The Captive Queen of Scots

XIV Return to Sheffield

SO BACK TO SHEFFIELD CAME MARY, and those who were close to her were aware of the change in her. She was no longer the hopeful young girl who believed that shortly she would be rescued and restored to her throne. It was as though she had come to terms with life; as though she had told herself: This is how it must be and I must therefore try to make this restricted life as happy as I can for those who have made sacrifices in order to be with me; thus I can find something to make life pleasant.

Since she had been to Buxton and her health had been so much better she tried to enjoy a little gaiety in her apartments. She made plans for working elaborate tapestry and wrote to the French ambassador asking him to buy her materials in France.

“There,” she explained to her ladies, “he can find colors which are more beautiful than those obtainable in London; and the silks are finer.”

Seton guessed that she planned to make a present for the Queen of England, knowing how Elizabeth loved to receive gifts. Perhaps thus, mused Mary, she may be persuaded to view my position with more kindness.

She longed for some little pets, for she loved all animals and in particular little dogs.

“I could be so happy if I had a few little dogs to care for. I shall write to France for them. Surely someone will send me a little dog. I would not wish for only one. He would need a companion. I would not have him lonely. And I must ask for them to be sent in baskets with warm coverlets. I would have them prepared for the cold in Sheffield Castle.”

She also asked her French friends to send her some clothes for which she would pay when she could recover some of her possessions.

“Ah, Seton,” she said, “do you remember the caps I used to wear with crowns of gold and silver? How becoming they were! I remember the King of France once told me that they became none as they did me. I should like some more. But perhaps there are newer fashions now. I shall ask for the latest designs to be sent to me. But perhaps I should not wear them myself but send them to Elizabeth. She is always eager to see the French fashions, I heard, and to be the first to wear them.”

So the days were now spent in planning tapestry designs and hoping for the arrival of the little dogs. It was less exciting but more restful than making dangerous plans for escape.

There were times when the yearning to see little James was so strong that the Queen lapsed into melancholy; and Bess, realizing this and feeling sorry for the Queen, decided to do something about it.

Bess, who had her children with her and took an active part in their affairs, could therefore understand Mary’s grief in being parted from her only son; and, since that son was a King, in Bess’s eyes it made the situation even more tragic.

Bess’s daughter Frances had married Sir Henry Pierpont of Holme Pierpont in Nottinghamshire, and Frances had a little daughter whom she had named Elizabeth after her mother.

It was at Bess’s suggestion that Mary became godmother to this child. Bess who, where her family was concerned, was extremely ambitious, believed that it could do little Bessie, who was four years old, no harm to have a Queen as her godmother. At the same time it would add a little interest to Mary’s life.

She was unprepared for the warmth with which Mary greeted this project. Her goddaughter became the center of her life; and she showered all that devotion, which she had longed to give to James, on little Bessie Pierpont. She had the child with her whenever possible, taking meals with her, having her sleep in her bed, making clothes for her.

As for little Bessie, she returned the Queen’s affection and was never so happy as when she was in Mary’s company.

Bess looked on with pleasure and assured Frances Pierpont that young Bessie would come to no harm while Mary remained a prisoner, and if the latter’s fortune should ever take a turn great good would come to her.

During this time Mary became more serene. The affairs of her household were beginning to absorb her. She was concerned about the health of her French Secretary Roullet, who was dying of a lung complaint and had become very difficult, being often too ill to work for her and not hesitating to express his reproaches if she allowed Gilbert Curle to take over his tasks.

She was gentle and tender to him and always tried to placate him, although often she had to do his work herself—fearing to hurt him by passing it on to some other secretary. But he was one of her household, and now she lived for such friends.

She was made very sad by news of the death of Charles IX, King of France, and was temporarily overcome by melancholy, remembering the happy days when she had been a child in the French nursery.

Seton wept with her, for had they not always been together even in those days, and she remembered Charles as well as Mary did.

“I have lost another friend,” she told Seton, “and there are so few left to me.”

“He loved you dearly,” Seton answered. “It was the dearest wish of his heart that you should share his throne with him. I believe that might have come about but for his mother.”

