In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  So swiftly that Walsingham was not entirely certain for a moment what had happened, Elizabeth dashed her tankard at her reflection in the sconce. It bounced off with a mighty clang, landed on the floor, and rolled until it hit the wall. Neither spoke, but he had his answer. Bring the queen proof of Mary’s complicity in planning her death and seizing her throne, and this time, she would act.

  In the wake of the murder of William of Orange, the Council, normally so divided, were completely of one mind on the matter; if the queen could not be persuaded to safety, she had refused even a bodyguard, then the end game must change. Instead of simply seeking to prevent Her Grace’s death, they must also prepare for it.

  A Catholic must not ascend the throne of England.

  Mary Stuart must die.

  Chapter 28

  “They are seeking to take my life, but it troubles me not. He Who is on high has defended me until this hour, and will keep me still, for in Him I do trust.”

  -Elizabeth I

  Tutbury Castle, March 1585

  T he sun never quite reached the dismal rooms that had been assigned to Mary at Tutbury Castle. She believed this to be no oversight. Sir Amyas Paulet had proved impervious to her strange allure; he had made his dislike of her known from the very first moment of their renewed acquaintance. At first she had feigned indifference; but it was no longer possible, in the face of so much disappointment and misery, to maintain such a façade.

  She was now dangerously close to despair; indeed, she was no stranger to it. She had tasted despair before, many times. The ability to hope was a virtue; to surrender to despair was anathema to hope, and once one slipped down that slope, there was no return. She must not give in to it.

  But how in the name of God, she asked herself, was she to carry on? Whereas before she had known great hope, now that hope, along with so many others, was forlorn. Must she now be compelled to watch her last chance of freedom die before her very eyes, and nothing to be done? How could it be otherwise? She recalled Walsingham’s words to her, the day he had informed her of the change of gaoler. Her captivity had indeed been lenient, if the harsh treatment she was being subjected to under Sir Amyas’ stewardship was any indication of what her life might have been like these many years.

  But Sir Amyas was not simply stern; he was cruel. For he had insisted that she be deprived of the small throne and canopy of state that she set such store by, and which had been allowed her all the years of her imprisonment..

  “You cannot do that,” she had said.

  Sir Amyas had gazed back at her blandly. “I have my orders, Your Grace,” he said. “No luxuries.”

  She looked at him in utter astonishment. He was a career diplomat; surely he must know… “Sir Amyas,” she said. “My throne and canopy of state are not luxuries. They are mine by divine right as the anointed of God, and as a sovereign prince.”

  Steely gaze met steely gaze; so it was to be a battle of wills. She had always been allowed the symbols of her royalty, not only because Elizabeth knew that prisoner or not, she was entitled to them, but because her cousin was also a queen, and had no wish to see any diminution of royalty.

  “I shall write to Her Grace,” he said. But by the time he did so, and the queen read his letter and replied to it, the throne and canopy would have been packed away, perhaps even moved to some other house…he had no intention of treating a murdering papist whore with any more deference than he must. In Mary Stuart, he saw not the Queen of Scotland, he saw not a still-handsome woman, but a slithering serpent, sent to beguile the hearts of men. Oh, he had heard of her strange and wicked charm; he could feel it himself. But it did not move him.

  Mary saw in Sir Amyas a stubborn, unpleasant dogmatist whose behavior bordered on the insolent. She was to have no privileges; henceforth, there would be no visitors; she would not be permitted to take the air, not even in the castle’s privy garden; she was to be allowed no letters, save those of the French ambassador. And these had already been opened and, she was certain, read, by the time they were finally presented to her. But it was not these official letters that mattered; in them, neither she nor Castelnau could say much of any importance. The reason for her deep despair was that with the move to Tutbury under the hateful Sir Amyas, her avenues of secret communication had been abruptly cut off.

