In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  “King Philip, then,” she said. “Will he not band with the Guises, with Henri and the Queen Mother, in their Catholic League, and come to wreak their vengeance upon us for the death of a Catholic queen?”

  “Your Grace,” said Hatton. “King Philip could hardly harbor any more ill intentions towards England than he already does.”

  Walsingham had remained silent and aloof whilst all the arguments were mooted. Now he leaned forward, his hands clasped before him as if in prayer. “Your Grace,” he said. “We must break this vicious cycle of plots and threats of invasion. How many times must Her Grace be found to be embroiled in a conspiracy against your precious life, to the detriment of the entire realm of England, before we take decisive action? The plots against your life by Ridolfi, Parry, Throckmorton; all have failed. And now, by the grace of God, so has Babington’s. The Queen of Scotland has been implicated in them all. How many times shall we be fortunate enough to foil these dastardly treasons?”

  Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips into a thin, defiant line. “I place my trust in God, as I have always done,” she replied.

  “Aye, and that is right laudable. But methinks,” said Walsingham, “that to fail to proceed against Her Grace this time seems more akin to tempting God than trusting him. Mary Stuart must be tried, found guilty, and executed. This time, there is no other way. Her Grace has proved beyond all doubt that she will never cease her scheming against queen and crown. She is a focal point for rebellion. The inspiration for all this danger must be removed, once and for all.” And he dared not mention that it made him sick at heart to think that all of his efforts to free the realm of Mary Stuart might have been for naught.

  “Your Grace,” said Cecil. “The Queen of Scots is a treacherous rival for your crown whose very existence poses a danger not only to your personal safety, but to the peace and security of England. We cannot afford to suffer these hazards any longer. The people will not stand for it. Something must be done.”

  Christ on the Cross, she thought, if this went on much longer, Cecil would be threatening to resign again. The strange sensation of panic arose in her once more. Amongst Mary’s papers at Chartley had been found a list of all the men in England who had pledged fealty to her cousin. The thought of unpopularity with the common people hurt her; but the thought of disloyalty amongst the nobility truly frightened her.

  She had only one arrow left in her quiver. “My lords,” she said. “There is still the issue of whether or not the Queen of Scotland, a foreigner who sought asylum in England, can be held to account under English law. Mary Stuart is no subject of mine.”

  The room was silent for a few moments and then Walsingham said, “Your Grace, any man…or woman…who plots the death of an English sovereign whilst on English soil, and who schemes for and supports an invasion of the realm by a foreign power, may be tried, convicted and executed, and be damned to them!”

  She looked about the room, each loyal face entreating her silently, now that all had been said. She nodded. “Then so be it.”

  Even as the words left her lips, the strange feeling of panic was replaced by one of dread.

  Fotheringay Castle, October 1586

  The Presence Chamber of Fotheringay Castle was situated above the Great Hall, and was exactly as large. As Mary entered the great expanse, she spied, in the center of the room, a high-backed wooden chair with a red cushion and a matching footstool. Red was the color of blood; it was fitting. The only other color in the drab space was provided by the empty throne that sat at the far end of the room. It was draped in red velvet, and was backed by the Royal Arms of England on the wall behind it. But the throne was not for her; it symbolized the absent Queen Elizabeth. Even at this last, her cousin was loath to make her acquaintance! So Elizabeth still feared to meet her, lest she be swept away by the strange magnetism that Mary was well aware she possessed. Perhaps it was just as well; she was counting upon that mysterious charm to sway her judges. But in that very moment, she knew it to be a forlorn hope; the verdict against her was a foregone conclusion.

  She looked about the great room. Benches lined the walls, and there was a table across from her chair piled high with papers and scrolls, at which sat her principal accusers. That Cecil and Walsingham were there was no surprise; Sir Amyas also glared at her from behind the table. Her eyes scanned the room for Lord George; she was aware that he had been summoned hither as well, but evidently, had found some means of excusing himself from sitting in judgment upon her. For some reason, that lifted her spirits and gave her new courage. Not everyone was against her!

