“The prince,” said Beaton (he refused to acknowledge as Scotland’s sovereign any save Mary, its rightful queen) “is growing up, Your Grace. His Grace is old enough now to realize many things that, as a child, he did not know. Your Grace, there is so much to tell and so little time to tell it! Here it is; My Lord Bothwell, thinking himself at death’s door, has made his confession.”
Mary’s heart skipped a beat, and she closed her eyes; in her mind she was suddenly whisked back in time once again to that fateful night in Edinburgh, that headlong flight in the cold and dark of night to Kirk o’ Field, ablaze and lighting up the sky. She had long since given up any hope that Bothwell would be able to honor his promise, made all those years ago at Carberry Hill, to return to fight to place her back upon the throne of Scotland. But to hear his name, to have news of him! It brought back to her all the old hunger, all the longing for him that she had once known, all the fire in her blood that had made her act so rashly. But that time was past; there was room now for nothing save cold reasoning. Mary tilted her head back and raised her eyes to meet Beaton’s once more.
Beaton met her gaze squarely and said, “My Lord has exonerated Your Grace in Darnley’s death.”
She swayed on her feet and George caught her arm to steady her. The blackness that had momentarily engulfed her receded and in its place was a feeling of complete and utter triumph. So her beloved had rescued her after all, reaching out across the water and the miles from Denmark after all these years to help her in her extremity. Surely now Elizabeth would agree to meet with her! The excuse for not doing so had always been the taint of suspicion in Darnley’s death; surely that was now no longer a consideration? She had been angry and hurt the year before when her cousin’s Royal Progress had taken her within a few miles of Buxton; Mary had been there at the time and assumed that at last she would be able to meet Elizabeth, even if the visit were kept a secret. But no! The Queen of England had come and gone with never a word vouchsafed to her royal cousin and fellow queen. But now, with Bothwell’s confession, surely all would be changed?
Beaton craned his neck to espy the house beyond the wood’s edge; nothing was stirring. Seton still sat in the chair, appearing to doze, wearing the queen’s shawl. “Your Grace, the King of Denmark sent copies of my lord’s confession to the King of France and to the Queen of England. But both strive to suppress the document. The whys, the wherefores, are unimportant; but I fear me that the confession will work no change in Your Grace’s circumstances.” Mary’s eyes smoldered, she made to respond, but Beaton raised his hand. “There is no time, Your Grace,” he said. “Suffice it to say that even with the Earl of Bothwell’s confession, little can be expected. But thy son has heard of this thing and says that he is much heartened by the news; and that the very grievous accusations and calumnies that have been all along impressed upon him against Your Grace, his mother, have now been refuted by so manifest a testimony of thy innocence in the matter of his father’s death that such slanders and slurs can no longer be sustained, at least by him.”
Tears streamed down Mary’s face as she drank in Beaton’s hastily imparted words. They were borne of impotent fury at Henri and Elizabeth’s perfidy in quashing Bothwell’s confession, but were equally the result of the news that her son had thought such thoughts and uttered such words. And he had written her a letter!
“For years,” continued Beaton, “Prince James has been in the charge of the very men who have spoken against Your Grace, but His Grace has stated categorically that he is not amongst them, and is only too well aware of how poorly his royal mother has been treated.”
Mary raised a hand to her eyes and dashed away the tears. “And my Jamie spake these words? Well and truly?” It was almost too good to be true; could it really be that after all this time, after all she had been through, that her lost son, her dearest jewel, was to be the avenger of all her wrongs?
Beaton nodded. “Aye, tis so. His Grace is young in years, it is true, Your Grace, having not yet seen eleven summers; but he is not unaware of who he is and who he will, in time become, by the grace of God.”
It was Mary’s turn to peer nervously over her shoulder to the house. “How can I ever thank you, both of you, for taking such risks to bring me this heartening news?” She held out a hand to each of them; should she be missed and the hue-and-cry raised, the lives of these beloved friends would be at even greater risk. She clasped their hands and made to depart, but Beaton placed a restraining hand upon her arm.
“There is something else, Your Grace,” said Beaton. “I have a message for you from the King of Spain.”
If her heart had skipped a beat at the news of her lost son’s loyal and loving words, and at the sound of Bothwell’s name in her ears, it seemed now to have risen to her throat and lodged there, beating as wildly as would that of one of Seton’s hapless doves at the moment of capture for the pot. Mary raised a hand to her throat; her head seemed to jerk uncontrollably as she sought to drink in this further proof that she was not forgotten and that there was, indeed, hope after all.
“His Grace desires me to say,” said Beaton, “that he is prepared to send men to Scotland to spirit the prince away to the Spanish court, and marry him to the Infanta Catalina. Don Juan shall come with a Spanish army at his back to restore Your Grace to the Scottish throne, and there shall be marriage for you with that most worthy prince.”
Mary’s mind raced. A marriage between herself and Philip’s illegitimate brother had been mooted several times before. But what of Bothwell?
