In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  Bess stamped an impatient foot. “I will not withdraw! Think you that I know not what goes on here? The two of you are lovers! There are even rumors abroad that the queen has borne you a child!”

  Finally, Lord George could take no more. “Rumors,” he said with a deadly quiet, “that you yourself bruited, and that you have encouraged your Cavendish brood to spread far and wide! How foolish you are, Bess! For how could such a thing have happened, but that you should know of it?”

  Bess pursed her lips and crossed her arms on her ample breast. “That is not the point,” she replied. “The point is, people believe it. Why, just the other day I received a letter from my son, who says that Sir William Fleetwood told him that an Islington man told him that he knows where the child was christened!”

  Lord George scowled. “Do you now begin to believe your own lies, Madam?”

  “How dare you speak to me thus!” cried Bess.

  God help him, it was true that he used to regard his marriage with Bess of Hardwick as a blessing bestowed upon him by a loving God. She had been widowed thrice; he was her fourth husband. Each marriage had left her richer than the last. That, along with her shrewd business sense, had made her the wealthiest woman in England, save only Queen Elizabeth herself.

  At one-and-forty, Bess’s age when they married, she had been comely still, and appeared much younger than her years. And she had been passionate about more than just her estates and vast business holdings; never had he known such ardent love-making. It brought a blush to his cheek just thinking of it. But now, in her mid-fifties, Bess’s disposition was sour and she had become bad-tempered, quarrelsome, spiteful, and sharp-tongued; in short, a scolding nag. Now he saw her scheming for what it was. From marrying her children to his to keep their money and properties all in the family, to her current desire to torment the Scottish queen because she knew he doted upon her, everything Bess did was aimed at bolstering her own self-importance.

  Mary, pale and drawn, flashed eyes filled with daggers at Bess. In a rare moment of introspective insight, Lord George marveled that former friends often make the worst enemies; many was the hour that his wife and the Scottish queen had whiled away together, their heads close, bent over their needlework. He could remember the exact moment when their friendship soured. It was the day on which Arabella was born. Because from that day forward, the heady idea that Bess was hosting a sovereign queen in her home gave way to his wife’s driving ambition to see her own grandchild become Queen of England. And married to James Stuart, her royal cousin, Arabella stood to be queen of the entire island. And so the scheming had begun. There was no room for sympathy, or further friendship, for her captive guest in those circumstances. He knew his wife like he knew the back of his own hand; she would not stop until she had ruined Mary’s reputation, and she did not care who she brought down in the process, including himself. He also knew that his wife wanted revenge upon him for his affair with Eleanor. She would not rest until both he and Mary were discredited. And what better way to do that, than to accuse them together?

  Mary struggled to sit up in the bed. She exhausted herself with the effort; he could see beads of sweat glistening on her pale brow. “You shall not slander me with impunity, Madam. If you do not desist your scandalmongering immediately, I shall inform the queen of your vicious lies. Yes, I shall this very night write a letter to Elizabeth! Forget you all the times we shared our thoughts? Your vile defamations and aspersions will sound ill in the queen’s ears, I trow!”

  Bess narrowed her eyes. “Do you dare to threaten me, Madam?”

  Mary sat in the bed, a hand grasping each elbow, rocking back and forth in her extremity of pain. “I?” she asked quietly. “Threaten you? Nay, I do not threaten you. I but make you my solemn promise to inform the Queen of England of your slanders and calumnies.”

  “Say you so, then?” scoffed Bess. “Think you that the queen will believe your malicious gossip? Never! Her Grace has said more than once that she would always be glad to see me at her court.”

  “Aye,” replied Mary. “I have no doubt of it. But think you that Her Grace will feel the same after I inform her of your disparagements of her character?”

  Lord George stood speechless and transfixed during this shocking exchange; his eyes darted back and forth with each heated retort, as if he were watching a tennis match.

  “You would not dare,” hissed Bess. “Besides which, it shall be your word against mine. Whom do you think the queen will believe? Myself, whom she loves, or a person whom she well knows to be plotting against her, and who desires nothing so much as her death?”

