In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  Lord George’s eyes swam with tears until the figure on the bed lost all shape and meaning. He allowed his mind to wander. Many who were now men had been boys, as he had been, when the beautiful, tragic queen’s drama was playing out in the north. To them Mary Stuart was a romantic figure, not a wicked, treasonous woman who was guilty of her husband’s murder. There were many who viewed Mary of Scotland’s imprisonment by her queenly cousin as unjust, and who saw her as a tragic figure in need of rescue. It was for this reason that she must be guarded and protected; lest she be rescued and the tables turned on Elizabeth.

  Suddenly a voice that sounded as weak as a newborn kitten’s mewlings caressed his ears.

  “Why,” said Mary, in a raspy whisper, “do you weep, My Lord?”

  ###

  “Oh, Your Grace!” cried Lord George. Mary had been insensible for days; he could hardly believe his ears. He wished with all his heart that he could have told her that her voice sounded like music to his poor, worried ears, but he dared not.

  Seton had gone to fetch a hot posset; she did so several times each day in hopes that Mary would actually be able to drink it. Her relief and surprise at hearing voices coming from the room was evident upon her face.

  “Help me,” said Mary weakly, “to sit.”

  Seton’s strength had been sorely tried first by Mary’s long illness, and then by her own bout with the strange fever; she looked to Lord George.

  “If I may be so bold, Your Grace.” He leaned down and hoisted Mary up by the armpits until she was propped against the pillows that Seton had hastily piled up behind her on the bed.

  “That,” said Mary hoarsely, “is much better.” Seton wasted no time; she raised the posset to Mary’s chapped lips and bade her drink.

  When the posset was down, Seton said, “Your Grace has eaten nothing in days. Some winesops, I think…” And with that she hurried from the room with the empty posset cup clutched in her hands.

  Mary’s lips curved with her enchanting smile. “Seton worries so,” she said.

  “We all do,” Lord George replied. If only she knew how much!

  “How fares the rest of the castle?” asked Mary. But no sooner had the words left her lips than she realized that she was no longer in the castle.

  “We had to move you,” said Lord George. “The castle…”

  “I remember,” Mary replied. “And now?”

  “All gone to Tutbury, Your Grace. But the castle is sweet now and all shall return once the happy news of your recovery is known.”

  Her mind was muddled; she had been wandering first in the throes of illness, and then delirium, for some time. But then suddenly memory came flooding back, and she began to weep.

  Lord George had often seen the Queen of Scotland shed angry tears that she dashed impatiently from her eyes. But he had never been privy to the slow, sad tears that she often wept when she was alone. His heart twisted painfully in his breast at the sight; when Mary wept, there were no reddened eyes or snuffling nose. The tears simply welled up in her eyes and spilled over. How he longed to reach out a hand, to dry her tears! But he dared not.

  “Oh, Your Grace,” he said softly. “Please…”

  “I am sorry,” she said. “It is because I have been so ill.” It was true; she had always enjoyed such rude good health, and had suffered more when ill than most because of her very unfamiliarity with infirmity.

  It had all started back in the summertime when she had fallen from her horse at Buxton; a careless groom caused the creature to bolt at the wrong moment. She had injured her spine and had spent her holiday hobbling around the manor in a great deal of pain and discomfort. Then had come the disappointment of being refused a respite at beautiful Chatsworth, before she must return to the more rigorous imprisonment of Sheffield.

  And then came news from Scotland that Esme Stuart had openly accused Regent Morton of complicity in Darnley’s murder. On the face of it, this seemed good news; Morton was an old enemy, and his vanquishing at anyone’s hands was revenge enough for the wrongs he had done her…and her son. But it soon became apparent that the whole charade was simply a ploy to do away with the regency. Esme wanted to be the power behind the throne; the regent was in his way.

  Hard on the heels of this astonishing news…evidently there had been quite a fray in the Council chamber, with Morton drawing his sword in the presence of the king and demanding satisfaction from Esme…came a letter for her from James, along with a gift; she was much cheered until the letter revealed his reason for such solicitousness. In his letter, James firmly dispelled any notion she may have been cherishing of the possibility of their joint rule of Scotland. Esme again! For surely the duc must know that she would never have tolerated his presence…or his interference…at any court she ruled over.

  Lord George stayed silent while Mary was lost in thought. He must, for his own protection, be circumspect in his conversations with her, especially when they were indoors; the walls had ears and he knew for certain that Walsingham’s spies…and others! ...were rife within his walls.

  “I have lost him,” she said, in a voice so small he almost did not hear her speak.

  There was no need to ask to whom Mary referred; her ruminations were always full of her son and the situation in Scotland. And what could he possibly say in response? She had not seen James since he was ten months old; her son had no memory of his mother, and she barely any memory of him. She had lost him years ago, although she could not own it.

  “He has been taught to hate me by vicious, ambitious men who have never wished me anything but ill. He has been schooled to believe that I am responsible for the death of his father. Hah!” she cried. Lord George looked up from the hearth just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of the old fire with which he was so familiar. “If only he could have known his father!” she spat out bitterly. He knew what she meant; Darnley’s reputation was well known. Had the boy actually known his father, it is likely that his romantic notions of him would long since have been dispelled.