“I have had so many good friends and so many enemies,” Mary replied. “How Catherine de’ Medici hated me—especially so after she heard me call her a tradesman’s daughter. It was wrong of me, Seton, and I deeply regret that now. But I paid for my folly, did I not? Sometimes I think, Seton, that I am paying in full for all the sins of my youth.”

“Let us not talk of such things,” replied Seton. “It will not always be as it is now, and then perhaps you will be rewarded for your goodness to us all. Shall we work on the embroidery for little Bessie’s gown?”

He was dead and no good could be served by mourning. Poor Charles! thought Mary. Had he so much to lose? His reign had been unhappy. He was dominated by a mother who, it was said, had perverted him in more ways than one. He suffered from perpetual remorse for the fearful massacre of St. Bartholomew’s Eve. Poor Charles, perhaps one should rejoice that his earthly troubles were at an end.

One morning Mary sent a maid to ask after the health of her secretary Roullet who, she fancied, had looked even more sickly than usual on the previous day.

The maid returned to her in agitation, with the news that Monsieur Roullet was gasping for breath and seemed very distressed; and when Mary hurried to his bedside she saw at once that her secretary was dying.

He was too far gone to speak to Mary as she bent over his bed, but there was loving devotion in his eyes. Mary sent for priests and the last rites were administered; and that day she wept bitterly for the loss of another friend.

She was deeply touched to discover that Roullet had not spent the five thousand crowns which she had given him as a reward for his services to her, but kept them that he might leave them to her in his will.

“How strange,” she said to Seton, “that I, who have so many enemies, should find so many to love me.”

“It is your possessions that make some your enemies,” answered Seton sagely. “It is you yourself whom your friends love.”

“I shall need another secretary to take the place of poor Roullet, so I shall write to the Cardinal of Lorraine and ask him to send me someone whom I can trust.”

Mary carried out that intention and very soon afterward her uncle sent her a handsome, energetic young man who had been one of his own secretaries; his name was Jacques Nau, and he was a brother of that Claud Nau who had served Mary some years before.

ONE DAY A LETTER from George Douglas was smuggled in to Mary. It always delighted her to hear from George and she was happy if she learned that he was alive and well.

He wrote that he had returned to Scotland and was in hiding there. Willie was with him. George had not married Mademoiselle La Verrière. Those plans had come to naught, he wrote. He thought constantly of the Queen and sought means of bringing her back to power. He believed that the Queen would be happy if her son were taken from Morton’s care, where he was being instructed by the villainous Buchanan, and taken to Spain where Philip II would be very willing to supervise his education.

“If this could be brought about,” wrote George, “I believe, and so do many of Your Majesty’s friends, that it would be the first and most effective step toward regaining the throne of Scotland.”

Mary sat with the letter in her lap, her heart beating faster. She had forgotten how exciting intrigue could be. Yes, she thought, anything to remove little James from the hands of those who hated her and were endeavoring to bring him up to do the same.

George was right. If this could be successfully achieved it would be a step toward her return to power. And if only she could but see her son again, she often told herself, she would ask for nothing more. He was growing up now, that little James, having come to the end of his eighth year; and it would be so easy for a clever man to make him believe the lies against her.

Yet would Morton ever let him go? Dear George, he had always conceived such wild plans; but she remembered that it was due to Willie rather than George that she had escaped from Lochleven.

It saddened her that his marriage had come to nothing, because she feared it might be because he had set his Queen on such a high pedestal that he compared all others, to their detriment, with her—quite wrongly, Mary believed.

She wrote to George. His plan interested her very much, she said; and if it could be put into execution she was sure it would have the effect they all desired; but he had suffered enough, and she begged him not to put himself in further peril for her sake.

SHEFFIELD CASTLE had never been one of Bess’s favorite residences, and in October of the year 1574 she took an opportunity of visiting Rufford, another of the family’s stately houses. Bess took her unmarried daughter, Elizabeth Cavendish, with her and a few days after her arrival was very glad that she had, for noble travelers called at Rufford, and these were none other than Margaret, Countess of Lennox, who to Bess’s joy was accompanied by her son Charles, the younger brother of Mary’s husband, Lord Darnley, who had met his death so mysteriously in Kirk o’ Field.

