Elizabeth's Women

by Tracy Borman

  CHAPTER 12

  “The Bosom Serpent”

  While rumors and plots continued to surround Mary Stuart after the Ridolfi plot in 1572, the years that followed were comparatively quiet, and she seemed to become more resigned to her captivity. Although her movements were now subjected to closer scrutiny than before, she still lived a comfortable life, spending her days reading, embroidering, conversing with her ladies, playing with her numerous pets, and receiving guests. She was also served as a queen within the confines of her various fortresses. Her household included forty-eight servants, and she had privy and presence chambers, a dais, throne, and canopy of estate. She dined in some luxury, regularly being served two courses of sixteen dishes each, thanks to the Queen’s generous allowance of £1,000 per year for her food.1 She also spent extraordinary sums on sumptuous clothes and jewels, eager to make the most of her fading looks. The Earl of Shrewsbury, who had been appointed her guardian, was a kindly man and sympathized with Mary’s plight so much that it was rumored he was in love with her.

  Although the earl’s wife had spied on Mary at first, she gradually began to treat her with more courtesy. Bess was no doubt fascinated by this woman whose legendary beauty and charisma had beguiled so many men. Perhaps she was also unable to resist a little intrigue, knowing how politically important the Scottish queen was. She therefore made an attempt to befriend her. Mary was all too happy to oblige, desperate as she was for company, especially in the form of a woman from whom she could glean information about her cousin Elizabeth. Bess and Mary would spend many hours sitting together at their needlework, gossiping about the English court. Although very different in character, they were united by a fierce dynastic ambition. This was reflected in the embroidery that each woman produced during their conversations, which was laden with symbolism. Mary’s emphasized her royal blood and the strength of her claim to the English throne, while Bess identified herself with a number of powerful mythological female figures, such as Penelope and Lucrece.2

  The captive Scots queen would later claim that Bess grew so affectionate toward her that she declared “that had I been her own Queen she could not have done more for me.” She apparently also swore her allegiance to Mary and even promised to help her escape. By contrast, Bess showed no loyalty toward Elizabeth. According to Mary, far from honoring and respecting the English queen, Bess felt only contempt for her. In the now famous “scandal letter” that she wrote to her cousin in 1584, Mary related various stories that Bess had told her about life in Elizabeth’s court. The countess had apparently laughed at the notion that Elizabeth was the Virgin Queen, claiming that she was so insatiable that she had seduced a host of men. She had bedded the Earl of Leicester numerous times and had forced Sir Christopher Hatton to have sex with her. She had tried to entice the Duke of Alençon into bed by wearing nothing but a chemise, and had kissed his envoy, Simier, taking “various indecent liberties with him.”3

  Turning to the subject of what it was like to serve this licentious queen, Mary said that Bess had declared: “She would never return to Court to attend you [Elizabeth], for anything in the world, because she was afraid of you when you were in a rage, such as when you broke her cousin Scudamore’s finger, pretending to all the court that it was caused by a fallen chandelier.” Far from revering their sovereign, most of the ladies in Elizabeth’s service played tricks on her and poked fun at her behind her back. According to Mary’s account, Bess had been “doubled over with laughter” as she had recounted how her daughter, Mary Talbot, had mocked her royal mistress every time she made a curtsey, “never ceasing to laugh up her sleeve” at her. Meanwhile, Bess and her late friend, Margaret Douglas, Countess of Lennox, had not dared to look at each other when they were in attendance on the Queen “for fear of bursting into gales of laughter.”4

  There is a ring of truth to this latter story, for Elizabeth had let it be known that as her countenance “shone with a blinding light like the sun,” none of her ladies should look her in the face for fear of being dazzled by its brilliance. When Bess and her daughter visited court in 1578 and were admitted to the Queen’s presence, they had been seized by a silent fit of giggles at the ridiculous notion and had been unable to look at each other in case they laughed out loud.5

