In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  Still, when he had appeared at court for the Twelve Days of Christmas, her heart leapt in her breast at the sight of him. He begged a private audience in which to present his gift, and this she had granted. She had at first been as excited as child to receive such a gift. But a closer look revealed the engraving and the fact that the shape of the buttons was a true lover’s knot. Before his marriage to Lettice, she would have taken great pleasure in the piquancy of such a gift. But now…

  “I marvel,” she had said dryly, “that you are here at all, considering the state of affairs at Wanstead.” A fleeting image of Lettice visited her, her body swollen with the fruit of Robert’s seed. Such unwelcome images never failed to bring tears to her eyes.

  For perhaps the first and only time in his life, Robert’s face flushed scarlet with embarrassment. But he could not allow the queen’s chagrin to deter him from his purpose; he had begged a private audience for a reason.

  “I sought only to please you,” he said softly, ignoring Elizabeth’s snide jibe, and the tears welling up in her eyes. He lifted one of the buttons from its place in the velvet-lined box. Now that the moment had come, he heartily regretted his promise to Lettice. “Elizabeth,” he said. “Would it not be possible, after all this time…”

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak and made to stand up, but in that moment she was surprised to discover that all the fight had gone out of her. It did not change her reply; it simply altered the manner in which her answer was given. She knew in that fleeting moment what it had cost him even to ask; she knew that the question came not from Robert, but from Lettice.

  “No,” she said. “I never want to see my cousin again. You may inform your wife,” she almost choked on the word, “that nevermore will she be welcome at court. And I pray you, do not ask again, for I shall never change my mind.” There was nothing more to be said; Robert had departed with a courtier’s bow, not even meeting her eyes.

  She eyed the shimmering buttons once again, sighed, and handed the box back to Blanche. Blanche, having made the required entry into the book, closed the lid and placed the box onto a pile of other New Year’s gifts. Recalling the scene with Robert, she once again felt the energy drain from her like water through a sieve. She felt numb; the memory of the scene had lost its power to move her. It was just one of many blows that had assailed her in the twenty-second year of her reign.

  Looking back over the events of the previous twelvemonth, she was genuinely surprised that she had survived. Fear of the assassin’s knife or gun was a part of the very fabric of her existence; she simply ignored it, much to the chagrin…and often to the annoyance…of her Council and the Parliament. No, it was not the fear of sudden death that had felled her like an oak that year; it was the sum total of all the unexpected events that had occurred.

  That Philip was planning some major offensive against England was well-known; it would have been difficult to keep secret the building of a fleet of warships set for battle. And that the battle her brother-in-law had in mind was an invasion of her shores she had no doubt. Men were already beginning to speak openly of Philip’s great Enterprise of England. It was only a matter of time, and when the time came, she, and England, must be prepared.

  But the King of Spain’s annexation of Portugal upon the untimely death of King Sebastian had come as a complete and very unwelcome surprise. Portugal was a rich country with a formidable navy; uniting her with Spain certainly boded no good for England. And the death of King Sebastian had exacerbated another problem for her; he had died without an heir, and the fighting over who would succeed him had been bitter indeed. Ha! she thought. Those who coveted a crown had never worn one! The whole issue had shone a glaring and unwelcome light on her own heirless state. But eventually, the might of Spain had prevailed; Portugal was now part of Philip’s Spanish empire.

  There had been a bevy of other claimants to the Portuguese throne, including her former suitor, Emmanuel Philibert, Duke of Savoy. But alas, the duke had died before he could press his claim to its conclusion. Philibert’s death had been a devastating shock to her personally. He had once thought to marry her when she was only the Lady Elizabeth, called bastard by her own father and ousted from her rightful position as princess. But she had not been despised by him, and for that she had always been grateful. His death struck her a mighty blow, just as Eric of Sweden’s had done just three years before.