Bess warmly welcomed the visitors and made sure that the young people were often in each other’s company.

Elizabeth Cavendish was a beautiful young woman, and Bess had long been looking for a suitable match; so when good fortune threw Charles Stuart in her way, the ambitious Bess felt this to be an opportunity which should not be missed.

As soon as she had seen that her guests were comfortably settled, she sent for Elizabeth who, knowing her mother, guessed what was in her mind.

“The young Earl of Lennox is a charming fellow,” Bess began, and Elizabeth could not help laughing aloud.

Elizabeth had spirit and Bess liked to see spirit in her children, but she was always a little afraid that it might make them stand out against her. Not that Bess had any fears that she would not in time have her own way, but she did not wish to waste time and energy in unnecessary conflict.

Elizabeth said: “He is also Charles Stuart and grandson of Margaret, who was the eldest sister of Henry VIII.”

Bess nodded approvingly. “I see that your thoughts move in the right direction.”

“You cannot seriously mean that there might be a match between him and me!”

“And why not? You must admit he is handsome and entirely agreeable.”

“Mother! Your ambitions cloud your sense.”

“I’ll thank you not to question my sense, girl. I have no wish to box your ears, but I shall certainly do so if you forget your duty to your mother.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Nay, mother,” he said, “do not be angry. But do you not agree that Her Majesty the Queen will wish to choose the bride of one who is so near the throne?”

“Doubtless she will. Therefore it is for others to make the choice before Her Majesty realizes it is made.”

There was perhaps little harm in allowing her mother to dream, thought Elizabeth. She knew that the Queen would never consent to a match between them. Bess, for all her arrogance, was after all only a Hardwick, and her daughter would never be considered worthy to mate with a royal Stuart.

“The children of this young Earl will be in direct succession to the throne,” said Bess, licking her lips as though some tasty dish had been set before her.

Elizabeth agreed with her mother; she had learned that it was always necessary to do that; and when Bess arranged that she should show Charles the gardens or ride beside him, she obeyed meekly.

They seemed momentous days for those two young people. Both felt that Queen Elizabeth would never allow them to marry, so their relationship began in perfect freedom, in spite of Bess’s rather obvious tricks to throw them together. But their natural feelings were too strong and although the Lennoxes stayed only five days at Rufford, before the end of that time Charles and Elizabeth were deeply in love. The knowledge both enchanted and terrified them.

Bess, seeing her daughter melancholy, came to her apartment demanding the reason, and in a very short time discovering it, was exultant.

Nothing could have suited her better.

“There is no need for melancholy!” she cried. “You are my beloved daughter, and if you decide you are in love and cannot be happy without that young man, then depend upon it, your mother will arrange that that young man will be yours.”

“Mother, you would not dare. Remember who he is.”

But it was precisely because of who he was that Bess would dare. It was dangerous, she knew; but if the prize was great enough Bess was always ready to risk the danger. Her Elizabeth was going to be Countess of Lennox; and that meant that Bess’s grandchild could—circumstances permitting—one day wear the crown of England. So, come what may, Elizabeth was going to marry the Countess of Lennox’s Charles.

She sought an early interview with the Countess of Lennox, and as soon as they were alone together she took a kerchief and held it to her eyes.

Margaret Lennox, startled to see Bess in a condition so unusual with her, asked the reason. “It is because of my dearest daughter’s unhappiness. The foolish girl! Oh, how could she be so foolish!”

“My dear Bess, tell me what has happened. You cannot mean that your Elizabeth has distressed you. I think her one of the most delightful girls I have ever met.”

“She is. Indeed she is. But, Margaret, what do you think the foolish creature has done? I can scarcely bear to tell you. She has fallen in love with . . . your son Charles and he with her.”

“My Charles! So that is why he seems changed. I have never seen him quite as happy as he has been.”

“Poor boy. Alas for him. These foolish young people! But what can you expect? They are both so young, so beautiful. Much as I have enjoyed your stay, my dear Margaret, I almost wish you had not come here.”

