In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  “If you do not w-want to go with me, I understand.” Anthony was sobbing now, and hiccoughing. “But c-can you help me? To get away? C-Can you arrange a safe conduct for me? Sir Francis will listen to you.”

  For a moment, Poley was seized with an uncontrollable urge to laugh; the idea of approaching Sir Francis to ask for such a thing was so utterly absurd. But time was short; there was little time to think about what was to be done, and no time for hysterics. There was nothing he could do for Sir Anthony except turn away and not betray him. Anthony was a handsome man; for one moment on this knife-edge of time, Poley considered his proposal again. But no. It was not possible; he could not do it. He took Anthony’s hands into his own, the way he might have done a blubbering serving wench’s who had dropped a platter at table.

  “My dear,” he said softly. “It cannot be. I must stay here. But you must go, and go quickly. There is no time for such niceties as a safe conduct. It is possible…” Oh God, forgive him for the lie! “…that they are on to us already. So you must go. Do not tarry. Take what you can and get a ship, now, tonight.”

  “And where the devil is Gifford?” cried Sir Anthony, with a catch in his voice.

  That was a question to which Poley knew the answer; Gilbert had bolted days before, and no wonder. He, Poley, was a Protestant posing as a Catholic; Gifford was Catholic, and a reluctant double spy. Had he not run, Gifford would almost certainly have been arrested with the others. And the arrests were inevitable. Sir Anthony and his cadre of romantic young Catholics had been most free with their talk in the taverns of London towards the end, and the painting Anthony had commissioned had been found that very afternoon in his London home. As they spoke, Cecil was having broadsheets posted all over the city with the likenesses of the plotters of the queen’s death. The hue and cry had been raised; there was nothing that could stop the juggernaut now.

  Poley looked about him. It was almost full dark. He took Anthony’s face into his hands. “Anthony,” he said. “Listen to me. You must away, now, tonight. Do not tarry another moment. Go to the docks and get a boat. Go now.”

  “Wh-what will you d-do?” asked Anthony. He wiped the tears impatiently away from his eyes.

  “I must stay and do what I can to warn the others,” he replied. It was a thumping lie, but what else could one say? At some point Anthony would hear that he was taken and in the Tower; pray God he would never know of his treachery.

  Anthony searched Poley’s eyes in the waning light. He was refused; he had been refused before. No was no, and nothing to be done. He had left his wife and child, and his sister, at the manor in Staffordshire. He had never wanted a wife, but he needed an heir. And then he had had naught but a girl, so it had all been for nothing.

  “Please,” said Poley. “You must go.” They had been gripping each other’s arms the whole time; they relaxed their grips and clasped hands. Finally Anthony pulled away; as their hands lost touch Poley knew a moment of regret. Perhaps he should go with Anthony…but no. He exited the thicket just in time to catch a last glimpse of Anthony as he disappeared into the gloaming.

  Chartley Manor, Staffordshire, August 1586

  As Sir Amyas rode along in the brilliant August sunshine, he remarked smugly to himself, for perhaps the hundredth time, that the Queen of Scots had not even a modicum of sense. No wonder she had failed so miserably in her life! No wonder she had lost her son, her husbands, her realm and her freedom! For when he had suggested the morning’s outing, Her Grace had actually smiled and thanked him, eagerly calling her servant to choose a dress suitable for riding. One could but marvel at the naiveté of such a one. He had often remarked to himself how blithely Mary had accepted, without question, both the baker’s basket and the brewer’s ale casks as secret avenues of communication. And the serendipitous arrival of Gifford on the scene like manna from Heaven would have had any other person in Her Grace’s position hearing warning bells so loud that they must be heeded. And this morning’s ride! Never had he ever suggested such a thing to her, and yet she had shown no wariness, no caution. He turned to the guard riding next to him and said, apropos of nothing, “Methinks that the queen ought to have been more suspicious.”

  The startled guard simply replied, “Aye, my lord.”