  However, the rest of Mary’s account can be given little credence. It is not substantiated by any other source and was probably based upon exaggerated half-truths and hearsay. Moreover, it was written at a time when Mary had fallen out spectacularly with the Countess of Shrewsbury and was therefore trying to do everything she could to discredit her. Fortunately for Bess, Lord Burghley intercepted the letter before the Queen saw it. Whether Elizabeth would have given it any credence if she had read it can never be said for certain, but the allegations it contained were so insulting that even if she had not believed it all, she would probably still have harbored a lingering resentment toward Bess. Meanwhile, when Bess herself heard of it, she fiercely denied everything that Mary had said, and the Privy Council eventually accepted her innocence.

  The traumas of her former life in Scotland, together with the strain of her ongoing captivity in England, were beginning to take their toll on Mary’s health. She suffered from rheumatism and a chronic pain in her side, her hair turned prematurely grey, and she put on a considerable amount of weight. Despite the efforts she made with her appearance, she bore little resemblance to the beautiful princess who had been the most desirable bride in Europe just a few years before. In November 1582, some fourteen years after her flight to England, she wrote a long and embittered letter to her cousin, listing everything she had suffered at Elizabeth’s hands and demanding “satisfaction before I die, so that all differences between us being settled, my disembodied soul may not be compelled to utter its complaints before God.” She shared her laments with anyone who would listen, complaining to the Spanish ambassador of the “implacable vengeance with which this Queen was treating her by depriving her of her liberty.”6

  Mary was provoked not just by what she termed “ma longe captivité,” but by the disappointment of her hopes that her son, James, would come to her rescue.7 Her son was a stranger to her, having been raised by others since his earliest infancy and retained in Scotland after her escape to England. No doubt influenced by the regent, Moray, a bitter enemy of Mary, he evidently felt little loyalty toward his mother and was guided more by self-interest. Thus when in 1583 Mary opened negotiations for a joint sovereignty with her son, he sided with Elizabeth and rejected the scheme. The English queen derived some satisfaction from knowing that this prince, of whose birth she had been so jealous, had shown more loyalty to her than to his own mother. “If the half of that good nature had been in his mother that I imagine to be in himself he had not been so soon fatherless,” she declared.8 By July 1586, James had proved this “good nature” by concluding an alliance with the English queen that brought him an annual pension of £4,000 and all but severed ties with his mother for good.

  That her son should so readily turn his back on her was a bitter blow for Mary, and she lamented to her cousin: “Alas! Was ever a sight so detestable and impious before God and man, as an only child despoiling his mother and her crown of royal estate?”9 In her grief and disappointment, she railed against the English queen and her regime. This occasioned some alarm among Elizabeth’s courtiers and ministers, who were anxious lest Mary should involve herself in another plot against their royal mistress. In July 1584, George Gilpin, Elizabeth’s envoy in the Netherlands, urged that “the Queen of Scots devises be nearly looked to, who will never cease to practise to compass her wicked purpose.”10 By this time, Elizabeth herself was said to be “utterly distrustful” of this “bosom serpent,” as Mary became known, and paid little heed to her occasional halfhearted reassurances that she desired nothing but “perfect amity” between them.11 She was right to be suspicious, for the previous November, her agents had uncovered a conspiracy—known as the Throckmorton plot—to place Mary on the English throne with the aid o
f an invasion by Spanish and French troops. Although Mary was almost certainly involved in the plot, there was no direct evidence against her, so Elizabeth was unable to act. However, the following year she passed the Act for the Security of the Queen’s Royal Person, which bound Englishmen to “prosecute to death” any “pretended successor” who rebelled against her.