  She simply must find a way to get letters out; and more importantly, get them in, for more than anything else, she craved news. But Paulet had stopped even the most benign methods of communication; her servants had hitherto been permitted their freedom, even if they served a captive queen. But now, they were not allowed even to walk on the battlements, for fear that they would communicate with hand signals or send a letter sailing over the castle walls. Even the midwife engaged to attend the birth of one of her laundresses was informed that on pain of misprision of treason, she was to have no truck with the Queen of Scotland, nor any other person not directly connected with the birthing chamber.

  The worst of it was that she knew in her heart that Sir Amyas could never be bribed, which was the naïve advice she had received from Archbishop Beaton before she had left Lord George’s care. As thoroughly as she was now cut off from the outside world, under the purview of a fanatically unsympathetic gaoler, she had little choice but to believe that this time, hope was indeed dead.

  And from there, the darkest days of winter set in and she had experienced the most miserable season of her life. Tutbury Castle was just as damp and draughty as she remembered it; the cold wind whistled in through chinks in the walls and exacerbated her joint evil. All the improvements to her health that she had so briefly enjoyed under Sir Ralph had reversed themselves; she was very stiff and sore once more.

  She looked back with longing upon her short time with Sir Ralph; her stay at Wingfield Manor had not only restored her health, it had given her new hope for the future. Anthony Babington, whose acquaintance she had renewed there, was most enthusiastic as to the possibility of a Catholic uprising in England. He was again committed to her cause; he had once more taken up the task of managing her clandestine correspondence. She had a cipher; she had a willing courier; she had people still keen to help further her cause. This time she must succeed.

  So bitter now indeed were her feelings, now that this new hope for freedom and the restoration of her royal rights was to be dashed upon the rock that was the formidable Sir Amyas Paulet. But she must not give up; she must not give in. From now on, no plan, no ploy, was too far-fetched. She was desperate; desperate for her freedom, and now, desperate for vengeance against her cousin. She would find a way.

  Windsor Castle, May 1585

  Elizabeth stood before her father’s tomb in St. George’s Chapel. She avoided Windsor whenever possible; of all her castles and palaces, Windsor was her least favorite. She had no particular reason for feeling this way; she only knew that she did. She often wondered if perhaps the reason for this odd feeling lay before her in his grave.

  Her formidable father had not lived to see either of his daughters take the throne; he died believing he had indeed provided England with the son that he had turned his kingdom and its religion upside down to get, and that Edward would be king, with his own son to follow him. So he had never known that her sister Mary, the granddaughter of kings, had made such a muddle of her reign. For Mary had realized their father’s greatest fear; that the foreign husband of a daughter would rule his beloved England. The irony of it was that Mary had done her level best to get Philip to rule England; but in the end, His Grace had been unable to stomach his wife, and had fled. He had kingdoms enough of his own to rule!

  Nor had King Henry lived to see the Bastard Elizabeth, daughter of the Great Whore, take the throne. But seldom had she measured her own success or failure as queen by Henry VIII’s yardstick. Their situations were so very different. But all in all, she was satisfied with her care of England and the English people; and the English people daily declared that they, too, were satisfied with their queen. Were they not coming forth
in droves, asking to put their names to the Bond of Association? Never had she been more popular and beloved of her people.

  No footstep had sounded, no cleared throat had broken the silent stillness of the chapel. And yet she sensed someone there.

  Sir Francis Walsingham stepped out of the shadows. “Your Grace,” he said, in his hypnotic voice, so soft and quiet. “There is news. The Council awaits.”

  “And they sent you? The news must be dire indeed.” Elizabeth laughed, but her jibe elicited no response. Sir Francis, she knew, had little sense of humor. But that was, perhaps, a laudable trait in a spymaster. Everything was taken seriously; nothing was taken for granted.

  “Philip has seized English trading ships in his ports. He has imprisoned the crews, confiscated their goods, and is refitting the ships for his fleet.”

  “So,” she scoffed. “I am to defend England with Philip’s gold, whilst he attacks me with my own ships. A pretty situation indeed.”