  “Humph,” grunted Sir Ralph. Many others blamed the Stuart’s many disappointments, her ill health, her long imprisonment, her despair at her predicament, for her poor judgment. It was true that she had been reassured by Morgan’s letter to trust Gifford; that had been a stroke of good fortune. But in his estimation, the Queen of Scots had such a long history of consistently unsound decision making that the flaw must be innate. And that, he concluded, was the difference between a queen and a pawn! Checkmate!

  Mary was riding ahead of Sir Amyas, which suited her quite well. It allowed her to pretend that he was not there. It was true that she was surrounded by guards, but what could one expect? Her heart sang at the reality of riding a horse in the summer sunshine. She had never expected to ride again, both because of her remarkably tedious close confinement under Sir Amyas’ guardianship, and because she had been so very ill for so long. But the new hope in her heart had restored her. Her spirits were high, the pains in her side and limbs were in abeyance, and her appetite had returned. She must eat and grow strong again, against the day, which could not be long delayed, when she would rule once more, upon her throne and in the sight of the world.

  Her mare picked its delicate way along the stony path. Mary regarded the sorry state of the fields on either side of the road. It had been a remarkably cold, wet summer. If the farms she was passing on this ride were any indication, it was to be a very poor harvest indeed. Such a thought, in the past, would have found her sympathetic with the plight of the people who would hunger, but apathetic as to a remedy; what could a captive queen do, after all? But now, at that moment, her heart swelled with anticipation; if all went according to plan, it would be up to her to see to it that foreign grain was purchased to allay the ill effects of a poor harvest. France was a rich country; she had close ties there. She would appeal to Henri and Catherine to sell her grain for bread for…heady thought! …her Scottish and English subjects.

  The sound of pounding hooves and the jingle of harness brought her abruptly out of her reverie. Where was it coming from? Suddenly a troop of horsemen appeared, galloping swiftly across the moor, towards where she and Sir Amyas and their little party now skirted a stream. She stopped and the mare lowered her head to drink. Her heart leapt; it pounded so loudly in her chest that she thought she was sure to die. Holy Mary, Mother of God, this was it. This must be it. Dear Anthony had been as true as his word. Was he with them? She squinted her eyes, but she lost the riders in the sun. Anthony was many things, but not a swordsman. His virtue lay in his loyalty and his unwavering devotion to her cause, and to the cause of God and the Catholic Church. He would know to send sturdy men, stout fighters; he knew that she was heavily guarded. But by the Rood, how had he known that she would be abroad this day? She herself had not known until the moment was upon her.

  The men were riding so hard that they overshot the party of riders and had to double back. No swords were drawn; that was best, after all. One must avoid bloodshed if possible. Should she give spur now, and ride off with the men…? But in that moment, she realized that the leader of the troop had sought out Sir Amyas and was conversing with him. Was this to be a gentlemanly, negotiated release into their custody? Trust Sir Anthony to be gallant, civil, courteous…they were walking their horses over to where she sat her mare at the stream’s edge.

  “Your Grace,” said the man who had been talking with Sir Amyas. “I am Sir Thomas Gorges. By order of Her Grace, Queen Elizabeth, and in consequence of the discovery of Your Grace’s share in a horrible conspiracy against the life of our sovereign queen, I hereby arrest Your Grace on a charge of treason.” He was glad to have been chosen for the task; through his great-grandmother, Lady Anne Howard, daughter of John Howard, 1st Duke of Norfolk, he wa
s a second cousin of both Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard. He was proud of his connection to the queen, and had served her all his life.

  Mary had barely comprehended Sir Thomas’s words, but her instinct was to flee. She looked about her. The stream was at her back, but it was shallow; it was the only way. But even as the thought entered her mind, Sir Amyas had cautiously approached and had a hand on her bridle. It was too late.

  “That is an infamous charge,” cried Mary indignantly. “I am innocent, I tell you!” She looked desperately about, but it was clear that there would be no help for her. There was no escape. Tears sprang into her eyes. Her brain, unable to comprehend what was transpiring, still thought to look for Sir Anthony and the men she had thought were to be her saviors. But the moor was still and silent; she realized in that moment that no one was coming to rescue her.