  In January 1585, Mary was removed from the custody of the Earl of Shrewsbury on the grounds that he had become too sympathetic to his captive. The closeness that existed between them had caused a serious rift between the earl and his wife. Although Mary and Bess had enjoyed a close friendship for a while, this had soon fallen apart when Mary had realized how obstructive the countess could be toward her own dynastic ambitions. The principal cause of discord between them had been Bess’s attempts to make an advantageous marriage for Arbella. That the claim of Mary’s own son should be so threatened by the countess’s schemes filled the Scottish queen with bitter resentment. She wrote a furious letter of complaint to the French ambassador, urging him: “I would wish you to mention privately to the Queen that nothing has alienated the Countess of Shrewsbury from me more but the vain hope which she has conceived of setting the crown of England on the head of her little girl, Arbella.”12

  By the time Mary was removed from the Shrewsburys’ custody, she and Bess were barely on speaking terms. Whether she truly believed it or not, the countess was outspoken in her complaints that her husband was sleeping with the Scottish queen and that the latter had borne him at least one child, possibly “several.” The Earl of Shrewsbury had certainly developed a soft spot for his beguiling captive, but it is unlikely that he did anything about it. By now well into his sixties, he was beset by ill health and probably incapable of conducting a torrid affair with anyone. But thanks to Bess, rumors of their affair were now rife. Enraged by this slur on her reputation, Mary complained of “the insolence of this vulgar-minded woman” and demanded that the countess revoke her accusations. “She is marvellously grieved with the Countess of Shrewsbury for the foul slanders of late raised upon her by the said countess,” reported Henry Sadler to Walsingham, “which, having touched her so near in honour and reputation abroad, she says she can no longer sustain, but trusts that her majesty will suffer her to have justice.”13 In the end, Elizabeth herself was forced to intervene and ordered an investigation into the rumors. A short while later, Mary was able to report: “The Countess of Shrewsbury (I thank God) hath been tried and found to her shame in her attempt against me.”14

  Although the Queen had been obliged to silence Bess on this occasion, she nevertheless sympathized with her predicament. If the earl had not committed adultery with Mary, Queen of Scots, then he had been overly friendly toward her at a time when his attitude toward his wife was one of increasing disdain. Whereas before he had been attracted by Bess’s strength of character and ambition, now he found her domineering manner irritating and complained to a friend: “It were no reason that my wife and her servants should rule me and make me the wife and her the husband.”15 He also resented the amount of time Bess was spending on creating a magnificent home at Chatsworth, and argued with her over the income from their estates. Meanwhile, his own behavior was becoming ever more erratic, leading some observers to doubt his sanity.

  An example of this came in July 1584, when Shrewsbury suddenly threw his wife out of her beloved Chatsworth, claiming that he could no longer bear the sight of her. The countess could scarcely believe what had happened. Although their relationship had begun to unravel, she had not anticipated such a drastic reaction. Shocked and distraught, she resolved to leave Derbyshire with all haste and throw herself on the mercy of the Queen. It must have been with great relief that, upon her arrival at court that summer, she found Elizabeth inclined to sympathize with her cause. Her royal mistress had never approved of marital disagreements, believing that having entered into that sacred union, couples ought to do their best to live in harmony. Bess was equally steadfast on the subject of marriage. True, she had had three husbands before Shrewsbury, but she had served each faithfully and had only been separated from them by death. It was inconceivable that she might seek a way out of her predicament by divorcing the earl.

  The Queen now found herself in the unenviable position of referee between the warring couple. Shrewsbury insisted that she should punish his wife for her slanders and banish her from court. Elizabeth was still very fond of the earl, who, unlike his wife, had always proved the most loyal of servants. On the other hand, she disapproved of his treatment of Bess, with whom she felt a measure of female solidarity. Loath though she was to interfere in the dispute, she eventually succumbed to Bess’s “piteous and lamentable” pleas to “take the order of this cause into her own gracious hands” and launched a commission of inquiry to examine the claims of both sides, making it clear that the purpose of this was to preserve their marriage, not end it.16

