The Captive Queen of Scots

XI Chatsworth

BESS WAS IN HIGH SPIRITS because her household was leaving Tutbury for Chatsworth. Not only was that mansion one of the most beautiful in England, but she herself had created it. Of course her second husband, William Cavendish, had been of some assistance, but Bess thought of Chatsworth as hers. Had she been a woman for regrets she would have regretted the death of William Cavendish because he had been the most satisfactory of her husbands. Perhaps this was partly due to the fact that he had provided her with her six children, whose affairs were of the utmost importance to her, and made her life so interesting. No, it was more than that. William had been a good husband in every way—far more so than George Talbot who, Bess must confess, was the least commendable of the four.

Of late he had changed toward her; he seemed somewhat absentminded; he accepted her reproaches almost with indifference, as though he were brushing away a fly which only mildly irritated him.

He was often in the company of the Queen of Scots. Could it really be that she reciprocated his admiration? Bess would not say that her George was the most likely man to attract a Queen who, all her life until she had been taken into captivity, had been a magnet for the flattery and attention of the opposite sex. But Mary was now a prisoner; her retinue was restricted; it was true she had her faithful friends, and Bess believed that many of the male members of the suite entertained romantic feelings for Mary. But the Earl was the most powerful man in her circle; and there was attraction in power. Mary was a woman who needed men about her. Could it really be possible?

Bess laughed aloud at the thought. She had often teased her husband about Mary, but she had not really taken the matter seriously. And if it were true, how would he feel? Jealous? Certainly. Bess desired to possess every member of her family completely. She wanted absolute obedience from them, and all the admiration and affection of which they were capable.

No. This was no love affair. It was one of those airy romantic relationships because the Queen, who was very beautiful, was also a helpless woman.

It did not go beyond that and Bess would make the Earl understand that it should not do so. She herself would spend more time with Mary when they were at Chatsworth; she was going to be the Queen’s best friend . . . not George.

And she would not hesitate to ridicule George’s devotion. She would let him—and Mary—see that although the Earl was ostensibly in charge, in truth that was a role which fate had assigned to Bess of Hardwick, wherever she found herself.

IT WAS A BRIGHT MAY DAY when the Queen and her household, accompanied by the Earl and Countess and theirs, set out from Tutbury, their destination being Chatsworth.

Mary could not help being charmed when she saw the lovely manor of Chatsworth. She had ridden through country which was both wild and grand, and when she saw the house she understood Bess’s pride in it. It was situated on the east bank of the Derwent almost at the base of a thickly wooded hill. As she approached the quandrangular and turreted building Mary was asking herself for how long it would be her new prison.

Riding up to the mansion they were joined by a party of horsemen, and the Countess told Mary that this was made up of the nobles of the neighborhood who, hearing of the Queen’s expected arrival, had come to pay their respects to her.

Mary was delighted by this attention and asked that the visitors be presented to her; and in the hall of Chatsworth she learned that these were led by two sons of the Earl of Derby, Thomas and Edward Stanley, and a certain Sir Thomas Gerard, a Mr. Rolleston and Mr. Hall, landowners of the district.

Because the weather was benign, because she had left the hateful Tutbury behind her, Mary was in high spirits; and it was obvious to all how much she had charmed the young men.

When they had left, Mary was conducted to her apartments, and she was grateful to Bess who had arranged that she should have a suite of rooms in accordance with her rank.

Bess, determined to win Mary’s confidence, accepted the Queen’s thanks with a show of pleasure.

“I would that I could offer Your Majesty a horse to ride,” she said, “but you know that to do so would be to ignore Queen Elizabeth’s express command. However, there is a little garden, not far from the house, which I can offer you and in which I think you will be able to spend some happy hours while you must remain at Chatsworth.”

Mary asked to be shown this garden and Bess led her out of the manor to a small lake which was almost concealed by thick foliage. In the center of this lake was a tower and to approach it it was necessary to cross a stone bridge. With Bess, Mary entered the tower and climbed the spiral staircase to a flat roof. On this flowers, and even trees, had been planted. About the garden was a balustrade, beautifully carved, and from it there was a superb view of the surrounding country.