  Henry FitzAlan, the old earl of Arundel, had also died, as had the Duchess of Suffolk, the Lady Catherine Willoughby. Now there was a romantic tale! The Lady Catherine had been the 12th Baroness Willoughby de Eresby in her own right, a tempting heiress indeed. The Lady Catherine, even though she was his son’s betrothed, had set her cap at Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk. This was long before her Aunt Mary, Brandon’s third wife, had given up the ghost. Elizabeth had been born three months after her aunt died, so she had never known her, but she had heard all the stories of how Mary Tudor had defied two kings to marry the commoner she loved. But she had been parted untimely from her great love by a slow, lingering and painful death; and it had come with the bitter knowledge that once she was gone, her beloved would marry Catherine before her body was even cold in the grave. Her father had condoned the match for his great friend; there had not even been a decent interval of mourning for his royal wife before the duke was riding his new mare.

  So many deaths; it was no wonder the energy had deserted her sparse frame. The deaths of others reminded her of her own mortality, and made her feel indescribably old.

  ###

  Blanche Parry possessed an uncanny ability to move silently. In the midst of her musings Elizabeth became aware that she was standing in the open doorway of the queen’s privy closet. She arched her brows in enquiry.

  Blanche bobbed a curtsey and said, “The Principal Secretary craves a word, Your Grace.”

  Elizabeth nodded and Blanche retreated on silent feet; Walsingham appeared in her wake.

  “Ah, Sir Francis,” she said wearily. Her Moor was not one for idle chatter; if he was requesting an audience there must be a reason. Good news or bad, she wondered?

  Walsingham bowed over her hand and then took a seat across from her. The fire crackled and spat. Elizabeth said nothing; he would speak in his own good time. He steepled his fingers and tapped his lips with them. Bad news, then. After all these years, she knew the signs.

  Finally he said, “The Queen of Scotland is intriguing with the Spanish ambassador.”

  Mary Stuart had been a thorn in her side from the moment of her first husband’s death in France all those years ago, but much more so since her flight over the border into England. Could it really be that twelve years had gone by? Still she said nothing.

  Mendoza was King Philip’s ambassador to the English court, but Walsingham knew him for a spy, and acted accordingly. No diplomatic pouch was spared from the scrutiny of her Good Moor; if there were secrets to be had, Walsingham would have them. She sent a silent prayer of thanks to God for sending Sir Francis to her; very little got past her Moor, and many was the time that she had had good reason to be thankful for his diligence on her behalf...and his utter lack of scruple.

  Elizabeth snorted. “When is the Queen of Scotland not involved in some puerile plot or another?”

  Sir Francis arose and stoked the fire, which was beginning to flag. The embers glowed. He threw on another log and took his seat once more. “This plot,” he said quietly, “is most dangerous. The King of Spain is fully aware of it and approves.”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled. “What is your counsel, then?”

  “It would be best to allow the plotters to plot, and see what their letters contain.”

  “Of course.” There was some risk; the sanctity of the diplomatic pouch was supposed to be inviolable. Should England be discovered breaching ambassadorial correspondence, the result would be embarrassment to say the least. But Sir Francis and his minions had never yet been defeated by any cypher; it would be folly not to take advant
age.

  “The plan,” he said, “is to kidnap the King of Scotland, spirit him away to Spain, and marry him to a Spanish infanta.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened in surprise. “That is a departure from Her Grace’s usual mewlings to her French relations.”

  Sir Francis stared into the flames. “Indeed. But I trow that both King Henri and the Queen Mother are as weary of Her Grace’s constant demands for help in restoring her to her throne as are the Guise. I must inform His Grace, the King of Scotland, of Her Grace’s intentions on his behalf. Such will work in our favor in that this plot will serve to further alienate His Grace from his mother.”

  Elizabeth slammed the flat of her hand down upon the arm of her chair. “Hah!” she cried. “So much for filial affection!” It crossed her mind in that moment that by referring to the Queen of Scotland simply as James’ mother, Walsingham had reduced Mary’s royalty down to the fact that at a certain moment in time, she had shared the fate of most women and had given birth, just as the lowest kitchen slut might do. This, along with the political implications of the situation, caused her to derive a certain sly satisfaction from England’s ability to interfere with her cousin’s nefarious schemes. But while Mary’s plotting usually developed into nothing more than vague, unsupported plans, Philip’s involvement was much more worrisome. His active interference in Ireland was well-known and had caused her many a sleepless night. For if Philip succeeded in raising the Irish Catholics against her, it was more than likely that the English Catholics would follow suit and join the fray.

