troubled years he had administered the affairs of his diocese of Glasgow and stood faithfully by the queen-regent in her dealings with the Protestant nobles. But the treaty of alliance with England against France, the wanton destruction of cathedrals and monasteries, and in the end, the death of the queen-regent, caused him to quit Scotland. He had gone to Paris, where Mary appointed him her ambassador to the French Court; and there he had remained, her most faithful friend and adviser. His name had recently been placed at the head of the list of Roman Catholic prelates and clergy who had been declared outlaws and rebels by the Scottish Privy Council, making it doubly dangerous for him to have returned from the Continent. What, she wondered, could have inspired him to do so?
As she neared she could see that his eyes shone with tears; he made to kneel before her but instead she gripped his arms and gave him the double kiss so natural to one raised at the French court. She turned and looked back over her shoulder; Seton had taken her place in the chair, and was wearing her discarded shawl. Pray God that no one came to fetch her back to her rooms whilst she heard what the archbishop had to tell her.
“Good Cousin!” she cried. “How come you to be here? Oh, blessed day!” It was true that Beaton was her cousin; they shared an ancestor in King James II of Scotland.
“There is no time to waste,” he said hurriedly. “How I come to be here is of no importance whatsoever; but what I have come to tell Your Grace is of great moment.” He eyed the house; all seemed well. “Come,” he said urgently. They retreated into the wood.
As soon as they were sheltered from sight by the bracken at the wood’s edge, another man stepped out from behind a wild, man-high shrub.
&nb
sp; Mary’s disbelieving eyes shone with tears. “Geordie!” she cried, unable to hide her emotion. “Oh, Geordie! The sight of you after so long is as balm to my poor spirit!” George Douglas knelt and kissed her hand, his own eyes streaming tears. He was no longer a coltish young boy; he was a man now, and married to a French noblewoman as reward for his service to her. “But what do you here?” she cried. “It will be death for you if you are found!”
George arose from his knees, clasping both of her hands in his own.
“Oh, Your Gracious Majesty,” he cried. “What is danger, when there are such friends to be met?”
“Your Grace,” said the archbishop. “We are, as you say, in great danger. But what I have come to say was best not set out in writing. We have little time, Your Grace. We must tell you our news and then be gone.”
Mary’s eyes shone with excitement; not until she felt her blood race at this unexpected visit and the danger of it had she realized how hopeless she had felt these many years. And now here were friends come to help her, such good friends, and with news! “Aye,” she said. “You must say all and be gone, for I would not endanger your lives even for my freedom.”
“Hark thee then,” said Beaton. The three of them instinctively drew closer. Beaton withdrew a parchment from his tunic and handed it to Mary. “Read this, my gracious lady and sovereign, when thou mayest; but for now, I will tell you what it says.”
Mary thrust the letter into her bodice. She was no stranger to intrigue; she knew what must be done. Hide the letter; read it as soon as possible; burn it.
“The letter is from thy puir bairn,” he said.
At this Mary let forth a strangled cry, and her hand flew to the place where the letter now lay hidden against her heart. Never had she expected to hear such words! It plagued her heart out that her child had been corrupted with the Protestant faith by the very men who had murdered his father and laid the blame for the deed at her door. It was true, she was not entirely blameless in Darnley’s death. But she had not sanctioned her husband’s murder, nor had she wielded the instrument of Darnley’s demise with her own hand. That he deserved death she had never been in any doubt; but the promise that Bothwell made to her was simply to free her of Darnley. She believed him, and had left all in his hands. Had she been naïve? Had Bothwell, like Darnley, beheld her and seen only her crown? Should she have known that only death would free her from the devil that Darnley had become? One could bluster and proclaim one’s innocence to the world, but in her heart she knew that she was every bit as culpable for Darnley’s murder as the men who had actually done the deed. But what mattered it now? What was done was done, and could not be undone. One must look to the future!
In High Places Page 71