Margaret loved her son dearly; more so, she believed, since the tragic death of his elder brother, and it was her dearest wish to see him happy.

Bess, the kerchief still held to her eyes, was watching her companion intently, and felt like crying her triumph aloud, for she realized that it would be the easiest thing imaginable to win Margaret Lennox to her side.

“What shall we do? What shall we do?” she moaned.

“I think we should first discover how deeply our young people feel,” suggested Margaret.

“I pray that their young hearts are not too strongly committed, although I fear the worst.”

Margaret was silent for a few seconds, then she said: “But, Bess, suppose they should have fallen so deeply in love that it will break their hearts to part . . . what then?”

“I dare not think.”

“I do not want my son Charles to suffer as his brother Henry did.”

“His was a sad marriage . . . a marriage of ambition,” Bess agreed. “Had it been a true love match doubtless Henry would be alive today.”

“I cannot bear to think of it even now . . . . It haunts me still.”

“You are his mother . . . and like all mothers who love their children, would rather see him happily married to some good young girl than dead . . . though he was once the King of Scotland through his wife.”

Margaret had covered her face with her hands. This was going well, thought Bess. All she needed was Margaret’s consent and she would go ahead with the marriage. Queen Elizabeth’s wrath could be faced when the marriage was a fait accompli. It would be like taking Shrewsbury to the Buxton baths all over again. Although this of course would be considered a far more serious matter. Never mind. The thing was to get the pair married.

“I know how you feel,” soothed Bess. “You want Charles to have what Henry missed.”

“I would do anything for his happiness,” said Margaret vehemently.

“Then we must put our heads together. We must discover how deeply the feelings of these two young people are involved; and if it would break their hearts to be parted, are you, as his mother, prepared to face the wrath of the Queen?”

“Yes,” said Margaret, “I would give everything I have to ensure his happiness.”

“How well I understand your feelings, for mine are the same. I love my Elizabeth even as you love your Charles. If we decide this must be . . . no matter what the consequences, we might journey to Sheffield Castle. I am sure the Queen of Scots would wish to help us.”

Margaret seemed happy with this suggestion as though, if they dared not ask for the consent of one Queen, it would be well to win that of another.

LITTLE BESSIE PIERPONT was happiest when her grandmother was not in the castle, for then she was no longer in fear of being summoned suddenly to her presence. Grandmother Bess believed that all little girls, however young, should each day be given tasks and that if these tasks were not completed by the end of the day, punishment should follow.

Bessie was not a very good needlewoman and the stitches in her tapestry were rarely all of a size. They had to be unpicked and done again; but even so they rarely came out looking like the stitches of her godmother, Queen Mary. Sometimes Godmother Mary did the stitches for her; then they were perfect. It was a secret they shared; and when Grandmother saw them she would purse her lips and say: “There, you see what comes from really trying. Next time, I wish them to be like this from the first.”

Grandmother Bess believed in whipping children who were not all she expected them to be—and of course she expected a good deal. Handwriting had to be neat and legible; history had to be learned; and Bessie, young as she was, had already been started on Latin exercises.

So it was not surprising that with Grandmother Bess away from Sheffield Castle Bessie felt free. It was a pleasure to wake each morning; to steal out of the bed she shared with her godmother and run to the window to look out at the confluence of the Sheaf and the Don, and to wonder whether she would be allowed to ride with one of the grooms this day. It was almost certain that she would, for her grandfather would be so busy when she asked him that he would say yes; and then all she had to do was tell Eleanor that she had her grandfather’s permission, and Eleanor would tell the groom to saddle her horse.

But Bessie was often too sad to ride after all, because her dear godmother could not come with her and she feared that if she went riding it reminded the Queen that she was a prisoner.

It was a very sad thing to be a prisoner, Bessie knew, because the Queen had told her so. The Queen told her a great deal when they were in bed together; Bessie often requested stories to help her go to sleep. Then the Queen would remember the days when she was Bessie’s age and tell her about the monastery on the island called Inchmahome and how she had lived with the monks there; she would tell of how she had sailed to France on a big ship and that even then the English had sought to make her their prisoner, although the great Queen Elizabeth was not Queen then, but only a little girl like Bessie herself.