  She had chosen an austere black velvet gown for the occasion. It matched her black mood. To symbolize her innocence, she wore a white veil. Janet carried her train. She was heartily glad to have Janet back; her own servants had been taken away from her when she was forced to abide at Tixall. She had not seen Janet again until her arrival at formidable Fotheringay Castle.

  She remembered well the arduous four-day journey to Fotheringay. Upon her arrival she had eyed with dismay the two moats, one inner and one outer, not because she harbored any hope of escape in her weary breast, but because of the damp they presaged. It was dismal Tutbury all over again! But no sooner had the thought manifested itself than another assailed her; since she did not expect to leave Fotheringay alive, it mattered little. Her stay would likely be mercifully short!

  A crowd of beggars had beseeched her for alms at the drawbridge; she smiled at them and said, “Alas, good people, I am sorry, but I have nothing for you. I am a beggar as well as you. All has been taken from me.” It was true; after her arrest, her papers, her money, what few jewels she still possessed, virtually everything, had been taken from her. Ah well, she sighed; had not Job put it well when he said that naked we come into the world, and naked shall we return unto the Lord?

  She drew her attention back to the Presence Chamber. She smiled to herself; she could not resist making a jest. The commission to hear her trial consisted of forty men, who sat on the benches lining the walls of the room. Once all had become aware of her presence, the low murmurs of the men that echoed in the great place ceased. Into the silence she said, in a loud, clear voice, “I see that there are many counselors here assembled; but alas, none for me!” She had been informed that she was to be allowed no advocate; she was permitted to use no notes or papers of her own; she was permitted to call no witnesses in her defense; and prior to this very day, she had been denied access to the mountain of documents that lay on the table before her, and which were to be used in evidence against her.

  She knew that she was expected to sit in the chair and listen to the reading of the crimes of which she was accused. But with her heart pounding in her chest, she remained standing and addressed the assembly.

  “My lords,” she said. “I have been informed that whether as sovereign or captive, I am to be subjected to the laws of England, and that if I do not agree to appear in person before you, I will be tried in absentia. I have asked to be allowed to appear before Parliament to have my say, or to speak directly with my only peer in this realm of England, my cousin, your queen. Both requests have been denied me. Therefore I say to you that I am no subject, let alone an English subject, and I am not answerable to an English court. I would rather die a thousand deaths than acknowledge myself as such, as to do so would be to betray the majesty of kings; and it would be tantamount to a confession that I am bound to submit to the laws of England, even unto my religion, which is different from yours. I know full well your prejudice against me; but if I should be condemned by this court, I will die not a murderer, but a martyr to my faith, which we all know is the true reason I have been called forth. But let it be known that I do not, and shall not ever, recognize the authority of this commission to sit in judgment upon me, a sovereign queen, and a foreigner held against my will in your country. The men of this commission doubtless have been carefully chosen, and have likely already judged me unheard. Further, I say to you that I am an absolute quee
n; I will be made to do nothing which may prejudice my royal majesty.”

  With that, she calmly took her seat in the chair. In her lap her hands clasped her rosary and her silver and ivory crucifix.

  Cecil and Walsingham exchanged significant glances. A martyr to her faith! Forsooth! Did no one recall the murder of Darnley? This was not the first time the Siren of Scotland had been caught plotting a death! But one had to own that it was a clever ploy. By shifting the focus of attention from her crimes to her Catholic faith, the Queen of Scotland had irrevocably captured the attention of all for whom such things were important. England had many Catholics; save for a few, most were Englishmen first, and were unshakably loyal to Queen Elizabeth, regardless of her excommunication.

  The room was silent; no one spoke. The only sounds were the shifting of restless, uncertain feet, the nervous cough.

  Into this eerie silence Mary’s voice sounded once more, echoing to the rafters.