“It is very beautiful,” Mary murmured.

“Then while Your Majesty stays with us, it shall be your garden.”

“Thank you. I shall enjoy it.” Mary smiled ruefully. “I doubt not that when I visit it I shall be accompanied by guards. They will wait for me at the bridge, but perhaps they will not come with me to my tower-top garden, because it would be impossible for me to escape from there.

“I beg Your Majesty not to despair,” Bess comforted. “Now that we have rid ourselves of the zealous Huntingdon, I shall sue the Queen for favors for you. I know she will agree to what I ask, in time.”

Mary laid her hand on Bess’s arm.

“At least,” she said with a smile, “if I must have a jailor, I could not have a more kindly one.”

And in a very short time she became attached to her garden and planted flowers of her own choice. She and Seton or Jane Kennedy and Marie Courcelles went there often. It was exhilarating to look across the country from the top of the tower, even though she knew that guards were stationed at the bridge, that they would take their stand all around the lake, that they would accompany her back to the manor when she went, and that they would be posted at all important spots.

She was a prisoner, but she could live more comfortably at Chatsworth than she had at Tutbury.

SHE HAD NOT BEEN LONG at Chatsworth when Seton brought a letter to her.

“It was given to me by one of the servants who is a friend of a butler in the house of the Earl of Derby,” she was told.

Mary read the letter which contained an impassioned appeal from Thomas and Edward Stanley, who declared themselves ready to die in her cause. They were making plans for her escape. Other gentlemen who had had the honor of seeing her on her arrival were with them, and they proposed to write to her in cipher which was being worked out for them by a priest in the house of Mr. Rolleston. Would she allow them to make plans? They could arrange for letters to be smuggled in and out of the house.

Mary in her reply thanked them for their good efforts on her behalf; she was, however, affianced to the Duke of Norfolk and could do nothing without his consent. She would however write and tell him of their proposals, and they would be hearing from her in due course.

Norfolk’s reply was noncommittal, yet he did not altogether banish the idea of using the young men of Derbyshire. He wrote that it might not be wise for those young men to meddle at this time, when Elizabeth might be prepared to treat her as she should be treated; but if such a plan were to be put into action, Derby’s sons were the sort of men he would like to see at its head.

Thus encouraged, the conspirators brought Lesley, Bishop of Ross, into the plan; and because he, having lived close to Elizabeth and having been her prisoner, had a more intimate knowledge of what could be expected at her hand, he was inclined to view any attempt to escape with favor.

Thus the summer months were enlivened with these plans and, as it was always a matter for rejoicing when letters were safely smuggled into the house, and as without this kind of excitement life would have been intolerably dull, Mary indulged once more in dreams of escape.

The plan was progressing. Mary was to escape from her window by means of a cord; horses were to be waiting and she was to be conducted to Harwich where a ship would be ready to sail for Flanders.

News of this plan leaked out and was discussed in the inns and taverns of the Duke of Norfolk’s territory. He was in the Tower, and the people of Norfolk grumbled to one another that it was not justice that their own Duke should be kept in the Tower merely because he had thought of marrying.

At Harleston Fair one man stood on a platform and addressed the crowds. Where was their Duke, he demanded of them. Was it fitting that a noble Duke—their own Duke of Norfolk—should be kept a prisoner in the Tower? The Duke’s place was in Norfolk with his own people.

There were shouts of agreement and very soon several hundreds had collected to shout their disapproval of a Queen who had thrown their own Duke into the Tower when he had committed no crime.

“We’ll march to the Tower!” cried the man who had first spoken. “We’ll burn down the place and we’ll bring our Duke back to Norfolk where he belongs.”

The march began; but before it had gone more than a few miles it was intercepted by the Queen’s soldiers who promptly arrested the ringleader and hanged them on the nearest trees, while the rest of the rioters turned and fled for their lives.