  Such a statement was far too close to home for Lord George; he blanched and his bile rose dangerously. That Mary might very well be plotting against the Queen of England whilst under his aegis greatly disturbed his peace of mind, but his position was extremely difficult. He loved Mary and had no wish to treat her harshly. But neither could he risk being thought disloyal to Elizabeth, his sovereign queen.

  And there was another consideration; one that lived in the backs of many minds, lurking, amorphous, certainly never spoken, barely thought of, but there all the same. If Elizabeth should die, none could deny that Mary Stuart was the rightful heir to the throne of England. Many, including himself! …would prefer that James took the throne. His Grace was Protestant, he was male, and he had amply demonstrated his ability to rule, even at his young age, and even with the difficulties he faced in turbulent Scotland. But the fact remained that although some might think to flout the laws of inheritance and succession, those laws could not be changed. Elizabeth was almost ten years Mary’s senior. It was perfectly conceivable that Mary might someday be his queen.

  “Enough!” he cried. But neither woman heeded him, so vehement were they.

  “And how well do you think the queen will love you, Madam,” asked Mary, “once she is informed of that which you have said against her, and accused her of?”

  Bess dropped her hands to her sides, pursed her lips, and tilted her chin stubbornly. “I do not know what you mean.”

  Mary clutched at the bed covers so tightly that her knuckles were bloodless and white, but she refused to back down. “Then allow me,” she said, almost in a whisper, “to refresh your faulty memory. Recall you not whispering to me over your needle that the queen hath lain with sundry men, yea, and women, too! And that she hath lain with the Earl of Leicester on diverse occasions, and with both Simier and Alençon? And that she forces Hatton to service her wretched and lewd desires? Forget you how you and the Countess of Lennox whiled away many an hour laughing about how Elizabeth believes the most absurd flatteries from sycophantic courtiers and foreign envoys? Do you not recall the many times you regaled us with stories of how the queen’s ladies laughed at her behind her back withal, for believing such ludicrous lies, as that she is the most handsome queen in Christendom, and that none can touch her for her beauty? And forget you the accusations of cruelty that you and Margaret leveled against Her Grace, in that she stabbed one of her ladies with a knife for the wearing of one of her gowns, and broke the finger of another for borrowing a jewel? And what of the times you laughed at Her Grace behind her back for the stinking sores on her legs, saying that the cankers were her vile temper turned outward?” Mary’s chest heaved with the exertion of her vehement words, but still she continued on. “And,” she said, “that the two of you discussed the queen’s death, saying that in any case, Her Grace had not long to live! Forget you madam, how you rejoiced each time the queen fell ill, forsooth, because her death would bring Arabella one step closer to the throne? To even think of, let alone speak of, the death of the sovereign is treason, and when Elizabeth learns of it, thy head will be forfeit!”

  “Enough!” shouted Lord George once more. “I will hear no more of such villainous talk! I swear before God that I shall go to the queen myself to inform Her Grace of these despicable lies, denigrations and disparagements!” Lord George was truly frightened by the possible consequences of having heard
such a stream of vituperative invective spoken about his own sovereign queen, and then failing to tell her of it. It made his blood run cold in his veins to think that he had had no notion that such slurs were being cast upon the queen by his wife and the Countess of Lennox, in his own house and under his very nose. And the accusation against Mary and himself reflected badly upon his honor and the good service he had always sought to render to queen and crown. God knew that he and the Queen of Scotland were innocent and falsely accused, but Bess was right; there were always people willing to believe salacious gossip for its own sake. And sadly, at that moment, he realized that he no longer cared about his wife. All he cared about now was informing Elizabeth of these dastardly matters before the rumors reached her ears by other means, and he was beyond redemption.

  Whitehall Palace, July 1584

  Elizabeth gazed at the unusual timepiece that Robert had given her, oh so many years ago. It was completely unique; the clock face was embedded in a bezel of gold, secured with rivets onto a fine golden filigree wrist band. Diamonds and rubies glittered along the intricate lattice work of the band. The movements of the hands were jerky; one had only to wait a short time, and every few seconds, the larger of the two would jump forward. Always forward! Alas! If only one were able, simply by reversing the hands, to turn time back. She would do nothing any differently had she been vouchsafed such an opportunity; but at least she would be able to return to what now seemed like the halcyon days, when she was young and beautiful, and had just come to her throne. How different the world had seemed then!

