The Captive Queen of Scots

XII Sheffield

IT WAS ON A BLEAK NOVEMBER DAY that Mary traveled over the mountains from Chatsworth to Sheffield. Through the mist she caught her first glimpse of her new prison, which stood on a hill above that spot where the rivers Don and Sheaf met, the latter giving its name to the nearby town. The fame of this town was already known to Mary because it was noted for the mineral wealth which had enabled its inhabitants to become the foremost manufacturers of edged tools such as knives, spear and arrow heads.

The Earl had decided that she should not go at once to the castle but occupy the more cozy Manor House which was about two miles from it and in the center of a wooded park. Bess had pointed out that the Queen would find Sheffield less comfortable than Chatsworth, and that as the winter lay before them the Manor House would provide a more congenial lodging than the castle.

So to the Manor House came Mary. On that day when the trees were dripping with moisture, and the spiders’ webs, draped over the bushes, looked as though they were strung with tiny crystal beads, Mary felt a numbing sense of foreboding. Seton, close to her as ever, understood her thoughts. Thus must it ever be when they entered a new prison. They must always wonder how long they would stay and whether this would be their last resting place.

The situation was charming enough with avenues of oak and walnut leading to the house from several directions, and in the manor, which had two courts, an outer and inner, Mary had been allotted a suite which was adequate for her needs.

Yet as she entered the Manor House she said to Seton: “I remember hearing that it was to this place that Cardinal Wolsey came after his arrest. I seem to feel his spirit lingers still. I understand so well his feeling, for he had fallen from greatness. He went on to Leicester to die. I wonder what my fate will be.”

Seton tried to brush away such melancholy thoughts.

“It is always difficult to adjust ourselves to a new lodging,” she said.

THAT WINTER seemed as though it would never end. The air of Sheffield was not good for Mary and sometimes her limbs were so stiff with pain that she found walking difficult. She suffered acutely from neuralgia and there were times when she was convinced that she was near death.

Only the presence of her friends made it possible, she declared, for her not to die of melancholia, for when she considered their case she reminded herself that they suffered of their own free will, for there was not one of them who could not have walked out of Sheffield, a free man or woman; yet they stayed for love of her.

It was during this mournful winter that sad news reached her from Scotland. Her son was being tutored by George Buchanan, one of her greatest enemies, who had delighted in spreading slanders about her and was now teaching young James to believe them.

This news so prostrated Mary that her friends became really alarmed, and on several occasions were on the point of ordering the administration of the last rites.

It was during this sad period that Seton brought her the news that a friend had arrived at the manor and was asking to see her.

“Who is it?” asked Mary.

Seton was smiling. “One whom I think Your Majesty will be pleased to see.”

“Then tell me . . . ”

But Seton had run to the door and flung it open.

Mary stared at the man who entered, for a few moments not recognizing him, so much had he changed. Then with a cry of joy she seized his hands and drew him to her in a long embrace.

“How can I tell you how welcome you are!” she cried.

But George Douglas did not need to be told.

THIS WAS INDEED not the same George who had gone away. His stay in France had turned him from an idealistic boy to a man of the world. Yet he was nonetheless ready to give his life for the Queen. He told himself that he no longer dreamed impossible dreams. She was his Queen whom he would serve until death; she was as a goddess who was far beyond his reach. Unlike her he had never believed that there could be a relationship between them other than that which had always existed; and in France he had found a woman with whom he believed he had fallen in love, and it was for this reason he had returned to Mary.

Mary was delighted, and the coming of George so lightened her spirits that her health seemed to benefit; and as there were now signs of spring in the bleak Sheffield air, her companions congratulated themselves that she had recovered from what they had feared would be a mortal illness.

She wanted to hear all about George’s romance, and it was characteristic of her generous nature that she could feel only joy because he had found someone to love, even though in some measure this must mean that she was supplanted in his most tender affections.

As for George he was ready enough to talk. He tried to explain to her the beauty and charm of Mademoiselle La Verrière. Mary listened, regretful only because she could not give the couple rich presents, wondering what she could do to help them to their happiness.

For George had his problems. “She is a lady of some rank and her parents frown on our union because of my poverty.”

“My poor George! When I think of what you have lost on my account, I could weep. But we must not despair. I am a prisoner but I have some friends. I will write at once to my ambassador in Paris who is, as you know, the Archbishop of Glasgow, and I will ask that twenty-five thousand francs be settled on Mademoiselle La Verrière. Then I am sure her parents will be as delighted with the match as their daughter and you and I are, my dear George.”

“I fear I bring trouble to Your Majesty. You cannot afford to be so generous.”

Mary touched his cheek lightly and laughed. “I cannot afford not to make this little gift to one to whom I owe so much. Oh, George, I would it were more I could give you. Do you think I shall ever forget Lochleven and all I owed to you . . . then and after.”

George was too touched to answer, and Mary became practical.

“If you are to return to Scotland you will need a passport. I will write to Elizabeth and try to obtain this for you. If I cannot, then you must go back to France and stay there until it if safe for you to return home.”

“Your Majesty is kind enough to concern yourself with my affairs,” said George at length. “I have been thinking since I came to Sheffield of ways in which I could be of assistance to you. I have had many a talk with Willie, who is chafing at inactivity.”

Mary laughed. “Ah, Willie! You find him much changed?”

“He has become a man.”