  “Every species of quiet cruelty that could possibly sap the life out of me, sirs, has been visited upon me by my cousin. Confinement in damp, dilapidated castles; exposure to disease, even, at Tutbury; the deprivation of exercise and recreation; and even being called upon to rise from my sickbed and travel in inclement weather from one prison to another in the dead of winter. There were peasants in the wretched village at the foot of Tutbury Castle who were better housed than I.” Mary paused, her eyes fixed at some far away point. After a moment, she seemed to shake herself awake; and then she said, “I beseech you to look to your consciences, my lords. And remember that the theatre of the whole world is wider than the kingdom of England.”

  Cecil ignored these remarks and said, “Your Grace, you say that you deny the authority of this commission to try you. To that I say in reply, that in England, even a sovereign prince is subject to our laws. Will you, therefore, answer us, or will you not?”

  Mary considered. If she refused to participate in this tribunal, they would simply proceed without her and find her guilty. She loathed the idea of being a defendant in a trial, but this was likely her last chance to be heard; there was no other way. This was the stage she had been craving for almost twenty years.

  She nodded. “I will answer you,” she said. “And may Almighty God reward you and yours for your judgment against me.”

  Cecil’s gaze was steely. This was the moment. “You are charged, then, with being complicit in a plot to murder our sovereign lady, Queen Elizabeth, the first of that name. How do you plead?”

  “As a sinner I am truly conscious of having offended my Creator and I beg Him to forgive me, but as Queen and Sovereign, I am aware of no fault or offence for which I have to render account to anyone here below. But since I have agreed to answer this commission’s questions, I say to you now that I deny any and all charges against me, sir,” said Mary emphatically. “I know of no such person as Sir Anthony Babington; I have never written to such a person, nor received any letters from him. I have never plotted the destruction of the queen.”

  “That is a lie,” said Cecil. “We have evidence of such letters. And it is well known that Sir Anthony was a page in my lord of Shrewsbury’s household during his time as Your Grace’s gaoler, as well as a frequent house guest whilst Your Grace was under the care of Sir Ralph Sadler.”

  Mary ignored this and said, “If you have letters written in mine own hand that prove my guilt, then I pray you to produce them.”

  “The letters are in cipher, as Your Grace well knows,” said Walsingham.

  “It is quite possible that my ciphers have been tampered with by my enemies.” Her eyes never left Sir Francis’s as she spoke these words; the accusation was clear. Besides which, the documents before her could not possibly be the originals; Anthony had promised to burn all her letters after reading them.

  Walsingham regarded Mary from under hooded lids. Phelippes and his band of cipherers and forgers had done their work well. They had made copies of all the intercepted letters that were so like the originals that they should have been mistaken for them. In very truth, the letter shown to Babington that had elicited his confession was only a copy of the one that he had written to Mary; but he was fooled by it and simply assumed that Mary had not burnt his letter as they agreed. It was irony upon irony; his whole case was built upon letters that technically, were forgeries, but were in reality copies of the original intercepted letters. The queen was guilty; she would be found guilty. Then he nodded to the clerk; the man retrieved a stack of parchments and several scrolls. He turned and stood before her.

  Mary reached out a hand for the scrolls. She opened the first scroll; so Anthony had not burnt her letters after all! But no…she refused to believe that. “It is easy,” she said, looking up at the men, “to counterfeit the handwriting of others.”

  “I call God to record,” said Walsingham slowly, “that I have done nothing unbeseeming an honest man, nor have I done anything unworthy of my place. My concern is for the safety of the queen and the preservation of the realm.”

  “I would never make such a ruin of my soul as to conspire to the destruction of my cousin and fellow queen,” said Mary. Her voice was as bland as Walsingham’s; she might have been discoursing upon the weather and the state of the roads.

  Walsingham regarded her with a look of utter loathing. “Your Grace’s soul is hardly involved in your treason, Madam,” he rejoined. “For as a Catholic, by papal decree, it is your bounden duty, is it not, to kill the excommunicated queen?”

