The Captive Queen of Scots

XV Buxton, Chatsworth and Sheffield

WHAT A PLEASURE IT WAS to be once more at Buxton.

“I feel better as soon as I arrive in this place,” Mary declared.

The Earl was inclined to relax restrictions. He had brought certain of the servants with him from Sheffield and among these was Eleanor Britton. Life was serene and pleasant with the Countess in the Tower.

The waters had their usual beneficial effect and Mary’s health improved accordingly. She visited Poole’s Hole once more and enjoyed the outing.

“If only I could stay at Buxton,” she told Seton, “I am sure I should quickly recover my health and feel young again.”

One day the Earl came to her apartments in Low Buxton in a state of some excitement.

“Your Majesty, we have an eminent visitor at Buxton who I feel sure is here solely because Your Majesty has come to take the waters.”

“Who?” she asked.

“Lord Burleigh himself.”

“Lord Burleigh! Then, depend upon it, he comes on Queen Elizabeth’s orders.”

“I hope it is not to spy on us.”

“Ah, you think it may be so?”

“I cannot think of any other reason.”

Poor Shrewsbury! He might feel relieved to be rid of Bess but he was at a loss without her. Mary imagined how differently Bess would have received the news of Burleigh’s presence. She would have been stimulated by the thought of conflict, whereas poor Shrewsbury felt he had yet another burden added to those which were already too heavy.

When Burleigh called on the Queen of Scots, Mary received him cautiously. She knew he had been one of her most bitter enemies at the Court of Elizabeth, and she did not believe he could suddenly have become her friend.

Burleigh looked wan and walked with even more difficulty than he had before.

“You are hoping to derive benefits from the waters?” the Queen asked sympathetically.

“Yes, Your Majesty. I suffer acutely from gout and my feet have always troubled me.”

“Then I trust you find comfort from the water, as I do.”

“Your Majesty’s health has improved, I hope, since you have been here?”

Mary assured him that it had, but she knew he had not come here to inquire about her health.

Later she discovered, through Shrewsbury, that Elizabeth’s minister, who was the sternest of Protestants, had been making inquiries as to how many visitors she received while at Buxton. He was afraid that, under less restraint as she must necessarily be at Buxton in contrast to Sheffield, certain members of the Catholic nobility might have access to her. Burleigh lived in terror of another Catholic rising.

THE DAYS PASSED PLEASANTLY. It was good to hear Mary’s lighthearted laughter; often she played the lute and sang. Buxton was so good for her. The mountain air was sharp but invigorating and there was shelter in the valley from the bleak winds which buffeted Sheffield Castle.

Burleigh called often. He was in fact constantly on the alert. When he visited the Queen he tried to startle her with sly questions; she enjoyed arousing his suspicions and then letting him discover that there was nothing in them; but all the same these contacts meant that each was discovering a new respect for the other. It was impossible for Mary not to respect the minister’s single-minded loyalty to his Queen, just as it was impossible for Burleigh not to be affected by the charm of Mary. Thus, in spite of the fact that they must be cautious of each other, a form of friendship grew between them.

This pleasant life might have gone on throughout the season, but news was brought to Elizabeth that Burleigh was at Buxton and calling on the Queen of Scots.

Elizabeth was incensed because Burleigh had gone to the baths without asking her consent; and that, as he had been there some time, must have paid many calls on the Queen of Scots.

He was recalled at once and as soon as he came into the presence of his royal mistress she berated him for what she pleased to call his infidelity.

“So, sir,” she cried, “you have been visiting the Queen of Scots, paying compliments to the fair lady, I’ll warrant.”

“I was there on Your Majesty’s business,” began Burleigh.

“Is that so, William Cecil! Is it my business then to play the gallant and compliment the Queen of Scots on her beautiful eyes?”

“But I did not pay such compliments . . . .”

“Did you not! Then were her eyes not beautiful enough to warrant the compliment?”

The answer must be the expected one: “Having seen Your Majesty’s eyes, no others could seem beautiful.”

“H’m!” said the Queen. “You’re another Norfolk, it seems. I trust you remember, sir, what happened to him.”

“I do, Your Majesty.”