“You heard of his troubles. Poor Willie. He is another who has suffered in my cause. He has never been quite the same since his incarceration in an English prison.”

“He could not be a boy forever,” replied George. “In one way he has changed not at all—and that is in his devotion to Your Majesty.”

“I have so many good friends, and for them I am grateful. I will tell you, George, that there are constant schemes for my rescue, yet none succeeds. Perhaps that is my fault, for there have been occasions when I have been unwilling to escape. I have not only myself to consider, and I could not blithely ride away to freedom leaving others to be punished for my actions. But I never cease to hope. And I will tell you this, George: even at this moment Lord Claud Hamilton, with others of my friends, are in touch with the Spanish government. When the time is ripe I shall be lowered from my window by means of a cord and join my friends. But I must wait until I can be sure that I have enough supporters to make the attempt worthwhile. There have been too many abortive attempts to set me back on my throne, and too many have suffered because of them.”

George’s eyes had begun to sparkle. Now that he was back in her presence she filled his mind. Mademoiselle La Verrière seemed like a charming dream but this was reality; this was what he lived for: to aid this woman who, when he was in her presence, commanded all his devotion.

Now he no longer wished to return to France; he wanted to free her from this prison, to ride by her side into Scotland, to lead her to her throne and spend the rest of his life in her service.

He was going to give the whole of his attention to planning her escape. He would consult Willie who was as shrewd and wily as anyone he knew. It would be Lochleven all over again; and as they had succeeded at Lochleven, so should they at Sheffield.

He began to speak of plans for her escape and she shook her head, for she understood the change in his feelings since their reunion.

“Nay, George,” she said, “I do not wish you to jeopardize your future further. Nothing would please me more than to see your little French bride.”

“I know now,” said George simply, “that there can be no real happiness when I do not serve my Queen.”

Seeing how deeply in earnest he was, Mary showed him the letters which she had received from Lord Claud Hamilton in Scotland and from Lesley in London; George was excited. When the Queen escaped from the Sheffield Manor House he was going to be at her side.

AS EASTER APPROACHED George was often seen in the company of Willie. Bess was alert. She had soon understood the nature of George Douglas’s feelings for the Queen. Well, she told herself, some women get what they want through their clinging femininity—others by their dominating characters. For the first time in her life she felt slightly envious of Mary who effortlessly managed to set people working for her; Bess considered the amount of energy she had had to put into bringing about the same result. Never mind. Bess knew where she was going. Sometimes she wondered whether Mary did.

There came bad news from Scotland, where the fortress of Dumbarton, which had been held for almost four years by Mary’s supporters, had been surprised and taken by her enemies; and although Lord Fleming had escaped, Archbishop Hamilton was taken and hanged as one of Darnley’s murderers.

This was bad news for Mary and her friends; not only had they lost a valuable stronghold, but papers had been found in the castle which betrayed the fact that the Spanish government was ready to help Mary back to her throne—and not only to her own throne.

This information incensed Elizabeth who immediately gave orders to the Shrewsburys that their captive must be even more securely held.

When the Queen’s letter came, the Earl went at once to his wife and showed it to her.

“I have been watchful since George Douglas came here,” said Bess. “He is trying to repeat what he did at Lochleven.”

“That is so,” agreed the Earl.

“And I’ll warrant,” went on Bess, “that the plan is to let her down from her window by means of a cord. Has it struck you, George Talbot, that that would not be a difficult matter from her window in the Manor House?”

“It would be easier to escape from the manor than from the castle.”

“Then why do we delay?” cried Bess. “I am in no mind to lose my head, even if you are. Let the Queen be at once removed from the manor to the castle.”

ROBERTO RIDOLFI was on his way to visit the Duke of Norfolk. He had wrapped a cloak, which he believed was all concealing, about his person; he had no wish for it to be known that he was paying this visit. There was danger in the air, but Ridolfi was a man accustomed to living dangerously, as all spies must be.

Ardently Catholic it was his pleasure to serve His Holiness, and his business as banker in London gave him opportunities of doing his duty.

It was unfortunate that he had not been able to keep free of suspicion; but in view of his activities that would have been hoping for too much. Still, statesmen such as Cecil were glad to make use of his services in the business of banking, and the very nature of that business meant that he was cognizant of English affairs.

Pius could not have had a more useful servant; and since the coming of Mary Queen of Scots into England, with its attendant discontents and hopes, Ridolfi had been on the alert.

He had come very close to danger during the Catholic rising in the autumn of 1569, when twelve thousand crowns had passed through his hands as a gift from the Pope to the rebels. Sir Francis Walsingham had sent for him on that occasion and made him a prisoner while his business premises and his house were searched. That might have been the end of a less wise man, but Ridolfi, practiced spy that he was, had always known how to cover his tracks. Nothing incriminating had been discovered, and he was released, assuring Walsingham that he had merely acted in the way of business. As Elizabeth and Cecil looked upon Ridolfi as a man they could use since he was knowledgeable in European politics and they needed his services as a banker, they had allowed him to resume business.

Ridolfi was now once more engaged on his master’s work which was, in effect, to drive Protestantism out of England and set up Catholicism in its place. Never could there have been a more opportune occasion. On the throne was the Protestant Elizabeth whom many believed to be a bastard; in prison, was the Catholic Mary whom many people believed to be the true heir to the throne. Such circumstances needed to be exploited. It was Ridolfi’s duty to exploit them.