It was all very bewildering and somehow sad. Bessie wished that she could do more to make the Queen happy. Although she did quite a lot, Queen Mary herself told her.

Bessie stood at the window watching the rain falling down. So she could not go riding even if she had permission. Bessie did not know what to do. There was no one to play with. She wished she had four Bessies as the Queen had had four Marys to play with her. What games they could have played in Sheffield Castle!

As she did not know what else to do Bessie decided to go along to find the Queen and see how she was getting on with the new gown she was making for her. Perhaps if the Queen were stitching with some of her ladies Bessie would ask for a story about Inchmahome or the French Court. She never tired of hearing them.

She went to the Queen’s apartment, and quietly pushed open the door. At first she thought the room was empty; then she saw a man sitting at a table, writing. Bessie was about to turn and run when he said: “I see you. It is useless to hide. What do you want?”

Bessie came into the room, trying to look haughty. Grandmother had made her walk seven times around a room regularly each morning with a book on her head. That was to make sure she kept her back straight and her head high. It was another unpleasant duty evaded in Grandmother’s absence. So now Bessie walked as though she carried books on her head and, looking as haughty as Grandmother could have wished, said: “And who are you to question me, sir?”

The man’s dark eyes seemed to shine more brightly; his mouth turned up at the corners. “Only Her Majesty’s secretary, Your Grace—or should I say Your Majesty?”

“Yes,” said Bessie, laughing suddenly, “say both.”

The man rose from the table, laid down his pen and bowed.

“You speak in a strange way,” Bessie told him.

“That is because English is not my native tongue. I am Her Majesty’s French secretary, Your Majesty.”

Bessie laughed again. “What is your name?”

“Jacques Nau.”

“That’s a strange name, not like Bessie.”

“Not like Bessie at all.”

“Still,” said Bessie, “we can’t all be called Bessie.”

“I do not think the name would suit me as well as it suits you.”

Everything he said seemed to Bessie extraordinarily funny. He was less like a grown-up person than anyone she knew.

“What are you writing?” she asked.

“Letters for the Queen.”

“You must be clever.”

“Very, very clever,” he assured her.

Bessie suddenly lost interest in him and went to the window. She wanted to see if the rain had stopped.

“I could then go out on my pony.” She threw the words over her shoulder.

“Has the rain stopped?” he asked.

She shook her head and knelt on the window seat. The sky was lowering and the rivers looked swollen. She did not look around but she could hear from the scratching of his pen that the man with the strange name had returned to his work. She liked him for not telling her to run away. He made her feel that she was not a foolish child, but a grown-up person whose desire to ride or look out of windows was as necessary to her as it was for him to write the Queen’s letters.

She was content to kneel, watching the rain, listening to the scratch of his pen.

Bessie forgot him as she knelt there. She was imagining that she had four little friends and they were all named Bessie. She had to give them nicknames as the Queen had given her Marys. “Seton, Beaton, Livy and Flem . . . ” she whispered to herself. And she saw herself as their leader. They sailed on a great ship to France, and when they arrived everybody was very pleased to see them.

Suddenly she saw a party of riders coming toward the castle. She stared; they must be very wet. Ought she to go and tell Eleanor or one of the maids that visitors were coming this way?

A sudden panic came to her. What if Grandmother Bess were among those travelers? She was very still, watching; and thus she remained for fully ten minutes. By that time her fears were confirmed. That was Grandmother Bess, and the respite was over.

Bessie now remembered tasks uncompleted. Her Latin exercise was not done. How fortunate that the Queen had helped her with her tapestry. But what if Grandmother Bess summoned her to her presence at once, demanding to see the finished exercise?

Tears welled up into Bessie’s eyes. Grandmother had a hard hand and, although she said it grieved her to punish Bessie more than the blows hurt Bessie, that was hard to believe.

The secretary must have heard the sounds of arrival for, turning suddenly, she found him standing behind her.

He said: “Ha, so the Countess is returning with friends. Things will not now be quite as they have been, my little Bessie.” He said her name as though there were several e’s at the end of it instead of one. Bessie liked the sound of it but it could not comfort her now.