  Mary’s face flushed red, but she said nothing.

  “Very well, then,” said Walsingham. “Let us examine further evidence.”

  The next hours were a nightmare of the reading out of the confessions of Babington and all the conspirators, which were damning in the extreme. It was significant that no torture had been necessary to elicit these confessions; to a man, starting with Babington, the mere sight of the rack had been more than enough to open the floodgates. From there, the words had tumbled forth like water over a waterfall. When it was over, as he stacked the sheaf of papers from which he had been reading, Cecil glared at her in triumph.

  Mary met his malevolent gaze without flinching and said softly, “I am not to be convicted save by mine own words and writings.”

  “Which we have produced, Madam,” said Cecil impatiently. “We have, written in thine own hand, the order to put the ‘six gentlemen’ to work. When taken as the reply to Babington’s letter, your guilt is manifest.”

  “My lords,” said Mary, “the circumstances of my guilt might be proved by you, but never the fact of it. For there is none. Nowhere in my letter do I state what the work of the six gentlemen is.”

  “You grasp at straws, Your Grace,” said Walsingham smoothly. “All know the meaning that the words imply. And how say you, Madam, to the charge that you invited a foreign power to invade our realm? Your own letters make appeal to King Philip to bring ships and men to battle on English soil for your liberation, and to place Your Grace on the throne of England. Do you deny it?”

  “I see that you are naught but my adversary,” said Mary indignantly.

  “Yea,” replied Walsingham. “I am that. I am adversary to Queen Elizabeth’s adversaries.”

  “Then I have little choice,” she said, “than to commit my cause to God.” Mary looked around the vast room at the men who would judge her. There was no hope to be had there. There was nothing for her now but to await her martyr’s death.

  Greenwich Palace, February 1587

  Elizabeth regarded the parchment before her. She ran her hands over it. It was sheepskin, and very soft; it was made of the finest vellum. If one looked closely, one could even make out where the creature’s limbs had been hacked off. She shuddered. It was not a pleasant thought.

  How many death warrants had she signed in her twenty-nine years as Queen of England? Hundreds? A thousand, perhaps? She knew not; she knew only that never had she put her name to any wherein she did not believe the person guilty of the crimes with which th
ey had been charged, and the punishment just and well-deserved. But these were criminals; murderers, thieves, traitors. Which of these was Mary?

  And the truth must be owned; Mary had no one to blame save herself for her grievous plight. She, Elizabeth, had once remarked, early in her reign, that if she were turned out of her realm with nothing, and in naught but her petticoat, still would she prosper. Could anyone deny it? She was almost thirty years on her throne; her country was solvent; and except for the dual Catholic threats of Mary and Spain, safe, secure and sound, despite the issues she faced that were to do with religion.

  But such was not true of Mary. She despised her cousin for her lack of self-restraint, for her trampling upon the sanctity of royalty, and all for the sake of her fleshly desires. Oh yes, she knew of such desires. Her own had gone unanswered, as far as it went. But one must consider the broader picture; for her kingdom, for her people, she had given up house and home, husband, hearth and child. But as with any lonely soul wandering the face of the earth, she had taken her pleasure where she might. And that had been little enough.

  But she must needs be honest with herself, at least. Even if it were acceptable for princes to say that which was needful for the greater good, which only a prince can judge, was that a license to lie? Or was it the key to good government? Perhaps it was both. It was an enigma that, as clever as she knew herself to be, she had never been able to unravel. Mayhap some things were best left alone. But she knew that lying to herself was futile. Her reasons for remaining a virgin queen had less to do with self-sacrifice and more to do with a reluctance to share her power with another person.

  And forsooth, what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander; they were both queens, were they not? Mary had buried three husbands, one of whom she was accused of murdering. Scandal had been her cousin’s constant companion since her return from France all those years ago. Only with her imprisonment had the scandals ceased, and even then, towards the end, she had been accused with Shrewsbury, had she not?