Ridolfi believed that all the Catholics in the country—and they were many—were waiting for the signal to revolt. There were however many who were prepared to tolerate a marriage between Norfolk and Mary, for although Norfolk was a Protestant he was not a very earnest one. If Norfolk could be persuaded to turn Catholic, how much stronger his case would be—and that of Mary—for two factions could unite; and those who supported the Norfolk union could work with those who supported the Catholic Faith. Were they not all enemies of Elizabeth?

These were his thoughts as he was ushered into the lodging of the Duke of Norfolk at the Charterhouse, where he was in the charge of Sir Henry Neville. Neville was an easygoing jailor and quite ready to leave the Duke alone with his banker, for it did not occur to him that there could be conspiracy between the Catholic Italian and Protestant Norfolk.

When they were alone Ridolfi commiserated with the Duke for the bad treatment he had suffered, and asked him if he intended to remain Elizabeth’s prisoner for the rest of his life.

Norfolk, full of self-pity, told the banker that he had done nothing to warrant such treatment. He was the victim of injustice.

“Your Grace should cease to fret, for there could be a glorious future before you.”

“Marriage with the Queen of Scots!” mused the Duke. “Will it ever come about, do you think?”

“It could with the utmost ease.”

Ridolfi then went on to explain that the King of Spain and His Holiness the Pope were interested in the cause of the Queen of Scots. “Philip II is prepared to supply the money for the campaign. There is only one small matter which stands between you and—not only the crown of Scotland, but that of England.”

These words set Norfolk trembling with excitement. The thought of wealth and power always delighted him. He was feeling depressed because, on account of Mary’s supplication, he had been forced to give up some of the Dacre fortune; yet how could he have refused without offending her? But if, through her, he were to attain the power and riches which Ridolfi was now suggesting, the entire Dacre fortune would be no more to him than the coin one might throw to a beggar.

“And this small matter?” he asked breathlessly.

“Your Grace is a Protestant. His Most Catholic Majesty and His Holiness would do nothing to help you while you cling to that faith.”

“So,” said Norfolk, “they are asking that I become Catholic.”

“Do so and you have the might of Spain and Rome behind you.”

The proposition was too much for the avaricious Duke. After all he was a Protestant largely because he had been brought up by Foxe and had taken his views, but there was no reason why he should not change now.

Ridolfi was rubbing his hands together. “I will draw up dispatches which shall be signed by you and the Queen of Scots, and other noblemen whose help I can be sure of. When I have these I shall go to Brussels and there lay them before the Duke of Alva; I am sure he will agree to send at least eight thousand troops—and, with such, we cannot fail.”

Norfolk, dazzled by the prospect, threw aside his religious scruples and gave his pledge that he would stand with the rebels who must be sure of victory since they had behind them the might of Spain and Rome.

Ridolfi left the house well pleased. It had been even easier than he had believed possible.

RIDOLFI, in his Brussels lodgings, continued optimistic. All was proceeding as he had hoped and he was sure that by the end of the year he would have succeeded in taking the throne of England from Elizabeth and setting up Mary in her place. He had had a satisfactory interview with Alva who, ever zealous in the Catholic cause, had seen little difficulty in the English project. It was now for him to acquaint the conspirators in England with what was happening in Brussels, so he wrote to Lesley, Norfolk and a few other conspirators. Then followed the task of finding a suitable messenger to convey the letters to England while Ridolfi made his way to Rome and his Papal master.

Charle Baillie, who was at this time in Brussels, seemed the man to execute this commission, and Ridolfi invited him to his lodgings. Charles Baillie, an enthusiastic supporter of Mary’s, answered the summons at once.

This young man was at this time pleased with his accomplishments. He had come to Flanders in order to have printed at Liège a volume which had been written by the Bishop of Ross and was a vindication of the Queen’s innocence. He had succeeded admirably and now the copies were ready to be taken back to England and Scotland where he and his friends would see that they were circulated.

When Baillie arrived Ridolfi told him of the letters which were to be taken to England.

“I know,” he said, “that you have ever been a good friend of the Queen of Scots, and it is for this reason that I assign to you this dangerous task. The letters are in cipher which I will explain to you, for if it were necessary to destroy them you could then convey their contents by word of mouth. There have been many attempts to rescue the Queen, and they have all resulted in failure. This will be different, for behind this plan is the Pope himself with the King of Spain. It is their duty and purpose to remove Elizabeth from the English throne and put Mary there. They cannot fail. But first Elizabeth must be assassinated; and, as soon as this has been achieved, Alva will cross the Channel with a strong force to join the English Catholics. This is the gist of what lies in these letters; so you see, my friend, in carrying them into Elizabeth’s country you face mortal danger.”

“I will do it willingly for the sake of Queen Mary and the Catholic cause,” Baillie answered.

“That is what I believed. Here are the letters.”

Baillie took them and set out for England.

When he left the ship at Dover, he did not notice four men who were loitering near the harbor. Relieved that he was on dry land again he was blithely making his way toward an inn where he proposed to spend the night before beginning his journey to London, when he was aware of being followed; and as he turned the four men drew level with him; in a second there was one on either side of him, one behind and the fourth had stepped in front of him.

His heart began to beat faster with fear. Cutpurses! And four of them. It was not so much that he feared to be robbed of his money; there were other things he carried far more precious than that.

“What do you want of me, gentlemen?” he asked.