He had noticed the tears in her eyes, for he said: “Why, little one, you are crying.”

Because his voice was gentle the tears flowed the faster. He lifted her up, carried her to the table and sat her on his knee.

“Now tell the funny Frenchman,” he said, wiping away the tears.

So Bessie told him. “It takes hours and hours . . . and I have done none of it . . . .”

He listened carefully, then looked very thoughtful. Bessie stared intently at his face, noticing how dark his eyes were and his skin, and that his lashes and brows were thick and black.

Suddenly he clapped his hands and said: “I have it.”

“Yes . . . yes?” she cried impatiently.

“Go and bring the exercise to me.”

Bessie slipped to the ground and went to the little table in the corner of the room which the Queen had said was hers, and opening the drawer took out the exercise.

The Frenchman put his head on one side; he laughed showing very white teeth, and looked so funny that Bessie was laughing too, although an occasional sob escaped her.

“We will a miracle do,” he said and, picking up his pen, he completed the exercise as though he did not have to think at all.

Bessie stared at him in wonder. “Is it right?” she asked.

“Your grandmother herself could not do better.”

“Let me see.” Bessie held the paper close to her face and studied it. It looked right; she could not be sure of course; but at least Grandmother would not whip her for being idle.

“Listen,” said the Frenchman. “They are arriving now. Copy out your exercise and when your grandmother asks for it you must not tell her who helped you.”

Bessie shook her head emphatically. “Can you always do it like that?” she asked.

He snapped his fingers. “Like that!” he said.

Bessie’s eyes were full of speculation. He laughed. “Next time,” he said, “do not cry. Come to me.”

There were shouts from below. There was bustle everywhere. The peaceful atmosphere of the castle was shattered. There was no doubt now that the Countess of Shrewsbury had come home.

Bessie hesitated and then flung her arms about the Frenchman’s neck and kissed him. She was happy because she knew that she had a new friend, and it was somehow wonderful because she had found him at precisely that hour when her grandmother had come home.

HAD BESSIE KNOWN IT, her grandmother’s thoughts were far from Latin exercises. As soon as she had settled her important guests into the castle and harried her servants into preparing a banquet worthy of them, she made her way to Mary’s apartments and asked her permission to see her.

Mary received her at once, asked if she had had a pleasant change and told her how sorry she was that she had been caught by the inclement weather.

Bess shrugged aside the weather. A wetting never hurt anyone, she was sure. Indeed, thought Mary, she looks more energetic than ever, and so triumphant that something important surely must have taken place. So little excitement was happening to her that Mary longed to hear Bess’s news, and said so.

“Such news, Your Majesty, that I could hardly wait to reach Sheffield to ask your help and advice.”

Mary could not help smiling. She was sure that Bess only wished her to confirm the wisdom of what she had decided to do. That was what Bess would call taking advice—because advice was something she would never take from anyone.

“It is my foolish daughter. What does Your Majesty think! The child has fallen in love . . . and so unwisely. I am torn in two. It is such a pleasure to see her happiness, but I am, alas, so fearful for her.”

“You mean Elizabeth?”

“Elizabeth, yes. Your Majesty will see the change in her. She is quite different from the girl who left Sheffield with me. She has fallen in love with Lennox. Charles Stuart, if you please. I said to her: ‘You foolish girl . . . what can come of such a match?’”

Mary was silent. Her father-in-law, the Earl of Lennox, who was father of this young man, had hated her. He had called for her blood, believing her to have been involved in the murder of his son, Lord Darnley. But that Earl was dead now, and his wife, Margaret, was of a gentler nature and she would know that, whatever else Mary was capable of, it was not murder.

She was aware that Bess was watching her covertly. “What can I do?” she moaned. “May I implore Your Majesty’s help?”

“I would help you with all my heart, if it were in my power to do so,” said Mary. “But I fear Elizabeth would never agree to the match, and you know it would be necessary to have her consent since, if Elizabeth died without heirs and I and my son followed her to the grave, young Lennox would be considered by some to be the heir of England.”

Bess’s eyes were sparkling, so she hastily covered them and murmured: “My foolish child. My poor Elizabeth!”