  “I am to conduct Your Grace to Tixall Hall,” said Sir Thomas, and with that he nodded to the guards, who surrounded her.

  “No,” said Mary. “I will not go with you. I will not go to Tixall!” With that, she slid from the mare’s back and sat down upon the ground.

  Several men dismounted, awaiting Sir Thomas’s order. He nodded, but as the men came forward, Mary cried, “Would you lay hands on an anointed queen?”

  Sir Thomas turned to Sir Amyas; Sir Amyas shifted impatiently in his saddle. Why must he always be the one who had to set things to rights? He sighed; he was her keeper and it was his duty to see to it that his charge was taken to Tixall. Even now, Walsingham’s agents were pulling up floorboards at Chartley Manor. The queen’s rooms there were being thoroughly searched.

  “Your Grace cannot stay here,” he said impatiently.

  “Then I demand to be taken back to Chartley,” she sobbed. “I shall not go to Tixall, where I might be murdered in my sleep!”

  Sir Amyas regarded her hatefully; why could Her Grace not simply act like the queen she professed to be, and accept the inevitable? His patience was being sorely tried. He had once told Cecil that if men should ever storm the manor thinking to rescue the Scottish whore, he would ensure that she died before he did. He heartily wished in that moment that the painful ailments that assailed her for so long had taken her off. But that had not happened, and it was now his lot to see that this day ended peacefully and safely at Tixall.

  “I am guilty of nothing!” cried Mary. “My cousin has been misinformed by those who think badly of me and wish me ill! I have always been her good sister and friend!” With that, she began to pray loudly to God to save her in her extremity.

  The clouds that had appeared as a smudge on the horizon earlier in the day finally reached the sky above them. She shaded her eyes and cast her glance over the moor. Subtle changes in light played across the landscape as the clouds scudded across the sun. The morning was gone, and the afternoon had set in. There was nothing for it; she could not stay where she was. She was surrounded by her enemies. She must trust in God to protect her now. Slowly, she arose from the ground and faced her captors.

  As they made their slow way across the moor toward Tixall, this time the sound of the horses’ hooves did not stir her blood. Each footfall now seemed to sound her doom.

  Chapter 30

  “Well, what do you think of your Queen of Scotland? With black ingratitude and treachery she tries to kill me who so often have saved her life. Now I am certain of her evil intent, and it may be she will not have another opportunity to behave like this.”

  – Elizabeth I, to the French ambassador

  Windsor Castle, September 1586

  E lizabeth looked about her with the same superstitious awe she always felt when in the presence of her father. It was a crystal clear September day outside, but the tombs in St. George’s Chapel were as cold…she smiled to herself at the simile…as the grave. As she always did, she asked herself what her father would have thought of her reign. And always she reached the same conclusion; they were Tudors, with wild Welsh blood coursing through their veins. They would do as they list. Her father had created his own share of problems, just as had she. But despite their actions, the people still loved them. Neither of them, given a second chance, would have done anything differently. And England had prospered greatly under their reigns.

  As she turned away from the tomb of her father, she spared a thought for Jane, the only one her father’s wives to be accorded the privilege of remaining beside his rotting carcass for all eternity. She shuddered, but she was uncertain if it was from the cold or from disgust.

  She stepped outside into the brilliant sunshine. Facing her was the formidable Round Tower, looming and forbidding even on the most beautiful day. She loathed Windsor, but there was nothing for it; she refused to abide in the Tower, and Windsor was the only alternative when one required a fortress with access to London. Damn Mary Stuart!