“Look to it that it does not happen to you!”

“If I deserved such a fate, which I should do if I failed to serve my own Sovereign Lady Elizabeth with all my heart, I should welcome it,” answered Burleigh with dignity. “Since I could never deserve it, I do not fear it.”

Elizabeth liked a bold answer and she softened at once. She had never really doubted the loyalty of this good friend; she merely feared that he might have found the company of the Queen of Scots entrancing, as it was clear so many men did.

“Go to then,” she said. “And do not leave us again. We need you here beside us.”

Burleigh bowed; he still looked a little ruffled.

Was he a little bewitched by that fascinating woman? Elizabeth wondered.

She said angrily: “She shall not remain at Buxton. I fear she enjoys too much freedom there. Let her return to Chatsworth; that is nearby.” She looked shrewdly at Cecil. “Is she as beautiful as reports say?” she demanded suddenly, and there was a note in her voice which was pleading with him to say that she was not.

“The Queen of Scots is fair enough,” answered Burleigh. He was preparing the necessary remark to follow, when Elizabeth held up a hand.

“Mayhap I should go to see her for myself,” she said. “It is a notion which pleases me. She shall go to Chatsworth. If I went to Buxton to take the waters, I could ride to Chatsworth in disguise. A lady seeking a night’s shelter! Thus I could see this beauty for myself. I could exchange words with her. I like the idea.”

She evidently did, for she mentioned it to certain of her women, and they amused themselves by picturing the meeting.

“Then,” said Elizabeth, “I shall compare her face and figure with my own—which I have always wished to do.”

“Your Majesty need not go to Chatsworth to make the comparison,” she was told. “All who set eyes on the Queen of Scots say that she has a pleasant mien, but beside Your Majesty she is as the moon to the sun.”

“Then perhaps the journey would not be necessary,” replied Elizabeth with a yawn.

She had made up her mind that she would never look at Mary. In moments of truth she knew the answer to the question, Who is the fairer, she or I? which her desire for flattery and her jealousy of her rival forced her to ask.

She would never allow herself to face that truth, for while she had never seen Mary she could go on believing what her courtiers were so eager to tell her.

THERE WAS EXCITEMENT at Chatsworth when the rumor reached Mary that Queen Elizabeth was going to visit her in the disguise of a gentlewoman.

Mary had been feeling depressed because she had had to leave Buxton. Moreover she had heard from George Douglas that those who were concerned with him in the plot to rescue her son from Morton and Buchanan had decided it would be too dangerous to continue. The Countess of Lennox, who had been in the conspiracy, was now in the Tower, and it might well be that some intelligence had reached Elizabeth of their intention, and the imprisonment of the Countess was due to the part she had taken in the plot—not, as the English Queen would wish it to be believed, because of the marriage of her son. George could not act without friends; therefore this matter would have to be shelved.

Then came the startling news that Queen Elizabeth was planning to visit Chatsworth in disguise.

Mary excitedly gathered her women about her. Seton should do her hair. Which gown should she wear? She had very few jewels but they would have to make do with what she had.

Seton said: “She will come in her jewels and rich garments, depend upon it. But never fear, we shall show her that you would be more beautiful in sackcloth than she is in cloth of gold.”

Mary laughed. “That is not important, Seton. All that matters is that at last I shall speak to her. I am certain that when we are face-to-face I shall make her understand.”

For weeks they waited.

But Elizabeth did not come to Chatsworth.

Elizabeth was never at ease when Mary was at Chatsworth. She feared that the Queen enjoyed too much freedom there, and after a few months Mary found herself back in Sheffield Castle.

Bess had rejoined the household. She seemed none the worse for the months she had spent in the Tower, apart from a smoldering anger at the indignity she had been obliged to suffer.

The atmosphere of the household changed as soon as she entered it. She stormed through the servants’ quarters, discovering what had been left undone.

“It is as though a sharp wind blows through the house,” said Mary to Seton.

Bess sat with Mary and worked with her on her tapestry—the two of them alone so that, said Bess, they could talk at their ease; and as Bess had had an interview with Elizabeth, Mary was eager to hear what she had to say.