  Still the tears flowed, steady and silent. “I have lost him,” she said again on a sob. “I gave birth to him in great travail; I did my royal duty. I provided Scotland with an heir. And England! For hark thee…Elizabeth shall never marry…and she shall never bear a child.”

  “Please, Your Grace…” Lord George had no desire to arise and leave her company, but political discussions between them must not be, especially where his sovereign was concerned.

  But Mary seemed not to have heard, or hearing, ignored his entreaty. “My son desires not only Scotland’s throne, but England’s too. All this time I have been blind. He has no affection for me; he is my rival. We shall never rule jointly, he says; not even as Henri does with the Queen Mother in France. And I am no Queen Mother! I am the sole and rightful ruler of Scotland! James is my heir and nothing more. He has been corrupted by Elizabeth and now by the Duc d’ Aubigny! He has tasted power and now he is beyond my reach forever.”

  Lord George’s heart went out to her in her extremity. Queen of Scotland she most certainly was; but she was a captive queen and nothing to be done. She was in an impossible situation. Desperate to reclaim her crown, her throne, her son, her life… and none of it within her grasp. She would never be resigned to her situation; always she would be pulling at the bit, gnawing at the chain about her ankle.

  Even as he looked at her, Lord George saw a change come over her features. Her eyes became hard, her normally sensuous mouth set itself into a grim line of resolve, and she straightened her spine. He wondered what she was thinking; what had brought about such a change.

  I have no one and I have nothing, she thought. All have deserted me. Even Seton longs to be gone to the Continent and to her nunnery! She was at a crossroads; she could give up, or she could go on. The resolve that Lord George had observed was the moment when she had made her decision; she must convert James, she must save the Scots and the English from the errors of Reform. She was Scotland’s…and England’s…rightful
queen. But how could she accomplish this when every plan, every ploy, every plot, ended in disaster? No matter how hard she tried, in the end she was always thwarted. Even her latest scheme to league with Philip to send James to Spain had come to naught. What was there left to live for?

  The moment when Lord George had noticed the straightened spine was the very moment when Mary knew what she was living for now…revenge.

  Theobalds House, Hertfordshire, April 1581

  It was hard to hold back her tears as Elizabeth watched Cecil being carried to the litter in a chair. She recalled for a moment how young, how self-assured he had been when, on that fateful day in 1568, she had stood beneath the mighty oak tree at Hatfield and received the homage of her new Council. How the men of the court had flocked to her after Mary’s untimely death! But would she have prevailed without Cecil’s wise counsel in the years, and in the uncertain months just before her sister’s demise? Well, she was who she was; the direct descendant of Henry VIII of England, and next in line to the throne of a Protestant country, the indisputable rightful heir to the crown. Other Protestant nations had upheld her claim, but not Catholic Europe. It was Cecil who had made certain that she navigated successfully the dangerous waters she had been made to swim in the perilous months just after her ascension. And where would she have been without him all these years?

  His gout was now so bad that it affected even his eyes; it was a cloudy day or she would not have suggested that they take a turn out of doors. But the sickroom smelt so badly, it was so dark, so dank, so gloomy, how could an hour in the out of doors fail to restore Cecil’s spirits, if not his health? It smote her heart to see his swollen hands and feet, encased only in velvet gloves and slippers, the pain was so bad. And his head was swathed in gauze, with only slits for his eyes, to filter out even the muted light of an overcast spring day.

  Finally, Cecil was installed in the litter and they set off along a path that led around the grand house and into the deer park. Cecil was justly proud of Theobalds; he had built it for his own enjoyment, of course, but also to ensure that she was comfortable whenever she came to visit.

  “You have done well,” said Elizabeth, casting her eyes over the magnificent manor house and the surrounding gardens, colorful now that the flowers and trees of spring were in full bloom. “It is well done,” she said, placing a hand upon his knee. “Very well done.” She knew that nothing pleased him so much as praise for his lovely home.

  “Aye,” he said. “I am glad that Your Grace is pleased with it.”

  They went along in comfortable silence for a while; they often did so. Between such friends, such long-standing companions, sometimes words were not needed. But she must soon break the silence; she very much needed his wisdom. His body was failing him, but she still depended upon his sharp mind.

  As the litter traversed the path up the hill, where the view of the entire estate was unparalleled, Elizabeth let her mind wander. There was plenty of time yet for discussion.

  The winter of 1580 had been very bad. It had been remarkably cold; the rivers had frozen so hard and solid that one could walk upon them, and there had been more snow than any winter in the memory of even the oldest courtier. The drifts had piled high, sometimes so high they even obscured the low-roofed houses of small villages and hamlets. Spring had been long in coming, and just when it did, and the relief was palpable that the weather had finally turned, a devastating earthquake struck the Southeast. The massive tremor was felt from London to Dover, where a whole section of the White Cliffs had tumbled into the sea. The Puritans, that troublesome faction, had blamed these disasters upon the licentiousness of the court and the pending French marriage, claiming that the severe winter and the destruction of the land itself was evidence of God’s anger. She scoffed at such superstitious ignorance; it smacked of the same irrational beliefs that were associated with the elaborate rituals of the Catholic Church, and which the Reformers so vehemently derided. One could not have it both ways!