  At the doors of the great church she stopped and looked back. The sheer beauty of the chapel struck her anew, with its gilded columns and intricate fan vaulting. The ceiling was so high that it seemed to soar; only the lacy pattern there told of stone and not of sky.

  Together they stepped out into the brilliant spring sunshine. The day was already warm, and a balmy breeze was blowing. Planks of wood had been laid atop the cobblestones, which, despite the castellan’s best efforts, were sinking into the mud.

  “Perhaps the sun will dry the roads,” mused Sir Francis. His network, and his ability to protect the queen and England, depended upon the timely movement of information.

  As they entered the door to the tower which housed the council chamber, Elizabeth was aware of leaving the sun behind. She stifled a shiver as her hand hit the cold stone of the wall beside the narrow spiral staircase.

  “There is something else,” he said. “A priest has been detained at Rye.”

  “Humph. Even with the new law debarring priests from English soil, more seem to be coming than going.”

  Sir Francis met her gaze levelly. “Perhaps they seek martyrdom.”

  From anyone else of her acquaintance, this would have been a flippant remark. But Sir Francis was serious.

  “Or sainthood,” she replied, with a wry grin.

  “He was carrying papers that indicate a Spanish invasion of England.”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “We have known of such for some time,” she said. “Or at least, suspected as much.”

  “Now we have proof.”

  “I see,” said Elizabeth. “And when is this invasion expected to take place?”

  “That, Your Grace, is still unknown.” But such an undertaking required much preparation. Considering the state of Spanish affairs according to the reports of his spies, he was convinced in himself that an attack must be a year away at least. How was one to reconcile that with Philip’s promises to invade England on behalf of the Scottish queen? It could only mean that Philip had no intention of helping Mary Stuart, despite his promises. It also meant that when he trapped her, the Spanish king was unlikely to lift a finger to help her. Philip wanted England for himself; he wanted personal revenge against his sister-in-law. In his estimation, none of these motivations left room for Mary Stuart.

  At the door to the council chamber, Sir Francis paused. He nodded towards the door. “What will you say to them, Your Grace?”

  Elizabeth smiled. “The same things I always say.”

  Tutbury Castle, June 1585

  Mary dabbed at her eyes with one hand and held the clove-stuffed pomander to her nose with the other. The foul smell of the midden that was Tutbury’s moat, combined with the stench that arose from the nearby marshes, brought tears to her eyes. The weather had warmed early that year, and the summer looked to be long and hot. And it was only June! How she was to survive the summer at Tutbury she had no idea.

  Suddenly the door to her outer chamber opened, and there stood Sir Amyas. “There is a letter for you,” he said. What could it possibly be, she wondered? She was allowed only diplomatic correspondence, but Castelnau’s letters were seldom of any interest. But it was not the French ambassador’s seal that dangled from the parchment.

  When he handed her the letter and she could clearly see the seal, her eyes went wide. James! She could not help herself; she seized the missive eagerly, but slowed to carefully unfold all four corners.

  When she was finished reading, she lifted her eyes to Sir Amyas’. His eyes shone with malice. “Your Grace shall be permitted to reply,” he said smoothly.

  Mary’s eyes narrowed. She could see it all; they wished to foster ill-feelings between her and her son, to alienate them even further from each other. For what other reply could she possibly make to a letter in which her own son informed her that she would henceforward be known in her kingdom of Scotland as the Queen Mother?

  “I am the only monarch of Scotland, sir,” she said to Sir Amyas. “My son can come to the throne of Scotland only through me. The title of Queen Mother is an insult.” She let the letter fall to the floor. James, still an impressionable young boy, had so far deserted her for Elizabeth that it seemed there was no turning back. That her son was amenable to denying his own mother, even without Elizabeth having explicitly named him as her heir, was a cruel blow. Must she disown her only son and heir? Was such a drastic act the only means by which to make him understand?

  “Be that as it may, Your Grace,” said Sir Amyas, “here, you shall be addressed as such from this day forward.” He bent to retrieve the letter, refolded it, and placed it inside his doublet.