“She showed her displeasure at first,” Bess told her. “But it did not last. There is a certain bond between us which she cannot ignore. When I was released from the Tower and she sent for me she accused me of overweening ambition. I admitted to this and she burst out laughing. She knew full well that my ambition matches her own. I was bold enough to say to her: ‘If Your Majesty had been born plain Bess of Hardwick instead of a King’s daughter, you would have sought means of making good marriages for your children—had you borne them.’”

“And did she agree?”

“Not in so many words, but her mood changed toward me and we talked of old times.”

“It seems,” said Mary wistfully, “that if one can only talk with her, she is ready to see reason.”

“She will always see what she wants to see.”

“Do you think she has a sense of justice?”

That made Bess laugh. “I see into her mind without effort,” she boasted. “The virgin Queen; do you believe it?”

“I have no reason to do otherwise.”

“Ha! You should see her with Leicester. There are times when she cannot keep her hands from him . . . smoothing his hair, patting his arm. That speaks clearly enough to me. She has had several children . . . not only by Leicester.”

“But this is impossible!”

“Impossible is a word Elizabeth does not know. Why, has Your Majesty never heard of all the romping with Thomas Seymour? Then she was little more than a girl. They say there was a child as a result of that. Oh yes, they do, and I for one believe it. And what she felt for Seymour is nothing compared with her passion for Leicester. He’s her husband . . . without benefit of clergy, of course. Our Elizabeth does not want a man to share her throne . . . only her bed.”

Mary was scandalized. Then she realized how angry Bess was. Elizabeth had had her sent to the Tower, and Bess would not forgive such insult in a hurry. There was nothing she could do to take her revenge on Elizabeth—except remember all the scandal she had ever heard of her and repeat it to the Queen who, like herself, had very little for which to thank the Queen of England.

THE EARL OF SHREWSBURY came to Mary’s apartments one day and told her that he had news which he thought would cheer her.

Bothwell, incarcerated in the Castle of Malmoë, was grievously sick of the dropsy, and because he feared that his life was nearing its end he had written a confession in which he exonerated Mary from the murder of Darnley.

He had written: “The Bastard Moray began, Morton drew, and I wove the web of this murder.” And he went on to say that Mary was completely innocent of it.

When he had given her this news Shrewsbury left Mary who felt so moved that she went to her bed and lay there. Memories came vividly back to her. She could not imagine Bothwell sick unto death. She thought of their brief and stormy life together and she wept for them both; yet she rejoiced that in his last hours he should remember her and seek to do what was right. She had always known that he was not wholly wicked. He had been blessed—or cursed—with twice the vitality of most men. He had been guilty of so much; all his life, rough Borderer that he was, he had taken what he wanted without thought of the consequences. It had seemed that the rape of a Queen meant no more to him than that of a shepherdess in the Border country of his enemies; yet it could not have been so, for when the pains of death were on him, he remembered her with tenderness.

She rose from her bed and went to her prie-Dieu, where she prayed for his soul; and she gave thanks that he had at the end thought kindly enough of her to write his confession.

It seemed however that Bothwell was indestructible, for he recovered from his sickness. But the confession had been made.

WITH THE COMING OF SUMMER the French ambassador persuaded Elizabeth to allow Mary to visit Buxton once more, and under such pressure Elizabeth agreed.

Mary had been deriving her usual benefit from the Spa and was hoping to spend the whole season at Shrewsbury’s Low Buxton, when an event at the English Court resulted in her stay there being brought to an abrupt end.

Leicester had been complaining to Elizabeth that he was unwell, and Elizabeth had been concerned about the health of her favorite.

She had sent him her own physician and visited him herself to see how he was progressing.

On her arrival a mournful Leicester thanked her for her solicitude and told her that her presence did him more good than anything else.

Gratified always to receive his compliments, she patted his cheek and told him that he must get well quickly, for her Court was the poorer for his absence. There was a sharpness in her eyes, though, for Leicester’s amorous adventures with other women had always annoyed her. She understood that, since she would not marry him herself, she must expect these wanderings; yet she believed that she could call him back to her without the slightest difficulty; and she enjoyed showing her power not only over his mistresses but over Leicester himself.

Then came the shock.