  At last the hand jerked to indicate the stroke of nine of the clock. No fanfare blew, no cannon boomed, but if the headsman was true to his task, then Francis Throckmorton’s head had just left his shoulders.

  In the distance she could hear the roar of a crowd; it came not from Tower Hill, but from the palace grounds. The resonant sounds of low rumbling and high-pitched cheering wafted in with the warm breeze to swirl about her ears. All had gathered at Whitehall’s tiltyard for the joust. Soon she would call her women and they would process down the corridor and out into the bright July sunshine to watch the competition.

  The metallic sound of the halberds uncrossing outside her door heralded Walsingham’s arrival. He had been high atop one of the palace’s many crenellated towers, watching for the signal that Throckmorton’s execution had indeed taken place. It was not far from Tower Hill to Whitehall; following soon after the signal a swift rider could be seen, heading for the palace, a trail of summer dust in his wake.

  Elizabeth gazed out of the window. The day was hot but fine; a good day on which to die. She grunted. Never having made Francis Throckmorton’s acquaintance, she found picturing him headless difficult. So perish all the queen’s enemies!

  “It is not enough, Your Grace,” said Walsingham.

  She knew what he meant; it had become evident that Sir Francis would never give up until the Queen of Scotland met a like fate. Mary, Mary, always Mary! Her cousin was ever a thorn in her side!

  “Did he die well?” she asked.

  Sir Francis cocked an errant eyebrow. “That depends upon your viewpoint, Your Grace,” he said, without even the trace of a smile.

  Elizabeth frowned and waved her peacock feather fan at Sir Francis. “Speak plainly,” she said.

  “He retracted his confession, accusing that such was obtained by the use of torture, withal.”

  Elizabeth’s eyebrows came down in a dreadful frown, resembling two sword points. “What else?”

  “He refused to ask Your Grace’s forgiveness for his offense. He refused to bless Your Grace, or to wish you long life.”

  “And his family?” she asked. She could not long delay her departure for the tiltyard. The roar of the crowd undulated in waves of sound. There was a bear baiting in progress, and the Master of the Revels had asked for funds for pipers, dancers, fire-eaters and sword swallowers.

  “There is none left, Your Grace,” replied Sir Francis. “Only a brother in self-exile on the Continent.”

  “Humph,” grunted the queen. “No wonder he was so bold! How dare a vile traitor say such things! Or not say them, as it were. Forsooth, man, the people throw themselves at my feet when I pass by, thanking God for such a loving queen, and praying for my continued good health and safety.”

  Sir Francis stirred in his chair. “Aye,” he agreed. “And at very great risk to yourself, Madam, to walk freely amongst so many!”

  Elizabeth gazed levelly at Sir Francis. “Not everyone wants me dead, sir.” Besides, she was accustomed to dodging fortune’s icy finger; a remarkable comet had appeared in the sky the previous summer, frightening the people and supposedly presaging the death of some great personage. Dr. Dee had assured her she was not that person; she had stood bravely at the open window of her chambers at Hampton Court Palace, shaking her fist at the comet and daring it to do her harm. Her courage in the face of such a threat had very much impressed the people.

  “The fact remains, Your Grace, that we can no longer defer a decision concerning the Queen of Scotland. Something must be done.”

  Elizabeth guffawed. “Or be seen to be done.” She detested being dictated to. She felt her ire rise, as it never failed to do at any mention of Mary, the succession, or any discussion of Mary’s fate. But her anger quickly subsided. Sir Francis sat calmly, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. She could sense that he was as tightly wound as a spring.

  Sir Francis sighed. He had witnessed a number of displays of Tudor temper over the years, and had no desire to experience another. Although he suspected that he would in future be called upon to do so, he sincerely hoped that it would not be today. “If we fail to take some action, Your Grace, it will simply encourage the Catholics all the more.”