  Yes, the previous year had been fraught with danger and disappointment. Despite her best efforts, she had finally had to admit defeat where Robert’s marriage to Lettice was concerned. She had been thwarted in her exhaustive investigation into his alleged union with Douglass, and without indisputable evidence of such, she could not cause his marriage to Lettice to be annulled. It was indeed a great disappointment; but mere disappointment had turned to utter devastation when Lettice bore Robert a son just before the start of the Twelve Days. There had been nothing for it but to grant permission for Robert’s absence from court. It was a two-edged sword, in any case; his presence was well-nigh as painful as his absence. And the gossip which soon reached her ears about how happy and pleased both he and Lettice were with their Noble Imp, as they called the newborn Lord Robert, caused her heart to twist painfully in her breast. All things considered, it was best to keep him at arm’s length; but to do so was like a dagger in her heart.

  Cecil knew that she was troubled. Her very silence and introspection told him as much. There were many problems and issues with which queen and Council must cope, and if possible, that they must resolve. But these days his vitality was sorely lacking. He must focus his limited energies only on that which was most important if he was to help her.

  “The French will not wait much longer for an answer,” he said.

  Elizabeth grunted. “I know it well. But at present the only thing preventing the Netherlands from being overrun is these marriage negotiations. Do you not agree that we must draw them out as long as possible?”

  “Indeed, yes,” Cecil replied. “But how long will King Henri wait? And am I to take it that Your Grace no longer wishes the marriage to take place?”

  “Hah!” she cried. “It is not Henri who waits. It is the Queen Mother!” It was true; all knew who really wielded power in France. The question of whether or not she wanted to marry Alençon was far more complicated. What had she been thinking at the moment when he had first landed on England’s shores? Why had she been so drawn to him? She possessed self-knowledge enough to realize that much of the reason she had accepted him, and wanted so much to believe herself in love with him, was because of Robert’s faithlessness. The timing of the duc’s visit had been fortuitous; his open adoration of her…sincere or not…had been as balm to her wounded pride in the midst of the pain and her white anger at Robert about his affairs and his marriage to Lettice. But she knew in her heart that it was more than that. She loved Alençon’s rare virtues and his sweet nature. Both she and her poor little frog had experienced great rejection in their lives; this made for a common bond between them. And both were romantics at heart, who needed, and wanted, to be in love. But she knew now with certainty that she could not marry Alençon; she had known it before the whole affair began and she knew it now. God forfend that she should repeat her sister’s mistake of marrying a Catholic, knowing in her heart that the English people would never accept such a union.

  Still, she must string the French along in order to engender uncertainty in Catholic Europe as to her intentions regarding the Netherlands. And then at some point, when the time was right, she must find a way to end the whole affair. How would she break the news to him without breaking his heart? Or worse, angering the French? A slippery slope indeed!

  Of course, Alençon’s acceptance of the sovereignty of the Netherlands offered the perfect excuse; she could not become overtly involved in a foreign war in any case, but certainly not as the duc’s wife. Should she marry Alençon, then his wars would become hers; had not her sister found as much to be true when she married Philip of Spain? No, any war fought with Spain must be fought only directly with Spain. And at the rate Drake was plundering Spanish ships on the bounding main, she would be fighting Philip with his own gold! The thought caused her lips to curl in a smile.

  “The French will not have long to wait,” she said. “Another delegation is on its way to England at this very moment.”

  Cecil shifted painfully in his seat. “It was inevi
table,” he replied. And there was no need to wonder how another such visit would be paid for; he, too, was aware of the rate at which Spanish treasure was lining the pockets of the queen, as well as many noblemen of the realm.

  “I mean to knight him,” she said, apropos of nothing.

  Cecil laughed; it was the first time he had done so in many a day. There was no need to ask to whom she referred; the subject of a knighthood for Francis Drake had been hotly debated by the Council for some time. Such an act would send a very clear message to King Philip. “That is sure to put Mendoza’s nose out of joint,” he said, with a wheezy chuckle. And then he turned serious once more. “Bestowing a knighthood upon Drake and receiving the French delegation should certainly give King Philip pause,” he said. “I am certain that His Grace is not yet ready to proceed with his great plans to invade our shores. I doubt not that Mendoza will be instructed to bluster and blow at such ploys as toying with the French, and honoring the pirate who plunders Spain’s ships with such alarming regularity. However, I cannot help but believe that the delay engendered by such trifles is as welcome to Spain as it is to England.”

  “Indeed. I fear me that a clash with Spain is inevitable. It is a smoldering volcano that is fated to erupt. But not yet.” Elizabeth nibbled a cuticle, lost in thought. “I believe we have a much more pressing and immediate problem. Pope Gregory has been persuaded by the Jesuits to suspend Pius’s bull of excommunication. He openly declares that I must be obeyed in all civil matters.”