  Mary lifted her chin in defiance. “I will speak with no one who addresses me as such,” she replied. “My son may do as he pleases, sir, being far from my guiding hand, but we shall see what the queen has to say upon the matter.” In regard to this, at least, she knew what Elizabeth was likely to say; her cousin would tolerate no action that condoned disrespect to the royal estate. Had she not, after all, won the battle over her throne and canopy? Elizabeth had been quite stern with Sir Amyas in reply to her desperate plea; the throne and canopy had been restored. In the great hall they would stay, even if they were never used. Sir Amyas had woefully misjudged that situation, and this was no different. Let him find out for himself what the queen would think of such contempt for the symbols of royalty! Then she turned her head, that he might not bear witness to the tears that stung the backs of her eyelids.

  Sir Amyas smiled his sly, enigmatic smile, bowed, and departed without a word. The Frenchified, husband-murdering Great Whore of Babylon who called herself the Queen of Scotland might win a battle or two, but as far as he was concerned, her ultimate destiny was inevitable.

  Mary turned away from the dismal scene outside her window just in time to see the back of Sir Amyas as he departed. Would that she could see the back of the hateful man forever!

  “Oh, if only I could get a letter to Anthony!” she cried. She simply must get word to her Guise relations, to Henri, to Philip. Even to His Holiness, the pope. To be so cut off from the world…! Never had she missed Seton, resourceful, reliable Seton, so sorely.

  She was startled out of her reverie by the soft voice of Janet Kennedy, her chief gentlewoman and closest friend, now that dear Seton was gone to France. It was the venturesome Janet who had leapt from the castle wall, practicing for her escape from Lochleven Castle all those years ago; it was Janet who had taken oar with Willie and the oarsman, and rowed them across the loch to Kinross, and to freedom.

  “There is a way, Your Grace,” said Janet. Their eyes met. There was no need to ask what she meant.

  Mary nodded; the only time she was provided with writing materials was when she was obliged to respond to diplomatic correspondence. She had hidden a spare quill in the hem of her gown; the poppy syrup she took to ease the pain of her stiff joints was thick and black; it was precious, but it would serve as ink. But she had no parchment.

  Janet triumphantly withdrew a sheaf of papers from her bodice.
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  “Will these not be missed?” asked Mary, even as she stretched out an eager hand to take them. She eyed longingly the sheets of vellum that Janet held out to her.

  “Never,” Janet replied. “I was exceedingly careful, Your Grace.”

  She must waste no more time, then. “Stand vigil at the door, if you please.” Mary knew better than to ask how? Who? It was far better that she not know; then if she were caught, she could not betray.

  Janet turned her attention to the door; even the slightest sound might mean that Sir Amyas or his representative were coming. But there was no sound except the distant bleating of sheep, and the scratching of Mary’s quill across the parchment.

  Theobalds, Hertfordshire, July 1585

  The day was hot and still; not a breath of air stirred. Pestilence was raging in the stews of London; Elizabeth had once again repaired to the safe haven of Cecil’s country estate of Theobalds.

  She still had only to crook her finger and Robert would be at her side; he was on his way to her from his own estate of Kenilworth at that very moment. But this time, he was in for a nasty surprise. For in her hand she held a letter from her royal cousin of Scotland, describing in detail Bess of Hardwick’s plan to marry her granddaughter, the Lady Arabella Stuart, to Lord Denbigh. Never would she permit such a thing! There was not much upon which she and Mary Stuart would ever agree, but condoning a marriage between anyone in the line of succession to the throne without royal permission, and to a commoner, was of a certainty amongst those rare things. Lord Denbigh was the son of Robert and Lettice; never would she allow a spawn of Lettice’s to inherit her throne! Not to mention that marrying an heir to the throne required royal leave; to do so without such leave was against English law. If the arrogant, insufferable Earl of Leicester thought to make the match a fait acompli, and then attempt to convince her of its efficacy regarding the succession, he was sadly mistaken; even her indulgence of a royal favorite did not extend that far.