  Elizabeth stared worriedly into the fire. “What of the Irish Catholics, then?”

  Sir Francis smiled his rare smile. “I do not think that we need worry overmuch,” he said. “This Irish ploy is little more than a strategy to deflect our attention from His Grace’s real intention to invade England. I do not believe that he will waste resources on Ireland. He shall save them for his Enterprise of England. But if he can persuade England to invade Ireland…” he shrugged.

  Elizabeth slapped her knee. “God’s death, but you are a sly one! But some response was needed, lest we appear ignorant of the situation, or worse, weak. And I do not care much for Mendoza’s cheek.”

  “Nor do I,” said Sir Francis. Mendoza had been called on the carpet about the Irish issue in front of the entire English court; his belligerent response had been telling indeed. When confronted with the fact that England knew full well that the unrest in Ireland was being instigated by the Spanish crown, and that the consequences may very well involve a like interference by England in the Netherlands, Mendoza had blustered and threatened that any such action on the part of England would be for naught if the King of Spain struck first. It was an empty threat on England’s part; the queen had no intention of assisting Alençon in the Netherlands with men and arms; money could be sent secretly. All of England’s naval might must be husbanded against the day when Philip invaded their shores.

  Elizabeth smiled to herself. It had been a very satisfying exchange of barbs. But war was brewing; they could see it already on the distant horizon. Both she and Walsingham knew that the day would come when talk would be finished. It was just a matter of time before they must face Philip and defend England against the might of Spain.

  Sheffield Manor, March 1581

  Lord George gazed worriedly down at his royal charge. Mary had been ill throughout the autumn and into the winter. Sometimes he wondered if all the petty slights perpetrated upon the Queen of Scots by her cousin were not designed simply to break her spirit. Humph, he thought. If the Queen of England believed that Mary’s spirit could be broken, then Her Grace sadly underestimated her fellow queen’s resolve. Elizabeth and Mary had never met; nevertheless, he suspected that they knew each other quite well.

  Mary’s eyes appeared glassy through narrow slits, and her breathing was raspy and shallow. So much time elapsed between each of her breaths that with every passing moment he feared that she had expired of this pernicious, unnamed malady. The physicians and apothecaries were baffled by the queen’s illness; she had a persistent fever, complicated by a mysterious pain in her side. One was never in worse fettle than when one was being treated for a condition that defied the knowledge of the leeches. He shuddered to think of the many noxious potions to which poor Mary had thus far been subjected. And it worried him greatly that after each course of treatment Her Grace often seemed worse rather than better.

  His eyes met Seton’s across the bed. Both knew of the other’s love for Mary of Scotland. In Seton, a perfectly normal and expected emotion; in Lord George, it was knowledge best kept to oneself, and this Seton did. But she could see it in his eyes. She wondered how many others could see it as well.

  There was a time when Lord George’s only concern would have been to avoid at all costs the death of the Queen of Scots whilst Her Grace was under his aegis. But that time was long past. Now he only wished to see her well again and as happy in her captivity as could reasonably be expected.

  The Earl of Shrewsbury had come over the years to very much appreciate what a rare person was Mary Stuart. That she was impatient and frustrated with her situation was understandable; how might he have felt, had he been similarly treated? He was perfectly capable of sympathizing with Mary’s position while being very careful to keep his own counsel. He firmly believed that Mary was imprisoned unjustly; this was the most dangerous stance one could have taken. No one must ever know that he felt this way.

  Mary was a tall woman and generously built, having taken more after her Guise relations than her Scottish ancestors. Marie de Guise had been a bonny, buxom woman in her day. To look down now upon the thin, gaunt frame on the bed smote his heart. Was she to waste away before his very eyes, and nothing to be done?