The disturbance was ended almost before it began, but when news of what had happened reached Elizabeth’s ears she was uneasy. Nothing could depress her so utterly as a rising of her subjects against her. She was not afraid of her ministers; she knew how to deal with them. One step to the Tower and the next to the block were easily accomplished. But loss of popularity with the common people was her constant dread.

Whenever she experienced it—however slight, however remote—she always knew that, if only for her peace of mind, something had to be done.

IN HIS GLOOMY PRISON in the Tower Norfolk was growing more and more uneasy.

Each time a letter was brought to him, very often concealed in the cork of an ale bottle, he trembled; he could not help wondering when the ruse would be discovered; it was ironical that he, who had vowed that he would never become involved in treason, should be caught up in the intrigues surrounding Mary Queen of Scots.

Marriage with her would be a big prize and therefore perhaps he would have to take a risk or two.

But there were occasions when, gazing up at the bars in his cell or leaning against the cold stone wall, he wondered if he would ever be released and whether, when he was, it would be to make that short journey, which so many had taken before him, to Tower Hill, with the blade of the executioner’s axe turned toward him.

Now there was plague in the prison. All knew that in such an atmosphere it could spread like fire in a gale, so perhaps he would be taken out in his coffin.

His keeper, Sir Henry Neville, who had been specially appointed by the Queen to watch over him, treated him with the respect due to his rank; but he knew that if the Queen gave the order for his execution, Neville would not hesitate to do all that was required of him. There was little hope of his ever leaving this prison unless Elizabeth relented.

Neville came into his cell, and they sat at the small table playing cards, as they often did to pass the time.

“How goes the plague?” asked Norfolk.

“Bad . . . very bad.”

Norfolk studied the cards, but he was not thinking of the game.

“Would to God I could go back to the country. I should keep well away from Court, I do assure you.”

“And you’d be wise in that,” answered Neville. “There have been riots in Norfolk and that does not please the Queen. Some of your men at a fair, I hear, wanted to know why you were being kept a prisoner in London.”

“The devil they did!” said the Duke with a smile. “And what was the Queen’s answer to that?”

“Short and swift. The ringleaders are now swinging on gibbets, a warning to any Norfolk yeomen who shout ‘A Howard!’”

“Then I fear that has done me little good.”

“None, I fear. Nor will any good be done you until there is no longer talk of a marriage between you and the Queen of Scots.”

Norfolk nodded grimly. Yes, he thought, the project is too far gone to be lightly abandoned. Who knows from one moment to another, when Elizabeth herself might be set down and another put in her place? What if Mary were made Queen of England and he had been shortsighted enough to break his engagement with her?

He remembered an occasion when he had denied to Elizabeth that he had any pretensions to marriage with Mary. He had said that he would not feel safe on his pillow, married to such a one. That had satisfied Elizabeth at the time, he had believed; but she had referred to that phrase of his later when, full of suspicion that he might be in negotiation with Mary, she had suddenly leaned toward him when she sat at supper, nipped his arm firmly between her fingers and thumb and warned him that he should look to his pillow.

He could still feel the terror of occasions like that; it brought back memories of the day when he had heard that his father had lost his head because a sovereign willed it.

He turned to the card game and went on playing in silence.

While they were at play a messenger arrived with documents for Neville and for Norfolk.

They were from the Queen.

Elizabeth was grieved to think of my lord of Norfolk wasting his days and nights in the Tower. She liked not to hear that plague had penetrated the fortress. She was inclined to be lenient, and she was going to offer Norfolk a chance to leave his prison. He might return to his own house at the Charterhouse, whither Sir Henry Neville would accompany him, that the Queen might rest happily assured that he made no mischief. This she would grant him permission to do and asked only one concession in return. He must sign a document in which he solemnly pledged his word that he would not marry the Queen of Scots nor take part in her affairs without first obtaining the consent to do so from his Sovereign, Elizabeth.

When he and Neville had read these documents they regarded each other in somber silence.

Neville said: “It is the chance you have been praying for. Take it.”