“Forgive me, Cousin,” said Mary. “You say My Lord of Bothwell believed himself to be dying and so made his confession. But my lord yet lives? ”
Beaton seemed troubled for a moment, but there was no sense in hiding the truth. “Aye, he lives,” replied the archbishop. “Indeed, Your Grace, all thought that death had come for him at last, including the earl himself. But he did not die. I fear me, though, that his untimely confession has had most unfortunate consequences for him. As a confessed murderer, His Grace has been removed to Dragsholm Castle and placed into a noisome dungeon there.”
The feeling of exhilaration that the mention of Bothwell’s name engendered in her breast was replaced by an overwhelming feeling of complete and total numbness. It was hard to feel anything towards him now, he who had once caused her to make, in the heat of her passion for him, such colossal mistakes. It crossed her mind in that moment that she had promised herself to be quiet, to be still, to bide her time and make no further trouble. She even knew a fleeting moment of regret that such an alliance with Philip of Spain was at odds with her loyalties to her beloved France and to her Guise relations. But both had let her down; Henri had abandoned his desire to marry her as an impossible dream, for marriage with Louise of Lorraine; and with the recent death of her uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, all hope of French assistance was seemingly lost. But there were great issues at stake, and at last here was opportunity, so long promised by so many, so many times delayed or abandoned. There was no more time; she must decide.
“An annulment of my marriage to Bothwell will be needed,” she said blandly, “for there to be a match with Don Juan. And he must be legitimized.”
“Aye,” agreed Beaton. “I shall see to all of that, Your Grace. And now I fear me that we must be gone. We dare tarry no longer, nor should Your Grace.”
Mary once again held out her hands, one to each man; they clasped hands, the three of them, and were silent for a moment. Someone must break the spell; once again the dignity and responsibility of a queen made itself known in her breast. This time, dear God, she prayed, guide me and help me to rule wisely. For she knew in her heart at that moment that most of the miseries of her life had been her own fault and no one else’s.
“Adieu, dear Cousin, dear friend,” she whispered. Then she turned away without a backward glance and walked rapidly back towards the house.
Greenwich Palace, September 1576
A veritable army of servants brought cou
rse after course of platters heaped high with food from the kitchens, but Elizabeth found that she needed little to sustain her these days. Even the savory aroma of baked and roasted meats failed to inspire appetite in her. Her father had been, in the end, a slave to his appetites, and grossly overweight; much of his ill-temper had its roots in that one simple fact. He had not been able to exercise because of the injury to his leg so many years before, but he had not compensated by curbing his appetite for food. The lesson learnt by the young Elizabeth had been to strive to curb one’s appetites in all things.
She allowed her gaze to wander to the place where Robert sat. There was one appetite that she had given free rein to! And she was paying dearly now for that self-indulgence. Robert’s affair with Douglass had shattered her complacency where he was concerned; but his dalliance with Lettice had changed her feelings for him. She still loved him, but she could not bear to look at him now. For when she did, images of him naked in a bed with his paramours would rise up before her like a specter and would not be banished. She shuddered.
Elizabeth looked about her at the scene. A thousand candles lit the great room; their golden flames burned in chandeliers, wall scones, and in silver, many-branched candlesticks that stood on the floor as high as a man. Minnesingers, minstrels and troubadours wandered the Great Hall, making their rounds, singing and bantering with the crowd. Tumblers and jesters entertained to the delight of all. The musicians played in the gallery. But nowadays, all sound seemed slightly out of tune. Nothing seemed quite right anymore.
And then it was always the same, as if she were living some waking nightmare. For at some point she would be able to resist the temptation no longer, and her hungry eyes would seek him out from amongst the throng; her heart would skip a beat at the sight of him. And then memory would come flooding in, the beloved face before her would recede, and in its place would appear the countenances of Douglass, triumphant, insolent, and Lettice, smug and knowing. Their images would dance before her tortured eyes, and would not be banished.
And so it was useless to deny that she now lived in an empty place inside her own heart. It was a lonely, barren place where only the moribund memories of how she and Robert had once been dragged themselves in an endless march through her mind. And it never changed. That was the hardest thing to bear. The heartache was always there. Her memories gnawed at her heart until she found that she could do nothing save look back longingly on the time when they had been young and in love. To have him constantly before her now evoked both pain and pleasure. It was the most baffling paradox; she could not bear to look at him but neither could she bear to let him go. Indeed, where would he go? Both Douglass and Lettice were banished from court and if she banished Robert in a fit of pique, she should be driving him straight into the arms of her rivals.
Even so, she was well aware that Robert had no desire to leave court. Despite all, she knew that he still cherished hopes of the Crown Matrimonial. Like a cutpurse casing his mark, she stole a glimpse at him. He was talking animatedly with his brother-in-law, the Earl of Huntingdon. She sighed. His was an impossible dream; never would she share her power with anyone.