  But she could not help feeling a certain smug satisfaction at the turn of events. Her cousin had played right into Walsingham’s hands. After all, Mary could not have been caught in Walsingham’s sticky web had she not indeed been conspiring; Mary’s evil intent was evident, despite her indignant denials. Her cousin had been a divisive influence, a pernicious presence in her realm, for nigh on twenty years. And there seemed no end in sight. For now she must face the Council and tell them that she could not allow her cousin to be tried. If tried, Mary would almost certainly be found guilty; and then they would want to execute her. That she could not allow, not because she harbored any sentiment where her cousin was concerned, but because the idea of a sovereign queen being judged by subjects was abhorrent to her; and because she did not want on her conscience the execution of a fellow monarch, one anointed of God, as she had been at her own coronation. And Mary had been twice anointed as such; once as queen of Scotland and again as the queen of France.

  She climbed the familiar stairway to the Council chamber, steeling herself for what was to come.

  The Council chamber was lively; she could hear the rise and fall of adamant voices engaged in emphatic argument. After all, there were some who agreed with her. With a metallic swish, the halberdiers uncrossed their mighty weapons and she entered the room; suddenly all went silent. The men stood, sitting only after she had taken her place at the head of the table.

  Without hesitation, Cecil turned to her and said, “Your Grace, the plotters confessed, were condemned to death, and have been executed. The Queen of Scots must also be tried. It is time. This cannot wait.”

  At that moment, Elizabeth experienced a feeling with which she was unfamiliar; blind panic. She came from a long line of warrior kings, and her own mother had been defiant of a king in the face of death. She had great courage, there was no doubt of it; but the idea of giving her consent to the trial for treason of an anointed queen made her blood run cold. To allow a queen to be judged by mere subjects was anathema to her own royalty; kings and queens were accountable only to God for their actions. To concede any other point was to set a dangerous precedent not only in her own realm, but throughout all of Christendom. Her fellow monarchs would not thank her for it.

  She had hoped that the gruesome deaths of Babington and his group of conspirators would serve to satisfy the people’s bloodlust for those who had sought to murder their queen and steal her kingdom. But it appeared that it was not to be. She must face that which she had dreaded for so long; the death of her cousin and a fellow queen at her own hands.

  “Your Grace,” said Hunsdon, “This horrible conspiracy has given rise to a flood of ballads and broadsheets clamoring for the execution of the Queen of Scotland. The people are baying for Her Grace’s blood. And Parliament waits to see if the Act for the Queen’s Safety that is now English law will be enforced.” This was as plainspoken as he dared be; none other but he and Nottingham would have had the liberty to go as far. Both were cousins to the queen through her mother.

  “Your Grace,” said Hatton. “Ever since the news of this latest conspiracy reached the peoples’ ears, all has been wild tales and grievous alarm. Rumors are r
ife; people believe that the French invaded and took three towns near Rye; merchant ships off the Isle of Wight were taken for Spanish galleons filled with hellfire and Catholic priests, come to bring to England the Spanish Inquisition, and with it, the dreaded stake; an errant fire in a haystack meant that warning beacons were being lighted all along the coast. All are uneasy, unsettled. Until the threat is removed, the land sits under a pall of fear. Think of your people!”

  “God’s bloody eyeballs, man!” cried Elizabeth, slamming her fist down onto the table. “When have I ever thought of anything else? If the Queen of Scots and I had been private citizens, milkmaids with pails, we might have settled our differences between us. But we are not! We are both queens who represent diametrically opposed religions and foreign alliances. Trying and executing the Queen of Scotland, therefore, is a situation fraught with danger! It is not only my own life that is at risk, it is the safety and security of the entire realm! For instance, what of James?”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, but what of him?” asked Charles Howard of Effingham, her cousin, and Earl of Nottingham. “His Grace looks more upon yourself as a mother than his own! Begging your gracious pardon, but King James stands to benefit from the death of the Scottish queen and, I believe, will not turn a hair at it. And her death, which is richly deserved, I might add, will clear the way for a Protestant succession. Such will greatly ease the fears of your people…all of them.” The implication was clear; even the Council and the Parliament greatly feared the fact that all which stood between them and disaster was the life of one aging woman, who refused to name an heir to her throne.