  It may have been thanks to Bess’s persuasions that the Queen decided to remove Mary Stuart from Shrewsbury’s custody. Bess had told her royal mistress “that, so long as the Queen of Scots was in the hands of the earl of Shrewsbury, she would never be secure, as he was in love with her.”17 When he heard of this, the earl pretended indifference and, having recently come to court, kissed the Queen’s hand “for having, as he said, freed him from two devils, namely the queen of Scotland and his wife.”18

  While the earl continued to rant and rave against his wife, Bess maintained a dignified composure, responding to his increasingly outlandish claims with reason and patience. This strategy served her well, for in the end it was she who triumphed. In the summer of 1586, the Queen summoned both parties to her presence and announced the verdict of her commission. She declared that she could “not suffer in our realme two personnes of your degree and qualitie to live in such a kinde of divided sort,” and therefore ordered that they be reunited. The Countess of Shrewsbury was completely vindicated, and the earl was instructed to take her back into his house. Shrewsbury pretended compliance, and it was reported that both he and Bess “shewed themselves very well content with her Majesty’s speeches, and in good sort departed together, very comfortable to the satisfaction of all their friends.”19 Once back at their estates, however, they lived virtually separate lives, and the earl declared that he would “neither bed with her nor board with her.”20

  If Mary had derived any satisfaction from witnessing the very public spat between her former custodians, she did not have long to enjoy it. Now under the guardianship of Sir Amyas Paulet, an austere man with a good deal less sympathy for her than Shrewsbury had demonstrated, her imprisonment became even more onerous. This fresh misery prompted her to undertake a course of action so dangerous that if it failed she would lose everything—her life included.

  In the summer of 1586, Anthony Babington, a Catholic gentleman who had become acquainted with Mary through his service to the Earl of Shrewsbury, masterminded a plot to assassinate Elizabeth and place Mary on the throne, assisted by Spanish forces. Walsingham soon heard of it through his spies and determined to lay a trap for the Scottish queen. A channel of communication was established for Mary, whereby she would send coded letters hidden in beer barrels to the conspirators. Little did she know that all of these were intercepted by Walsingham, who was waiting patiently until he had enough evidence to condemn her. All she had to do was mention Elizabeth’s death, and it would be treason. He did not have to wait long. On July 17, Mary wrote to Babington endorsing his suggestion that the English queen be “despatched” by a group of noblemen. “Sett the six gentlemen to work,” she urged. She had as good as signed her own death warrant.

  The following month, Babington and his fellow conspirators were arrested and interrogated. Under torture, they confessed to the whole plot—and, crucially, Mary’s complicity in it. Surely now Elizabeth would have no choice but to finally put her cousin to death. In the immediate aftermath, it certainly looked as if she would do so. She ordered Amyas Paulet to tighten the security around his
captive and deprive her of her former luxuries. Paulet was only too happy to oblige, and Elizabeth praised him for his efforts in keeping “so dangerous and crafty a charge.” She also sent him a letter full of fury at her traitorous cousin, demanding that he “Lett your wicked murtheress know how with hearty sorrow her vile deserts compelleth these orders, and bid her from me ask God forgiveness for her treacherous dealings towards her saver of her life many a year, to ye intolerable peril of her owne.” Referring to all the times Mary had tried to persuade her to show some female solidarity, Elizabeth scoffed that her cousin’s actions were “far passing a woman’s thought, much less a princess.”21

  Elizabeth also wrote to Mary herself, lambasting her for showing such base ingratitude for all the help she had offered her over the years. “You have in various ways and manners attempted to take my life and bring my kingdom to destruction by bloodshed,” she began. “I have never proceeded so harshly against you, but have, on the contrary, protected and maintained you like myself.”22 As well as committing her fury to paper in her letter to Paulet, she also railed against Mary’s treachery to her courtiers and councillors in London and took particular exception to anyone whom she perceived as having favored her cousin in the past. “Well, what do you think of your Queen of Scotland?” she demanded of one hapless ambassador. “With black ingratitude and treachery she tries to kill me who so often saved her life. Now I am certain of her evil intent.”23