The man who stood in front of him said quietly, “You are Charles Baillie, recently come from the Continent?”

“That is so,” he answered. “I repeat: What do you want of me?”

“You are our prisoner, Charles Baillie.”

“On what grounds?”

“On suspicion of treason. We arrest you in the name of our Sovereign Lady Elizabeth.”

“I do not understand.”

“Understanding will come later,” answered the leader of the men; he gave a sign and a man whom Baillie had not previously noticed came up with horses.

Baillie was told to mount and he could do nothing but obey. A leading rein was attached to his horse’s bridle and firmly holding this one of the four mounted his own horse.

“Let us go,” he said.

Thus they brought Charles Baillie to the Marshalsea prison.

SIR FRANCIS WALSINGHAM was watchful. Documents discovered in Dumbarton had alarmed him, Cecil, the Queen and all those who understood the gravity of the occasion. It was certain that the Queen of Scots was to be used as a symbol by their Catholic enemies; and when such included the Pope and the King of Spain the situation was without doubt highly dangerous. No petty rising this. Walsingham, proud of the spy system he had built up, rejoiced in an opportunity to prove its worth.

Thus he was determined to have all suspicious characters brought up for examination. It was for this reason that Charles Baillie had been arrested on his return from the Continent.

On the table before him lay letters and, because they were in cipher, they seemed sinister indeed. How to translate them? That was the question. There was a possibility that the messenger, who was an intelligent man and doubtless deep in any conspiracy that was going on, might be able to decode them.

He would not wish to do so, of course; but he was in their power; and there were ways of making a prisoner talk.

BAILLIE TOLD HIMSELF that he would be brave. They had discovered the letters but they could not read them since they did not know the cipher.

They could kill him, he told himself; he would never betray his fellow Catholics.

He felt sick with apprehension when they moved him from the Marshalsea to the Tower. Could any man glide along those inky waters and pass through the traitor’s gate without terror entering his soul! However brave a man believed himself to be he must tremble.

His cell was small and cold; little light and air came through the iron bars. He told himself he did not care. One must suffer for what one believed to be the right.

When a warder entered his cell and told him to follow whither he led, Baillie knew where he was going. As he followed the warder through the dark corridors, down stone spiral staircases and his trembling fingers touched the slimy walls, he was conscious of nothing but the fear within him. It was not physical pain that he feared; the terror came from the doubts of his own bravery.

“I will never tell,” he repeated. “Never, never . . . .”

Now he was in the underground chamber. He saw the questioner; he smelled the dank odor of the river, the tang of vinegar. They used that, he thought, when the pain was too much to be borne and the victim passed into unconsciousness. They did not let him remain in that blessed state but brought him back and back again, until they had obtained what they sought.

The questions were beginning.

“Charles Baillie, you brought letters back with you from Flanders. Who gave you those letters?”

“I cannot say.”

“You are unwise, Charles Baillie; but let that be. To whom were you carrying these letters?”

“I cannot say.”

“And what do these letters contain?”

“You have seen them. You have read them.”

“You know them to be in cipher. Can you transcribe them, Charles Baillie?”

“I cannot.”

“You are secretive. We have ways of dealing with those who would keep their secrets from us.”

They were leading him now to the wooden trough; he saw the ropes, the rollers; and as they laid their rough hands on him and stripped him of his clothes, even before they laid him on the rack he could anticipate the pain in his joints.

Now he lay there, a frightened man, praying silently: “Oh Holy Mother of God, help me to be strong.”

The questions began; he shook his head.

He heard a man screaming, and with surprise realized that it was himself, for the torture had begun.

“Charles Baillie, for whom were these letters intended?”

“I do not know . . . I cannot say.”

The pain came again, more excruciating than ever, to his already tortured limbs.

“I know nothing . . . I have nothing to say . . . .”

Again and again it came . . . waves of it; he lost consciousness but the hateful vinegar brought him back and back again to pain. Not again; he could not endure it again. His whole body, his mind cried out against it.

But they had no pity. How much could a man endure?

He did not know. There was only one thing that mattered. He must stop the pain.

A man was shouting: “Norfolk . . . Lesley . . . .” And he could not believe that was his voice betraying secrets he had sworn to preserve. Water was placed at his lips. It was cool and soothing.

“There,” said a voice, “you are wiser now. It was foolish of you to suffer so much. Now . . . tell us what the letters contained . . . and there shall be no more pain.”

But there was pain. He felt he would never be free of it. Someone touched his disjointed limbs and he screamed in agony.

“We must know more, you understand.” The voice was gentle yet full of meaning. “The letters were for Norfolk and the Bishop of Ross . . . and others. You shall tell us all. But first, what were their contents?”

He did not answer.

“There’ll have to be another turn of the screw,” said a voice.

Then he was screaming: “No . . . No . . . I will tell all. It is Ridolfi. The Pope . . . the King of Spain . . . . Alva will come . . . .”

He was moaning, but they were bending over him soothingly.

THE EARL AND COUNTESS of Shrewsbury came to the Queen’s apartment and, as soon as Mary looked into their faces, she knew that they had grave news.

She asked all her attendants to leave her, and when they had gone she cried: “I pray you tell me without delay.”

“The conspiracy with Ridolfi, of which Your Majesty will be well aware, has been discovered.”

“Ridolfi?” repeated Mary.