“My doctors have ordered me to drink the waters of Buxton and use the baths for twenty days. They tell me that if I do this—and only if I do—I can expect to recover.”

Buxton! thought Elizabeth. Was not the Queen of Scots at Buxton?

Her eyes were narrowed, her lips tight. One heard such stories of the charm of that woman. What was Leicester after? She was on the point of curtly ordering him to remain where he was but, glancing at him she saw that he did look wan. What if it were true that he needed the Buxton waters?

Seeing that he was waiting with some trepidation for her reaction, she smiled suddenly. “Well, my dear Robert,” she said, “if those Buxton waters are the cure you need, then you must have them. But we shall be loath to see you go so far from us.”

“’Tis but for twenty days, beloved!”

“H’m! If you linger longer, I myself may take a trip to Buxton to see if it is only the waters of which you are in need.”

When Elizabeth left him she sent for a messenger. An order was to be dispatched at once to Shrewsbury at Low Buxton. The Queen of Scots was to be removed to Tutbury Castle without delay.

“TUTBURY!” cried Mary in dismay, staring at the Earl.

“I fear so. The order of Her Majesty.”

“Not Tutbury. Sheffield is uncomfortable enough, but I shall die if I have to return to Tutbury.”

Shrewsbury had no wish to return to Tutbury either.

“I will write immediately to Walsingham,” he said, “and tell him that Tutbury is in such a state of ill repair that it is impossible for my household to live there at this time. But I fear we must leave Buxton.”

“Before my cure is finished!” murmured Mary.

“But you would prefer to go to Sheffield rather than Tutbury, and that is all we can hope for.”

Shrewsbury wrote to Walsingham who, after consulting Elizabeth, replied that the Queen of Scots was to be removed from Buxton and that Shrewsbury should conduct her to Sheffield Castle without delay.

So back to Sheffield went Mary and her guards.

Realizing Elizabeth’s suspicions and having learned that the Queen of Scots had been hustled from Buxton, Leicester thought it advisable to delay his visit to the Spa for a few weeks and explain his motives to the Queen before proceeding there.

Walking with the aid of a stick, he came into the Queen’s presence and managed to look so sickly that Elizabeth, whose feelings for him went deeper than those she felt for anyone else, was alarmed.

“Why Robert,” she said, “you are indeed ill.”

As he took her hand and kissed it she dismissed the women who were with her that she might talk in secret with her Robert.

“I have had disturbed nights since our last meeting, because I feared that I had not been entirely truthful to my adored Queen and mistress.”

“What have you been meddling in now, Robert?”

“I was about to meddle . . . on your behalf, of course. It is true that my doctors advised me to take the Buxton waters, but there is another reason why I wished to go there. Does Your Majesty remember who was there until you sent her away?”

“I remember.”

“My dearest love, I am afraid that where that woman is there will also be intrigue . . . dangerous intrigue which threatens the one whom I live to serve. These plans to marry her to Don Jon are not over. I believe that the greater freedom she is allowed to enjoy at Buxton may be an encouragement to conspirators.”

“And what do you propose to do about that?”

“To go to Buxton. To be the guest of the Shrewsburys. To keep my eyes and ears alert.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Well, Robert, you are one whom I would always trust to serve me well. There are so many bonds binding us.”

Leicester looked into her face and took both her hands. She was remembering how, before she was Queen of England, he had brought her gold and offered himself to fight in her cause should it be necessary to fight. She remembered the early days of her reign when she had believed she would marry him. And she would have done so but for the mysterious death of Amy Robsart. She could never think of that affair without a shudder. It had so nearly destroyed them both. They knew too much of each other not to work together. He might have other motives in wishing to meet the Queen of Scots, but he would never betray Elizabeth while she lived.

Leicester was thinking the same. He admired Elizabeth beyond anyone else on earth. He had good reason to respect her shrewd brain. He would be beside her while she lived; but if she were to die suddenly—a fate which could overtake any—and there was a new ruler on the throne, that ruler could well be the Queen of Scots.

He wished to ingratiate himself with Mary while he worked for Elizabeth. If he could find evidence to bring Mary to the block, he would do so. But if he could not, and if she must live, he wanted her to think of him as her friend. Thus he determined to make sure of a place in the sun in either camp.