Norfolk’s weak face was creased in almost petulant exasperation.

“Think of what she asks!” he cried. “How can I give my word to give up the Queen of Scots, after the solemn promises we have made each other?”

But even as he spoke he knew he would.

WILLIAM CECIL, accompanied by Sir Walter Mildmay and Lesley, Bishop of Ross, was riding toward Chatsworth.

He was thoughtful as he rode, wondering how far he could trust Lesley; the man had been imprisoned once and managed to escape with his life, but there were so many plots and counterplots surrounding the Queen of Scots that Cecil was not prepared to trust any one of her servants. He would keep a watchful eye on Lesley.

The matter was more serious than was generally believed—although the fact that Cecil thought it worthwhile making the journey to Chatsworth might cause some to realize its seriousness. While the Queen of Scots lived, his sovereign Elizabeth was in danger; and Cecil had made up his mind that if Elizabeth would not agree to the execution of her rival—and Cecil had to admit there was logic and good sound sense in her reason for this—then the lady’s claws must be clipped. There must be no more Catholic risings. By great good luck these had been suppressed on previous occasions, but it was possible that good fortune might not always be on the side of Cecil and Elizabeth.

It was all very well for a Protestant Queen and her even more fervently Protestant ministers to snap their fingers when Pius V excommunicated Elizabeth. There were too many powerful Catholics in England, too many even more powerful Catholic rulers abroad, waiting for that moment when they too could add their disapproval to the Pope’s.

And the trouble center was wherever the Queen of Scots happened to be. Chatsworth at this time.

So to Chatsworth rode Cecil, with his own little plan for rendering the Queen of Scots no longer a danger to his mistress. The most disastrous turn of events could be if Mary escaped from England to France or Spain and there was married to some Catholic Prince. This must be avoided at all cost. Cecil would have felt happier to see her head severed from her body; only thus, he believed, could she cease to be a menace; but failing that, he wished to see her make a Protestant marriage to an Englishman of his and his Queen’s choosing. This was the reason for his making the journey to Chatsworth.

When Mary heard that Cecil had arrived and was asking to see her, she was astonished. This was the man whom she believed to be her greatest enemy; at the same time she knew that he was the man who could do her most good if he were so inclined. It was in a mood swaying between hope and apprehension that she greeted him in that room which she called her presence chamber.

They faced each other—the tall and strikingly beautiful woman and the small, deformed statesman. Mildmay was present but from the first Mary was aware that this was a duel between her and Cecil. Mary was trembling with emotion; the steely eyes of Cecil were as cold as ice.

They bowed low and Mary told them that she was glad to see them. She was ready to be friendly, to forget all the wrong she knew Cecil had done to her; it was he who was aloof.

“I trust,” began Mary, “that you bring me good news of my sister and cousin.”

“Her Majesty is made sad by your reproaches,” Cecil told Mary. “She is astounded that, as she has given you refuge for so long, you should be so ungrateful as to offer her continual complaint.”

“Refuge!” cried Mary angrily. “Is a prison refuge?”

“Doubtless Your Majesty owes your life to the Queen of England who preserved you from the anger of your own subjects.”

“That life,” Mary cried impetuously, “has scarce been worth the living since I came to England.”

Cecil looked shocked. “I shall be loath to report your further complains to Her Majesty.”

“She, who has suffered imprisonment herself, will understand full well if you ask her to recall that period of her life. I should have thought one who had experienced that would have had greater sympathy for me in my plight.”

Cecil raised his hands as though in horror and turned to Mildmay, whose expression showed that he shared Cecil’s horror for what they were pleased to consider the ingratitude of the Queen of Scots.

“Tell me,” she went on passionately, “will the Queen of England restore me to my throne? She has power to do this, I am fully aware. But I would know her intention. Is she going to help me or not?”

“Your Majesty is distraught,” murmured Cecil. “Would you care to discuss these matters when you are a little calmer?”

“I want to hear now.”

“Well then, Her Majesty will restore you to your throne. There are certain conditions.”