“Norfolk is in the Tower. Lesley is there also. There have been many arrests. You have not heard the end of this matter, Madam.”

“But . . . ” cried Mary, looking appealingly at Bess, “this is disastrous.”

“It would indeed have been, Your Majesty,” retorted the Countess, “if this plot had succeeded. It is difficult to know what will come out of it. But we have new orders from Her Majesty.”

Mary was trying to concentrate on what they were saying. Norfolk in the Tower! Ridolfi! This meant that Elizabeth had discovered that the King of Spain and the Pope were endeavoring to interfere in English politics.

But I never wished for this, she was telling herself. I never wanted to harm Elizabeth. All I asked for were my rights . . . my own throne . . . to have my son with me . . . to bring him up as my heir. I never wanted to interfere with the English.

Norfolk! For her sake he had been trapped into treason against his Queen. And the penalty for treason . . .

She dared not contemplate what the future might hold.

“The Queen’s immediate orders,” went on Bess, “are that you shall remain in these rooms and not on any pretext whatsoever leave them. Certain of your servants are to be sent away from you. You are to have no more than ten men and six women.”

“I will never send my friends away,” cried Mary.

Bess shrugged her shoulders. She was shaken, angry with herself and with Shrewsbury. Here was a pretty state of affairs with a conspiracy of this magnitude going on under their noses, and they knowing nothing of it.

This would be the end of Norfolk—of that much she was certain. Would it also be the end of Mary Queen of Scots? That might well be, for if it could be proved that she was involved in a plot against Elizabeth she had indeed earned the death penalty.

It was imperative that the Shrewsburys should be able to prove their innocence.

Bess had rarely been so shaken. They lived in dangerous times and Shrewsbury could be a fool on occasions—particularly over his beautiful Queen—so that Bess had to think for them both.

“Your Majesty would do well to select the sixteen you wish to keep with you,” she said tartly. “If you do not, it will be for us to select them for you.”

Shrewsbury said almost gently: “Your Majesty will understand that you are in grave danger.”

Mary said impatiently: “I have been in grave danger ever since I sought refuge with your mistress.”

“But never,” warned Shrewsbury, “in such danger as you find yourself at this time.”

“Come, come,” said Bess, “it is useless to commiserate with Her Majesty. If she is involved in plots against our Queen, she knows full well the risks she runs. It would be well if Your Majesty made your own selection . . . and that with speed; for I must warn you again that if you do not, it will be made for you.”

She signed to Shrewsbury and together they left the Queen. Mary immediately called for Seton who from the ante-room had overheard what had been said.

Seton said nothing. There was no need for words.

Never in all her life had Seton felt such fear for her mistress.

THERE WAS DEEP MELANCHOLY in the Queen’s apartments.

“How can I choose from all those I love so well?” asked Mary again and again. “How can I spare one of them!”

Bess came in. She treated Mary with disapproval in the presence of others, but when they were alone she allowed a little sympathy to show. Secretly she thought Mary a fool . . . surrounded by fools. So many attempts and not one successful! Bess was thankful that they were not. She was anxious that none should be able to say that she had given any help to the Queen of Scots. Small wonder that Shrewsbury’s health suffered through this task of his. There could be none more dangerous in the kingdom than guarding the Queen of Scots.

“Your Majesty,” she said coolly, “if you will not decide who of your servants are to go and who to stay, the Earl and I will have no alternative but to decide for you.”

With tears of wretchedness in her eyes Mary turned away; but still she could not bring herself to make the choice.

WILLIE DOUGLAS stood before her, all his jauntiness departed. He was one of those who were to leave her.

Willie looked bewildered; he could not believe that he was to go. Mary took him in her arms and kissed him.

“Oh Willie, never will I forget . . . .”

“Your Majesty,” said Willie, “we must get you out of that wicked woman’s hand. We must get you back to Scotland where you belong.”

“You will go to Scotland, Willie?”

A shadow of the old grin crossed Willie’s face. “They’ll be remembering Lochleven up there, Your Majesty. They’ll cut me into collops if they catch me.”

“That must never happen. Go to France with George, Willie.”

“I’ll not let them get me, Your Majesty. I’m going to bring you back to your throne, remember.”

“Oh, Willie, how can I bear this! How can I! You and so many whom I love to be torn from me! Be assured though that the life you hazarded for mine will never be neglected while I have a friend living . . . .”

When Willie had left her, Seton led her to her bed and there they lay together, weeping silently—Mary thinking of all those who had risked their lives to be with her; Seton wondering what the future held for them.

UNABLE TO LEAVE her rooms in the castle, left to the care of only one or two of her ladies—for those servants who remained were not allowed to come and go as they once had—Mary’s melancholy turned to sickness, and once again those who loved her despaired of her life.

Her French physician, who had obtained special permission before he was allowed to visit her, was in despair because he had no medicines with which to treat her. In desperation he implored Cecil, recently created Lord Burleigh, to lift the ban which prevented him from treating the royal invalid. Burleigh—shocked by the Ridolfi plot which was being slowly revealed through the torturing of Norfolk’s servants and others involved—did not answer the physician’s request; and when Mary wrote to the French ambassador asking for his help, the letter was intercepted by Burleigh’s spies and this too brought no relief.

“If they would but send a little of the ointment which relieves Your Majesty’s spasmodic pains, that would be something,” mourned Seton. “I would I could acquire a little cinnamon water and confiture of black grapes.”