“Robert,” cried Elizabeth, “you must go to Buxton. You need those baths. I will give Mary permission to return to Buxton to continue with her cure. I will also write to the Shrewsburys, telling them to expect you, for if you are to spy on Mary you will need to be under the same roof. There! Then you shall come and tell me if all the reports of her beauty are true. I shall want exact details of how she looks and what she wears.”

Robert smiled. He was already composing the compliments he would pay Elizabeth when he returned from his visit to Mary.

When he had left her, Elizabeth wrote to the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury. They must treat the Earl of Leicester as they would treat her, for all that was done to him was done to herself. “He is another ourself,” she wrote indulgently.

There were still times when she could be indiscreet through love of Leicester.

IT WAS GRATIFYING to be back at Low Buxton. For the first few days Mary indulged in the pleasure which she found in this place; her health improved and there was gaiety in her apartments. She did wonder at the capricious behavior of Elizabeth in whisking her away and then allowing her to return.

Then Bess broke the news that Leicester was coming to Low Buxton.

“He has to take the waters on account of his health,” she said. “It seems strange to me that he should pay his visit while Your Majesty is here. You will have a chance of assessing the charm of this man who, rumor has it, has fathered several children on the Queen.”

Mary looked startled but Bess went on: “Oh, there is none to hear me. And if such a rumor were repeated, Elizabeth would never dare accuse me of uttering it. Such matters are best kept dark.”

“She could take her revenge by accusing you of something else.”

Bess snapped her fingers. She had changed since her stay in the Tower. Her dignity had certainly been ruffled; and there was one other event which had increased her pride; that was the birth of her granddaughter, Arabella Stuart, to Elizabeth and Charles whose marriage had been the cause of her imprisonment. Bess had a granddaughter—her own flesh and blood—who was in the line of succession to the throne; it was something she could not forget. Her Arabella, she thought, though she was wise enough not to give voice to this thought, was more royal than Queen Elizabeth, for the child was undoubtedly legitimate; and could Henry VIII’s marriage to Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn, be really accepted as legal? Bess believed that little Arabella might well one day be Queen. Why not? She had an indefatigable grandmother to scheme for her.

So, in the presence of Mary, she could snap her fingers at Elizabeth, and she had no compunction in recalling all the scandalous gossip she had ever heard about her.

Leicester arrived in due course at Low Buxton, and on the orders of Elizabeth the Shrewsburys treated him with the respect due to royalty.

When he was brought to Mary, they assessed each other, and Mary was immediately aware of the charm which Elizabeth had found so potent, though it had no effect on her. She was certain that Leicester was an enemy. As for Leicester, he was struck by the beauty of Mary and wistfully thought how pleasant it would have been if the attempt to marry her had been successful.

Mary was pale and often moved with difficulty; the years of imprisonment in comfortless castles had robbed her of her youth, yet her beauty was indestructible. The contours of her face were perfect, although the flesh had fallen away from the bones; the long eyes were lovely although there were shadows beneath them; and all her movements were graceful in spite of rheumatism.

There is still time, thought Leicester, to take her away and restore her to that glowing beauty which must once have been hers.

He would tell Elizabeth of the shadows under her eyes, of her loss of flesh, of her rheumatism. That would please the jealous creature and do him no harm.

Meanwhile he sought to charm the Queen of Scots. This was not so easy as charming Elizabeth. There had been too many to love this woman, not for her crown but for herself. She lacked Elizabeth’s political shrewdness certainly, but she had learned not deliberately to blind herself to the motives of men who came to court her.

He talked often with her, during the stay at Low Buxton, but she was always aloof. He tried to discover how firm was the basis of those rumors which said Don Jon of Austria was to be her husband. He implied that he was ready to work in her cause. But she did not trust him. She played a skillful game of prevarication with him which angered him, and he decided that he could do no good by lingering at Low Buxton.

He curtailed his visit, declaring that the baths were less beneficial than he had hoped, and he went away angry, but not before he had had a private talk with the Earl.