“I had thought that most likely,” interjected Mary.

Cecil went on coldly: “She would require your son to be brought to England, and to remain here as a hostage.”

The mention of her son moved Mary so deeply that she found she could not check the tears which started to her eyes.

“He should live here,” Cecil was going on, “in some honorable place under the guardianship of two or three Scottish gentlemen. The Queen would most graciously allow you to name one of them. The others would be chosen according to the advice of his grandfather, the Earl of Lennox, and the Earl of Mar.”

The tears had begun to fall down her cheeks. She did not see these two hard-faced men. She saw only that little boy, puzzled, wondering why he never saw his mother, perhaps hearing tales of her. Where is my father? he would ask. Would anyone tell him: “The victim of bloody murder at Kirk o’ Field . . . murder in which your mother is suspected of being an accomplice!” Yet when they had asked him whom he loved best—Lady Mar who had been a mother to him, or his own mother, he had answered boldly: My mother.

She wanted to hold the child in her arms, to teach him, to play with him. And now she knew that the bitterest punishment of all had been the loss of her child.

Cecil and Mildmay were looking at her in dismay. She could only cover her face with her hands and murmur: “Leave me. I pray you leave me.”

LESLEY CAME TO HER apartment and she was able to see him in private, although it was an uneasy interview because every moment Mary thought they would be interrupted and prevented from speaking without the presence of a witness.

Lesley said: “This may be our only opportunity. I think it is imperative that you escape from here. The Queen grows restive and I feel sure will do you some harm. This plot which the Stanleys are making must be taken advantage of. If you can escape from Chatsworth and get to Harwich, I feel sure that in a very short time you will be back on the Scottish throne. But let us not waste time.”

He went to the window and looked down. “The descent could be made by means of a cord. Let Mary Seton have a word with Willie Douglas. Do not do so yourself. You are being closely watched. But you must break out of here as soon as possible. Cecil’s visit shows that Elizabeth is truly alarmed.”

“I do not think the Duke of Norfolk believes an escape should be made, although he has said the Stanleys are worthy to head such an attempt.”

“He fears that you will marry Don Jon. I am not thinking of your marriage but of your life. I am going to tell the Stanleys that the attempt should be made as soon as possible. You must be ready.”

Mary was silent. She was still thinking of her little son who was being brought up away from her. How many lies were fed to him, she wondered. She had suffered much, but if he ever turned against her, if he ever believed the tales of her which no doubt were told to him, she would become so melancholy that she would long for nothing but death.

Escape! A return to her throne! It would mean reunion with her little son.

She listened attentively to Lesley.

CECIL FACED the Queen once more.

“I rejoice to see that Your Majesty’s condition is improved,” he said; which was his way of telling her that he was pleased she had recovered from what he would regard as a fit of hysteria.

Mary bowed her head and waited.

“Her Majesty the Queen is deeply concerned on your behalf,” he told her. “She thinks that, having known the married state, you might be happier in it than living celibate. Therefore she is ready to suggest a marriage for you.”

Mary was attentive. She knew that Norfolk had been released from the Tower. Did this mean that Elizabeth was ready to approve of the match?

“Her Majesty proposes that you accept her kinsman, George Carey, son of Lord Hunsdon, as your husband.”

“That is not possible,” answered Mary.

“If Your Majesty is thinking of your marriage to Bothwell, that has been happily dealt with and is not regarded as a marriage.”

Mary was silent. She could not tell Cecil that she was pledged to Norfolk, for the contract between them had been a secret. She could only shake her head and murmur: “It is not possible.”

Cecil was alert. The Queen of Scots was without guile. There was some reason why she was so emphatic. If reports did not lie she had been friendly toward George Carey when he had visited her. There was some plot afoot, he believed; some reason why she was so set against the proposed marriage. Had she her eyes on Don Jon? The romantic hero would undoubtedly appeal to such a woman as she was.

He did not press the point, but turned from it to talk of the kindness of his mistress, Queen Elizabeth, who sought to help the Queen of Scots, if she would but let herself be helped.