“What is the use?” answered Mary wearily. “They have determined to kill me, and if I die what they will call a natural death, so much the better from their point of view. There is one request I will make though, and perhaps Elizabeth will answer this: I shall ask her to send me a priest, for I believe I shall soon be in dire need of his services.”

She was so weak that she could scarcely write, and she hoped this would be apparent to Elizabeth when she received the letter, and that her heart would be touched.

It was some days later when she believed that this had come about, for a priest came from the Court of England to visit her.

When she heard that he was in the castle she begged that he be brought to her at once; and when he arrived she held out her hand and prepared to greet him warmly.

The priest bowed coldly, and there was no pity in his pale ascetic face as he looked at her, so wan, so helpless in her sickbed.

“It pleases me that you have come,” she said. “I have need of your services.”

“I came from my Sovereign Lady Elizabeth,” he told her, “not to act as your priest and confessor but to bring you this.”

He held out a book which she eagerly grasped.

The priest retired from her bedside and took his stand by the window; and she believed afterward that he had been commanded by his mistress to watch her reactions and to report on them.

She stared in dismay at the book, for it was one written by her old enemy, George Buchanan, and in it, set down in the coarsest terms, was the fictitious account of her life since she had come from France to Scotland. In this book she was said to be a murderess and adulteress.

And this was what Elizabeth sent to her when she was asking for a priest!

Then she remembered. This was the man who had been appointed her son’s tutor.

She knew that her life was in danger, but she could only think of young James in the hands of the foul-minded Buchanan. Already he would be teaching James that his mother was an adulteress and a murderess.

Never had she been so miserable as he was now, lying in bed at Sheffield Castle holding Buchanan’s coarsely written libel in her hands.

BESS CAME to Mary’s chamber.

“How fares Your Majesty?” she asked.

Mary shook her head. “You find me low in health and spirits,” she answered.

Bess approached the bed and picked up Buchanan’s book. She snorted with disgust. “I will burn this without delay. I do not care to have such filth under my roof.”

Mary smiled. There were times when Bess’s presence was a great comfort to her.

“I come to tell you that the Earl has left for London,” she said. “We have Sir Ralph Sadler here in his place.”

“But why so?” asked Mary alarmed.

Bess ignored the question for the moment. “You need have no fear. I shall not allow him to trouble you if you do not wish to see him.”

“I have little wish to see him. He is no friend of mine.”

“I myself will come to you whenever you wish it,” said Bess.

“Thank you. I trust I shall welcome you often. But tell me why the Earl has left for London.”

Bess had wandered to the window and, as she spoke, looked out and not at the Queen.

“That he may preside in his duty as Lord High Steward at the trial of the Duke of Norfolk.”

There was silence in the chamber. Then Bess turned and came to stand at the Queen’s bedside.

“I pray,” she said—gently for her, “that Your Majesty is not too deeply involved. They took Lesley, as you know, and I heard that when faced with torture he confessed all.”

“All!”

“You,” replied the Countess shrewdly, “will know better than I how much that was.”

Mary suddenly began to shiver. She said quietly: “It may be that they will send for me. It may be that my next prison will be the Tower of London. You should not grieve for me, for one prison is very like another.”

“I should not care to see Your Majesty conveyed to the Tower. That could have terrible implications.”

“I know that you think it is one short step from the prison to eternity. Perhaps that is so. But if that is my fate, so be it.”

Bess felt impatient with such an attitude, yet even she was touched with pity. If there was anything she could have done to comfort the Queen, gladly would she have done it. But the only thing she could think of was to keep Sir Ralph Sadler from her apartments until the return of the Earl. This she would do by her own constant attendance on Mary.

She had no wish, of course, for Mary to think she approved of plots against the Queen of England; but during that period of dread and fear, Mary and Bess were closer in friendship than they had ever been.

IT WAS A BLEAK JANUARY DAY when Seton came into the Queen’s apartment, her eyes red with weeping.

“Well?” asked Mary. “But I have no need to ask you. He has been found guilty.”

Seton bowed her head.

“It is what we have been fearing these last weeks,” said the Queen. “I suffer torments, because it is for my sake that he is brought so low.”

Seton shook her head; she wanted to cry: Nay, it was his own ambition which has brought him where he is. Instead she said: “You must not reproach yourself. All he did was of his own free will.”

“Oh Seton, if only I could go back to the days when I first came to England. I would act differently. I should never have allowed him to jeopardize his life for my sake.”

Seton did not reply. When would Mary learn that men were born ambitious, that others were not unselfish as she was herself. This was not the time to tell her. All she could do now was endeavor to comfort her in her grief.

Bess came into the apartment; she took one look at Mary’s stricken face and said: “What ails Your Majesty?”

“I know your ladyship cannot be ignorant of the cause of my sorrow,” answered Mary. “I am in great fear for the Duke of Norfolk.”

“Then the news I bring Your Majesty has already reached you. You know that Norfolk has been found guilty of high treason.”

Mary covered her face with her hands and Bess, watching her, thought: Poor foolish woman!

THE SPRING HAD COME but Mary was too melancholy to notice it. Norfolk still lived, a prisoner in the Tower, the axe hanging over his head; he would not escape it this time, she knew. And what of herself? What fate was being prepared for her?

She had no means of knowing. She was not allowed to move from her own apartments. She guessed that in London Elizabeth was conferring with her ministers as to what should be done with the Queen of Scots.