Then she sighed deeply and said: “May I bring the young people to you, and the Countess with them? They want to tell you themselves how much they love each other, how desolate they will be for the rest of their lives if cruel fate should part them.”

“I should be happy to receive them.”

“And, Your Majesty, will you help me to comfort these poor young people?”

“If they truly love and are to be parted, none of us will be able to comfort them.”

“I continually ask myself whether a way can be found out of this trouble.”

“There are only two ways open for them,” answered Mary. “They must separate and live with their unhappiness; or marry and face whatever punishment Elizabeth thinks they deserve.”

“I cannot bear to think of their misery. I almost believe that . . . ” Bess looked cautiously at Mary. Then she sighed. “But I will bring them to you, and you may judge of their love.”

“Bring them with all speed,” said Mary. “I long to see them.”

WHEN MARY SAW the young people together, she had no doubt of their love. She was very sorry for them, and wished that she had the power of Elizabeth to grant them their wish.

Margaret Lennox lingered when the others had left with Bess, and Mary guessed that the Countess had told them that she wished to speak with her in private.

When the door had closed and they were alone, Margaret said: “I have news for Your Majesty. I have been with George Douglas who is awaiting the opportunity to bring my grandson—your son—out of Scotland. He has a ship in readiness which will carry the boy to Spain.”

Mary clasped her hands. “I pray it may succeed. My little boy is constantly in my thoughts. I fear for his safety while he is in the hands of such men.”

Although Margaret Lennox had been loud in her condemnation of Mary during her husband’s lifetime when she had deeply mourned the death of Darnley, she had always been inclined to doubt Mary’s complicity in the murder; now she was certain of Mary’s innocence and wanted to make amends for the accusations of the past. She had believed Mary, a mother herself, would understand her grief at Darnley’s death. She was certain of that now. Mary was ready to trust her and, when she saw Mary’s anguish on account of her son, it was clearly ridiculous to imagine that such a gentle, loving woman could have taken part in that cold-blooded murder.

So now Margaret had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the plot to remove young James from Scotland and carry him off to Spain. James was Mary’s son but he was also her grandson, and the child’s plight was therefore of deepest concern to them both.

“The poor child, in Morton’s hands, left to the care of that odious Buchanan!” said Margaret with a shiver. “I have provided Douglas with money . . . the King of Spain is prepared to receive the boy. It is now only a matter of waiting for an opportunity to rescue him.”

They talked for a long time of this plan, and at length the Countess said: “What think you of this love between my son and Elizabeth Cavendish?”

“I think that it is indeed love on the part of the two young people.”

“I am inclined to say to them: Marry, and face the consequences after. It is rarely that one sees such love among people of the nobility. Marriages are arranged for them; they miss that ecstasy which is so sweet.”

Mary thought of her marriage with François. No ecstasy there. She had briefly loved Darnley, until he had killed her love with his unworthiness; as for Bothwell . . . that was a mad, all-consuming passion. It had brought her brief ecstasy and these dreary years of imprisonment. Yet she knew that if she had to choose again, she would choose Bothwell.

“If I were in their places . . . ” she began.

The Countess of Lennox looked at her swiftly: “Your Majesty would choose love, I know. There is too little love in the world. I believe, if these young people had the support of myself, of the Countess of Shrewsbury and Your Majesty, they would not hesitate.”

“What of the Earl?”

“Oh, you know how the Countess manages matters in this household. She will not have told him as yet.”

“He would never agree to go against his Queen’s wishes. He would ask her permission for them to marry.”

“To do that would be an end to their hopes. Elizabeth would never consent.”

“Then,” said Mary, “if they wish to marry, they should do so and tell Elizabeth afterward. If their love is deep enough they will think it well worthwhile to accept whatever punishment she may inflict.”

A few days later Elizabeth Cavendish and Charles Stuart, Earl of Lennox, were married.

QUEEN ELIZABETH was with Lord Burleigh and the Earl of Leicester when the news of the marriage was brought to her. Her face grew purple with indignation.