All the time he was thinking: We must increase our watchfulness. On no account must she be allowed to slip out of our hands, out of England to our enemies across the water.

MARY FORGOT the presence of the English statesman at Chatsworth, for one of her most trusted friends had been stricken with sickness. This was John Beaton, the Laird of Creich, who had been the master of her household. He had been working zealously in her cause ever since she had escaped from Lochleven, and to see him on his sickbed filled her with such anxiety that she forgot her own concerns.

Seton shared her distress and wanted to nurse him herself. Mary agreed that she should, and added that she too would act as nurse, for John was so grievously sick that he needed the two of them.

So day and night Seton and Mary remained in the sickroom; but it soon became pitiably obvious that there was nothing they could do to save John’s life.

Seton was alone in the sickroom one evening while Mary was taking a little rest, when a young man came in and stood at the end of the bed looking at the sick man. His face was so marked with anguish that Seton rose and, going to him, laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You must not grieve so much, Andrew,” she said.

“My brother is going to die,” said Andrew Beaton.

“I am going to send for the Bishop now, Andrew. I think the time has come.”

“I will bring him here.”

When he had gone Seton placed a cool cloth on the sick man’s fevered forehead and sat beside his bed waiting, for there was nothing else she could do. In a short time Lesley came back with Andrew Beaton and looked grave when he saw the appearance of the sick man.

“We will leave you with him,” said Seton, and slipping her arm through that of Andrew Beaton she drew him from the room.

Outside they stood silently for a few seconds, then Andrew said: “I know how you have nursed him . . . you and the Queen. How can I thank you?”

“There is no need to thank us, Andrew,” answered Seton. “We are exiles . . . we are prisoners . . . we work together, and if any one of us has trouble, that is the trouble of us all.”

He took her hand then and kissed it.

He thought there was something ethereal about Mary Seton—something saintly, not of this world. It seemed to him in that moment that he had never seen a face so beautiful.

He walked slowly away; he knew that he loved Mary Seton.

CECIL WAS FEELING that his visit to Chatsworth was a failure. He had achieved nothing through his interview with Mary except a sensation of great unease. He would return to Court and tell the Queen that he felt she should be moved from Chatsworth. A move was always a good thing at such a time—unsettling to conspirators.

It was while he was musing thus that a servant came to tell him that a young man, calling himself by the name of Rolleston, wished to see him; the matter was of great urgency.

Cecil, who had never heard the young man’s name before, hesitated; then said he would see the man. One could never be sure where important information might come from, and he had not reached his present eminence by ignoring such a rule.

Rolleston turned out to be a very young man, scarcely more than a boy, with the earnest eyes of a fanatic.

“What is it you have to say to me?” Cecil asked him.

“I have to tell you, sir, that I know of a plot to rescue the Queen from Chatsworth and put her on a boat at Harwich.”

Cecil showed no sign of the excitement he was feeling.

“Tell me more of this plot,” he said quietly.

“Thomas and Edward Stanley are at its head. They plan that the Queen shall escape from her window by means of a cord. It is arranged with her servants, and will very shortly take place.”

“Are you involved in this plot?”

The boy flushed painfully and drew himself up to his full height. “I am a loyal subject of my Queen Elizabeth. I take no part in plots against her.”

“Well spoken,” replied Cecil. “How then do you know of this plot?”

The boy hesitated as though he were fighting an inner battle with his conscience. Then he blurted out: “Because my father is involved in it.”

“You have done well,” said Cecil. “The Queen will not forget one who serves her. Now the names of the conspirators . . . and all the details you have. I believe we have little time to lose.”

WHEN THE CHIEF conspirators were under arrest, Cecil wrote to Elizabeth telling of what was happening at Chatsworth.

“It would seem, Your Majesty, that the Queen of Scots enjoys too much liberty at Chatsworth. It might be advisable to remove her from that place. Shrewsbury could take her to his castle in Sheffield, which to my mind would be a meet and fitting place to house her.”