It was not until June that the news was brought to her. She was prostrate when she heard it. On the second day of that month Norfolk had been taken to Tower Hill and there beheaded.

So he was no more, this man who she had believed would be her husband. She had seen little of him but there had been many letters exchanged between them and she had built up in her mind an image. Norfolk was to have been that ideal husband for whom she had always been seeking; and it was that ideal she mourned.

So deep was her grief that she scarcely paused to wonder or to care . . . whether she herself would soon meet a like fate.

All through the long summer days there was mourning in her apartments at Sheffield Castle.

RARELY WAS HER beautiful rival out of Elizabeth’s thoughts. Her ministers had told her that she had excuse enough now to bring Mary to London, to lodge her in the Tower, to have her tried for treason and found guilty. Once and for all, let this be an end to the troublesome Mary Queen of Scots.

Elizabeth hesitated. Much as she desired the death of Mary she had no wish to be connected with it. She wanted someone to rid her of the woman, but in such a manner that no blame could possibly attach itself to her.

The simplest solution was what she had planned before and would have carried out but for Moray’s untimely death. Send her back to Scotland, let them try her there; let them answer to the world for her death.

She tried out Morton but he was cautious. There were too many people in Scotland, anxious for the Queen’s return, for his peace of mind.

He answered Elizabeth: He would take the Queen of Scots back into Scotland, where she might be tried and found worthy of death; but he would not be responsible for her execution unless Elizabeth sanctioned it.

“Sanction it!” cried Elizabeth. “The fool! If I did that I might as well have the deed done here in England.”

This she could do, her minister reminded her. Mary’s complicity in the Ridolfi plot gave her ample reason.

But Elizabeth hesitated. Those Catholic risings had worried her. There were many Catholics in England and the nightmare of her life was that her subjects would turn against her. She cared nothing for the antagonism of the greatest foreign power; she had always known that her strength lay in the approval of her own people.

So Mary was allowed to live on—although in the strictest confinement at Sheffield Castle.

LIFE HAD BECOME STRANGE; Mary did not notice the passing weeks. She lived in a daze, sleeping a great deal of the time, going over the past when she was awake, constantly expecting a summons to death.

She could not go on in that state, thought Bess; but perhaps it was as well that she seemed so indifferent at this time. Shrewsbury was panic-stricken. He was wondering how much blame would be attached to him over this Ridolfi matter. He had become as he had been before his attack; Bess was a little anxious, particularly as of recent months he had seemed to be more serene.

He would grow out of this new phase, she promised herself. Each day carried them—if not Mary—farther from trouble. If Elizabeth had meant to reprimand them, she would have done so by now.

Mary’s spirits were raised a little when he heard from Lesley who had now been released from the Tower and, though still a prisoner of state, had been removed to Farnham Castle in Surrey where the Bishop of Winchester was his host and jailor. He sent her a book of meditations in Latin which he himself had written.

Mary roused herself from her lethargy to write to him and tell him that the knowledge that he was no longer in the Tower and had sent her his book brought her great comfort.

AUGUST CAME and it was stiflingly hot in the Queen’s apartments.

She lay listlessly dreaming of the past, and Seton came to sit beside her bed.

“Would Your Majesty not like to work at your tapestry?”

“No, Seton. I have no interest in it.”

“You know how it soothes you.”

“I do not think I could be easily soothed now, Seton.”

“Your Majesty should rouse yourself. This sorrow will pass like all others.”

“That may be, Seton. But what is at the end of it? How long have I been in England? What is the day?”

“It is the 24th day of August, Your Majesty, in the year 1572.”

“The 24th day of August, Seton. Is that not St. Bartholomew’s Eve?”

“It is indeed.”

“It was in June that they killed him . . . early June. It is nearly three months since he died.”

“Too long to mourn. Tears will not bring him back.”

“You are right, Seton, as you so often are. I believe now that in time I may begin to forget. Oh, Seton, if only some good would come to me! If only my French relations would do something to help me. Do you remember our days in France?”

“It is not easy to forget the happiest days of one’s life.”

“Those were the happy days, Seton. I will write to the King . . . reminding him.”

“Try to sleep now.”

“I will, Seton, and in the morning I will write to dear friends in France . . . to my uncles, to my grandmother, to the King my brother-in-law . . . even to the Queen-Mother.”

“I shall remember,” replied Seton, and there was a note of happiness in her voice, “that you began to throw off your grief on the Eve of St. Bartholomew.”

THE NEWS CAME to Sheffield Castle and Mary listened to it aghast. Terrible tragedy had struck the city of Paris, and it seemed that this tragedy was being repeated in the main cities of France. On the Eve of St. Bartholomew the Catholics had risen against the Huguenots and there had been slaughter in the streets such as had never been known before. The Admiral de Coligny had been brutally murdered and vile sport had been made with his body; he was but one of thousands of brave men who were dying in the streets of France on account of their Faith.

The Queen of England and her Protestant minister expressed their horror of such butchery; all over England there were cries of “Down with the Papists!” And it was said that one of the leaders and instigators of this most terrible massacre was the Duke of Guise, kinsman of the Queen of Scots.

In the streets of London and many cities in England men and women gathered to talk of what was happening across the Channel.

“It must never happen here,” they cried. “This is a good Protestant country. We’ll have no popery here.”