  Elizabeth indicated her contempt with a slight lift of the shoulder. “Perhaps,” she replied. But she knew in her heart that he was right. Many was the time that she had jested about naming her heir only with her dying breath. But what if the knife or the assassin’s bullet did find her? She knew that should she die without naming an heir, the English Catholics would declare for Mary. That was bad enough, but the corollary was even worse; the Protestants were certain to declare for James, and then civil war would result. And not just civil war; the Catholics would have the might of France, Spain and Rome behind them. The consequences for her beloved England were too horrible to contemplate.

  Sir Francis met and held her gaze. “We cannot afford to allow the Queen of Scotland to embroil herself with impunity in any further plots against the English crown, Your Grace. The Bond of Association will be a powerful deterrent to those tempted to betray England for Rome. But it is not enough.”

  “Yes, yes,” she agreed, with an impatient wave of a hand upon which several rings glittered in the sunlight beaming in through the windows. “But won’t you tell me, my Good Moor, what is to be done? Any harshness shown my cousin is certain to bring on the scolding, if not worse, of at least the Guises and the Bishop of Rome, if not Henri and the Queen Mother.”

  Sir Francis shifted in his chair. He picked up the flagon that sat sweating on the table between them and poured two goblets of wine. “At the very least, Your Grace, we must begin to contemplate a change of…” He had almost said gaoler; but as true as it was, saying so plainly never failed to discomfit and annoy the queen.

  “A change of what, sir?”

  Walsingham raised his face to Elizabeth’s, his eyes boring into hers. “The recent scandal swirling about the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury is most unsavory, Your Grace. The accusations made cannot be ignored, even if they are untrue.”

  Elizabeth laid aside her goblet. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Lord George has shouldered the burden of hosting the Queen of Scots for quite some time. The expense alone must be crippling, even for one with his vast resources. The situation has evidently taken a toll on his marriage as well. And he is far too lenient.”

  She knew Sir Francis well enough to know that
he had thoroughly thought the matter through before mentioning it to her, and that he had a solution at the ready. She nodded to indicate that he should continue.

  “Under the circumstances, we ought at least to consider shifting the burden to someone else.”

  “Whom do you have in mind?”

  Sir Francis kept his face expressionless. “Sir Amyas Paulet.”

  “Paulet!” she expostulated. “That dour man.”

  Sir Francis smiled his slow, sly, smile. “Your Grace,” he said quietly. “What is needed is someone who is not likely to succumb to the Queen of Scotland’s allure.” The word was carefully chosen; he was well aware of Elizabeth’s burning jealousy of her cousin’s mysterious appeal to men.

  “I agree that a change is needed. But not Paulet.”

  Sir Francis was disappointed; he had spoken with Paulet, who was thoroughly prepared to become the gaoler needed to ensure that the Queen of Scotland was unable to plot against queen and country any further. But any change would be better than allowing Her Grace to bide where she was, an eventuality that now must not even be considered, with the current scandal raging. Still, one must cut one’s losses. “Does Your Grace have someone else in mind?”

  Elizabeth nibbled a cuticle. She agreed with Walsingham that a change was needed for many reasons, just at this time. But such a harsh gaoler as Paulet was likely to be! No…it must be someone capable of keeping Mary close confined, but who would not bring harsh criticism down upon herself. “Sir Ralph Sadler,” she said.

  Sir Francis considered. Sir Ralph was seven-and-seventy. “He is an old man.”

  “That is true,” said Elizabeth. “Perhaps he will prove impermeable to my cousin’s allure, as you so delicately put it. He was, as I recall, most adamant in his disapproval of Her Grace when he visited her at Sheffield in 1572.”

  For several moments, Sir Francis said nothing. Well did he recall the strong pull of Mary Stuart’s mysterious magnetism. Her Grace’s charm was potent. And even though he himself had proved completely immune to it, he was still very much aware of its existence. That the rumors regarding improprieties between the Queen of Scotland and the Earl of Shrewsbury were untrue, he was certain; but that Lord George had become besotted and far too lenient in his treatment of the Queen of Scots, he was equally sure. The Queen of Scotland must be more closely confined; she must be removed from the custody of the squabbling Shrewsburys and placed where she would not cause such strife.