“What’s this!” she cried. “Lennox married to that girl Cavendish! Lennox! What madness is this? This is the work of Bess of Hardwick. I tell you there is no holding that ambitious woman. So she would marry her daughter to Lennox, would she! And do it before I have time to stop her!”

“It seems, Your Majesty,” murmured Burleigh, “that others were in the plot. The bridegroom’s mother is not guiltless, and since this intrigue took place at Sheffield Castle doubtless one other had a hand in it.”

“Meddling women!” snapped Elizabeth. “I’ll teach them to defy me. They shall all be lodged in the Tower.”

“Your Majesty, to bring the Queen of Scotland to the Tower might be hazardous,” put in Leicester. “In the first place attempts might be made to rescue her during the journey; and in the second if she were lodged in London her case would be brought more conspicuously to the notice of the people. In the Tower she would indeed be your prisoner; in Sheffield Castle she might still be called your guest.”

“You are right, Robert, but think not that I shall allow the Shrewsbury and Lennox women to defy me. Let them be made prisoners without a moment’s delay, and have them brought to the Tower.”

“Your Majesty speaks with your usual wisdom,” said Burleigh.

And Leicester bowed his head in adoring agreement.

That day guards were sent to Sheffield to bring the two Countesses to London and the Tower.

SO THE INDIGNANT BESS and the Countess of Lennox were taken as prisoners from Sheffield Castle.

There was a subdued atmosphere there after they had left. The happiness of the married lovers was muted, for they feared that they had brought grave trouble to their mothers; Mary sat with her friends and they worked for hours at their tapestry, talking of that event which had led to the departure of the two Countesses, wondering how they fared in their prison at the Tower.

Mary said that they would send the exquisite tapestry which they had worked to Elizabeth, who was so notoriously greedy for gifts, in the hope that she might be softened toward her three prisoners—the two in the Tower and the one in Sheffield Castle.

Little Bessie Pierpont was happy, because there was now no need to worry about her daily tasks. She could ride and play and take her lessons and listen to the Queen’s stories of her childhood. But Bessie was finding that the greatest pleasure she enjoyed was in the company of her new friend, Monsieur Nau, who was teaching her to speak French; and it was amazing how quickly she learned to prattle in that language. Never had any lesson been such fun as learning French. Bessie’s only sadness during those months was when Monsieur Jacques was too busy to be with her.

“The castle is a different place without the Countess,” said Seton to Andrew Beaton.

“Do you never grow tired of your prison here?” he asked.

“I shall never grow tired of serving the Queen,” she answered.

“Yet you should have a life of your own,” he told her.

She turned away from his ardent gaze. Seton did not wish him to say all that she knew he was feeling; she distrusted her own emotions too. She had vowed to serve the Queen as long as she was needed. She was still needed. There was no time, Seton assured herself, to think of anything but serving the Queen.

Mary often sighed for Buxton.

“It is the only place in England where I wish to be,” she said. “I wonder if I shall be allowed to pay another visit to the baths.”

She was embroidering a nightcap in colorful silks; she used green and gold silks, for she had heard that Elizabeth was fond of such colors. She had already made two others in delicate coloring and she intended to send these to Elizabeth with a request that she might visit Buxton.

As soon as the nightcaps were completed Mary sent them to the French ambassador, asking him to present them to Elizabeth. When Elizabeth saw them she grunted. She was not very eager for such things; she much preferred jewels to be worn by day, or furniture and tapestry which could be admired by many.

Moreover she did not believe that it was wise of her to accept gifts from the Queen of Scots, and she told the French ambassador that such acceptance could become a political matter and she feared the disapproval of her ministers.

The French ambassador knew this to be false, and replied that the Queen of Scots merely wished to show her goodwill.

“Well then,” retorted Elizabeth, “I will take them, but I pray you tell the Queen of Scots that as I have been some years longer in this world than she has, I have learned that people are accustomed to receive with both hands, but to give only with one finger.”

This was meant to convey that Mary was asking for favors in return for her nightcaps—presents which Elizabeth was not really eager to accept.

But when she tried on the nightcaps she did find them becoming and she thought that, as Mary was so eager to visit Buxton, she did not see why she should not go, providing a strong enough guard conducted her there.