And so it went on… day after day. She had once heard someone say that the passage of time healed all wounds, but she had no evidence of it. Each day when she saw him or heard his voice, the pain was so great that she felt as if her heart were being torn from her chest. She looked nervously about her. She sometimes wondered if anyone could read her mind. Her father had once said that if he thought his cap knew his thoughts, he would throw it in the fire. She glanced to her right. Hatton was eating from his trencher in his slow, careful manner; he seemed oblivious to all around him. But well did she recall that miserable night at Greenwich when he had known exactly what she needed. On her left sat Walsingham; he and Hatton were her chief advisors now. And well she knew that nothing got past Sir Francis. Yes, these two loving and loyal men likely were aware that she was in pain; but strangely, she did not mind that they seemed to know such an intimate secret. She reached a hand out to both men at that moment. Hatton smiled and squeezed her fingers; Walsingham patted the top of her hand. So they did know. It was oddly comforting.
Always it was the same; she would arrive in the Great Hall of whatever castle or palace in which the court happened to be, to the clarion call of trumpets. Her hand on Hatton’s arm, together they would ascend the dais, just as she used to do with Robert. Yes, now it was always the adoring Hatton on one side of her, and in place of Cecil, her Good Moor on the other. She loved them both in her way, but nothing should ever replace the romantic euphoria of her early days with Robert, when they were both young and time lay spread before them in a beautiful vista like a vast, endless golden road. Now all was changed.
Robert no longer sat beside her on the raised platform when she took her scanty meals. No words had ever been spoken about the change; he made no bold challenges, as he had once done when she shunned his company. His head was bent low to hear that which Sir Henry Hastings was saying to him. He and the Earl of Huntingdon were very thick these days, and she wondered what mischief they were up to. The earl was related to her through his descent from George, Duke of Clarence, and he was related to Robert through his marriage with Robert’s sister. Many considered Huntingdon to be a more than viable successor to the crown. Hah, she thought. Never! For she would support none of the power factions that now plagued the court.
Factions! How troublesome they were. Political factions had become rife and were causing a serious divisiveness amongst her Council; it had reached such a point that it made ruling a positive trial. But as bad as that was, the religious strife afflicting England was even worse, for it pervaded every facet of the life of her people. The problems with the English Catholics were getting worse every day; according to Sir Francis’ spies, priests were arriving on England’s shores from the Continent in alarming numbers. Whilst some came to England only to provide succor and to say secret Masses for her loyal Catholic subjects, others were trained specifically to infiltrate and undermine the faltering Anglican Church. This problem was exacerbated by the dissension that was prevalent amongst England’s Protestants. There were too many sects, too many radical Puritan elements. Edmund Grindal, her Archbishop of Canterbury, was a constant thorn in her side; so much so that she must forever be reminding him who the Supreme Head of the Church of England was! The man was a trial and the Puritans another.
It did not help matters any that the weaknesses of the Anglican Church were beginning to be glaringly obvious; many of the clergy were poorly trained, and if truth be told, unsuited for their office. This must needs be remedied, but there were so many of them and too few capable of providing the proper instruction that would have improved the situation. It was a dilemma and no mistake.
But the most pressing religious issue was the threat from France. King Henri had lost no time in his effort to eradicate the Protestant threat in France. Thanks to Walsingham’s agents at the French court, she and her Council were well aware that the French king had met with many Continental Catholics to form a coalition aimed at eliminating as many Protestants as possible. Once again she sent a silent prayer of thanks to God that England was an island kingdom with a deep channel between her and the dogs of war on the Continent. She had a strong navy and a clandestine force of determined English pirates such as Francis Drake to keep them at bay. But despite her defenses, what was happening on the Continent was of great concern; Philip’s armies in the Netherlands were a constant threat, and one that had the potential to overwhelm even her vast resources, should Philip take it into his mind to invade England.
It was a very real threat, for word had reached Walsingham that Philip’s illegitimate brother was to invade England with a Spanish army at his back. Indeed, Don Juan, that consummate soldier, the hero of Lepanto, had only agreed to accept the governorship of the Netherlands on the condition that once he quelled the Dutch Protestants he would be allowed to invade England, where he would murder herself, marr
y Mary, and rule a united England, Scotland and the Low Countries as its king.
But while all of this alarmed her, what galled her was the thought that if these plans came to fruition, Mary would have had four husbands and herself none. She put that annoying thought aside.
She gave a mental shrug and allowed her eyes to steal another glance at where Robert and Huntingdon still sat talking. The pleasure of beholding Robert was always fleeting; the warm feeling of love she still felt for him was always quickly overcome nowadays by the exquisite pain of his betrayals. It was the same heartbreaking dilemma that visited her a hundred times a day. Keep him here and suffer the pain of having her heart broken daily, or make him go and know the aching void, the terrible agony, that his absence was certain to visit upon her. She must think of something else or go mad.
Cecil and Robert had long since mended their fences, but that did not stop them from scheming and plotting against each other. If Robert had his candidate, then Cecil must needs have one as well; Sir Edward Seymour, the Earl of Hertford, was his stalking horse, only because Cecil was far more subtle in his plottings and thought that none knew of his support for Hertford. But even Cecil, as clever as he was, had figured without the sharp ears and eyes of her Good Moor, Walsingham. She was well aware of his worth. Thanks to Walsingham there was little she did not know about the intrigues of any court in Europe, including her own! He had been her Secretary of State for nigh on three years.
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