  This was all Elizabeth’s fault, and none other’s, as far as he was concerned. After their departure from Buxton at the height of summer, both he and Mary had written to Elizabeth begging her to allow the Shrewsburys and their royal charge to bide at Chatsworth whilst Sheffield Castle was being sweetened. But the answer from London had been a vehement no. Perhaps the queen felt some petty need to compensate for her kindness in allowing Mary her annual visit to the spa that she so much looked forward to and which, Lord George knew, was the highlight of her year.

  And so from Buxton, by royal order, they returned to Sheffield. There would be no sweetening. The servants did what they could, but it was impossible to properly clean the castle while it was occupied. By the end of August, which had been an unusually hot month that year, the stench was so bad that Mary spoke of writing to Elizabeth asking for a removal to Tutbury, if no other location would satisfy Her Grace. For Mary to ask to go to Tutbury, which she loathed, was worrisome. Such a request was completely out of character.

  It was shortly after that when Mary succumbed to a pernicious fever. She could take neither sup nor crumb; even water would not stay down. Many others became ill as well. There could be many reasons for such a scourge; close questioning in the kitchens revealed that some of the oysters recently stewed may have been bad. He would not touch the uncanny creatures, nor any seafood that was not smoked, whilst at Sheffield; but others had, and the result was disgusting on top of the already overflowing drains.

  And still the queen refused permission for a move. Finally he dared not ignore the situation any longer. The queen had ordered them not to leave Sheffield; very well then, they would not. He took a decision on his own to remove Mary, as sick as she was, up the hill to the manor house. It would not empty the reeking castle to allow for a thorough sweetening, but at least it would remove Mary from a situation that Lord George believed to be the reason for her illness.

  He had always suspected the presence of the queen’s spies in his household, but the swiftness with which the next royal order came was frightening. It turned his bowels to water, even though he was one of the few people who had not yet sickened. The order was not simply to move Mary back to the castle; it was a warrant to remove her from the Shrew
sbury’s charge altogether. Her Grace was to be taken to Ashby de la Zouch, and placed under the auspices of the Earl of Huntingdon.

  This was altogether too much; sweeping aside Bess’s dire warnings, Lord George had sent a prompt reply to his sovereign, saying that the Queen of Scotland was far too ill to be moved such a distance in the dead of winter; it was over sixty miles to Leicestershire. She had barely survived the move up the hill to the manor house. To his complete surprise and infinite relief, the queen rescinded her order. Feigning a loss of interest in the whole affair, Elizabeth indicated that it was a matter of supreme indifference to her where the Queen of Scotland bided as long as she was well protected. Not guarded; the Queen of England was always careful to uphold the fiction that she held Mary in such close quarters only for her own protection.

  This left the way open for the population of the castle to remove to Tutbury, whilst the Queen of Scotland stayed at the manor house. Sheffield Castle was finally sweetened. But Mary’s condition worsened yet again, and it was decided that she must stay at the manor for the time being. That had been before the Twelve Days; now it was March and Mary’s condition had not improved.

  Lord George had been on the verge of manhood when Mary was born. The tale of how her father had moaned, “It began with a lass and it will end with a lass!” when he heard that the baby whose lusty cries rang through Linlithgow Palace on that fateful day in December 1542 was a girl, instead of the longed-for boy, never failed to stir his blood. King James had then turned his face to the wall and died, making Mary of Scotland a queen at only six days old.

  Her life had never lacked drama. All through the days of the Rough Wooing until the time when it had been deemed too dangerous for the little queen to remain in her own kingdom and she was removed from her mother’s care across the water to her relations in France, he had followed her travails. Her time at the French court had been magical by all accounts. But then the tide had turned again and the Queen of Scots found herself widowed at twenty-one. Without an heir in her belly, she was superfluous at the French court, Queen of Scotland or not. Mary had scarce absorbed the import of her husband’s death when news of her mother’s demise reached France. Before long she was on her way back across the water to Scotland. The result of Mary’s return to her own realm had been one disaster after another. And now Mary had been a forced guest of the English crown for nigh on thirteen years.