Then they remembered the revolt of the Northern Catholics, and many recalled the days of the Queen’s half-sister who was known as Bloody Mary because of the fires of Smithfield which, in her day, had consumed the bodies of good Protestant men and women.

There was another Catholic Queen in their midst. She was a prisoner in Sheffield Castle, but since she had been in England she had caused trouble enough.

“Down with popery!” shouted the people. “Down with the fair devil of Scotland!”

IT WOULD BE WELL, said Elizabeth, to keep a strict watch on the Queen of Scotland, for her own safety, because when the people of England had heard of the conduct of her Catholic friends and relations in France they were ready to tear her apart.

Now was the time, thought Elizabeth, to sever Mary’s head from her body, for never would she be as unpopular as she was now.

But Elizabeth remembered the Catholics in the land who were perhaps at this moment waiting to rise, as their fellow Catholics had risen in Paris.

No, she would restrain herself. The Queen of Scots should remain her prisoner. It should not be said that she had agreed to her execution because she feared her greater right to the throne.

Let her rest in prison strictly guarded. That was the best place for her.

The right moment will come, Elizabeth told herself. Then the deed can be performed with a good conscience and none will be able to say that Elizabeth of England slew her rival because she went in fear of her. Nay, at a time when it would have been so easy to bring her to the block, she, Elizabeth, had cherished her, protected her from the infuriated Protestants of England, remembering the respect due to royalty, desiring to show the world that she feared no one and would not consent to Mary’s execution merely because she could enjoy greater peace of mind in a world where Mary was not.

Orders were sent to Sheffield Castle. “Keep the Queen under even stricter surveillance. Double the guard. It is imperative that she should not escape . . . for her own sake.”

SO THAT SUMMER PASSED into winter. Another birthday came and went—her thirtieth.

“I am growing old,” she told Seton. “See how my life is passing by while I go from one prison to another.”

Christmas came, but there were no revelries in Sheffield Castle.

The winter was long and cold, but Mary scarcely noticed it, and in the spring the Earl and Countess came to her apartments to tell her that since the castle needed sweetening they proposed to move her to the Lodge in the Park.

Mary was glad of the move. Anything was welcome to relieve the monotony; but the Earl and Countess were less happy with their captive in the manor, for they believed escape would have been easier there than from the castle.

She was never allowed out of her apartment and whenever she looked out of her window she saw guards who stood beneath it all through the day and night.

“She will never escape from here,” joked the guards, “unless she has some magic which will turn her into a mouse or a flea.”

THE EARL BROUGHT THE NEWS to Mary, and as he told her he realized that she understood its importance. She turned pale and put her hand to her side where lately she had begun to feel much pain.

“The Castle of Edinburgh has surrendered, Your Majesty.”

She did not speak for a moment. She pictured the castle, high on the hill, seeming impregnable. It was the last and the most important fortress held in her name.

“English forces under Sir William Drury captured it,” Shrewsbury told her. “Kirkcaldy should have surrendered long ago. There was no hope of holding out against the Queen’s forces.”

She knew what had been happening in Edinburgh; she had heard stories of the bravery of those who had loved her, how the soldiers’ wives had allowed themselves to be let down the steep rock by ropes in order that they might go into the town to buy bread for the starving defenders of the castle; how when they had been caught, which was frequently the case, Morton had ordered that they should be immediately hanged. She had heard how the soldiers had been let down to the well by means of ropes that they might fill their buckets with the precious water.

“They had to give in,” Shrewsbury was telling her now, “when the well was poisoned.”

“Kirkcaldy would never have surrendered otherwise,” said Mary. And she thought of Kirkcaldy who was now her firm ally yet who had stood remorselessly against her and, more than any, had helped to win the day for Moray at Carberry Hill.

“Kirkcaldy will never be on any side again,” replied Shrewsbury grimly. “He was hanged with his brother in Market Cross when the castle was taken.”

“Oh, my lord,” cried Mary, “why are you always the bringer of evil tidings?”

“If there were aught good to bring you, I would bring it,” Shrewsbury answered gruffly.

“Then as you can bring me no good, I pray you leave me alone with my grief.”

Shrewsbury bowed and left her. He was thinking that in some respects this might not be such bad news for her.

With Edinburgh Castle lost she was no longer a formidable enemy. Her importance to Elizabeth had waned with its capture. Might it be that now the watch on her would be relaxed a little? Her supporters in Scotland were defeated; the English were still talking in horror of the St. Bartholomew massacre. Elizabeth would have little to fear now from Mary Queen of Scots. Surely she would relent a little.

“HOW DID SHE TAKE the news?” Bess demanded of her husband.

“She has heard so much bad news that even this leaves her numb.”

“Poor creature! I pity her. It is sad that she should be so confined as she has been these last months. I am sick unto death of Sheffield. How I long for the beauty of my beloved Chatsworth!”

“What have you in mind?”

“She has become almost an invalid in these last months. She is in need of a change. I shall ask the Queen if we may not visit Chatsworth; and who knows, if we do I might take the Queen of Scots to the Buxton baths. They did you good. I’m sure they would be equally beneficial to her.”

“You think the Queen would listen to your request?”

“Are you a fool, Shrewsbury? Now is the time for her to show her leniency. Never have the fortunes of your romantic Queen been so low. I will write to Elizabeth. I’ll swear that very soon we shall be leaving Sheffield for Chatsworth . . . and it may well be Buxton too.”