The health of the Queen of Scots was clearly not good, he said. Queen Elizabeth would be disturbed when she heard of this and he was going to ask that a certain physician be sent who he was sure would quickly cure Mary of her ills.

Shrewsbury thanked the Earl for his kindness and trusted he would take a good report to Elizabeth of the hospitality he had received at Low Buxton.

“Have no fear,” Leicester told him. “You could not have made a guest more welcome if that guest had been Elizabeth herself.”

So he left Buxton pondering. The Queen of Scots would not accept him as a friend. He knew what sort of physician he would send to her.

MARY HAD RETURNED with the Shrewsburys and her little court and guards to Sheffield when Leicester’s physician arrived.

Bess and her husband were apprehensive when they discovered that he was an Italian named Julio Borgarucci.

Bess took him to the apartment which had been prepared for him and then hurried to the Earl.

“Are you thinking the same as I am?” she asked.

“An Italian!” murmured the Earl. “We know what they are noted for.”

“I fancy I have heard of this man. He is not so much a physician as a professional poisoner.”

“Do you think he comes on the command of the Queen?”

“Who knows? Leicester is one of those who believe they can act first and ask the Queen’s permission afterward.”

“I’ll not have my prisoner poisoned under my roof.”

“Ah, Shrewsbury, you are truly vehement for once! But I had forgotten—she is more than your prisoner, is she not?”

“She is the Queen of Scotland.”

“Your beloved Queen of Scotland! You must protect her at all costs . . . against Leicester’s Italian . . . against Elizabeth herself, if this man comes by her command.”

“I believe, my dear Bess, that you feel in this manner as I do. You would never agree that such a foul deed should be done to a helpless woman in our care.”

Bess nodded; but she was not so sure. She kept thinking of her granddaughter, little Arabella Stuart. Since the birth of this child, Bess could not stop thinking of the bright possibility of her wearing the crown. The fewer to stand before her in the line of succession the better; consequently Bess had felt less kindly toward the Queen of Scots since the birth of Arabella. Not that she showed this; not that she entirely admitted the fact to herself; but it was there . . . lurking at the back of her mind, and the advent of Julio Borgarucci to Sheffield could only renew it.

But Shrewsbury could be determined when he made up his mind. He would not allow Mary to eat any food which was not prepared by her own faithful servants. He dropped hints to Seton who was doubly watchful; so no harm came to Mary through the visit of Borgarucci; and Shrewsbury seized an early opportunity to have the man sent from Sheffield.

How zealous he is to preserve Mary’s safety! thought Bess. Rarely have I seen Shrewsbury bestir himself so much.

She wondered then if he were in truth enamored of Mary. She did not greatly care if he were. All her thoughts were becoming more and more centered on the future of little Arabella.

SETON WAS PREOCCUPIED, Mary noticed, and she believed she knew the reason why. Andrew Beaton was continually seeking opportunities to be in her company; at first she had repulsed him; now she did not do so. But neither Seton nor Andrew Beaton behaved like two people in love.

Mary thought of them often. If Seton were in love she should marry and go away from here. This could be arranged. Andrew might go to Scotland or, if that was too dangerous, to France. Seton, like herself, thought Mary, had not thrived in these damp and drafty castles which had been their homes for so long. Seton suffered from pains in her limbs similar to those which affected Mary; and a few gray hairs were beginning to show. No one could live in this captivity and not show the effects of it. Mary thought with a start: In a few years’ time, if we go on like this, Seton and I will be old women.

It was characteristic of Mary that, although she herself was unable to escape, and although Seton was her dearest friend, she should consider Seton’s happiness rather than her own.

Seton must marry Andrew Beaton and she, Mary, would do all she possibly could to give them a chance of happiness.

She tackled Seton as they sat at their needlework alone.

“Seton, what of Andrew Beaton?”

A hot flush spread across Seton’s pale face. “What of him, Your Majesty?”

“I think he is in love with you. Are you with him?”

Seton shrugged her shoulders. “If I were, it would be of little consequence.”

“Of little consequence! Seton! What are you saying? I think love is of the greatest consequence. If you are in love with Andrew and he with you you should marry.”

“My family would never permit the match. You know Andrew is only a younger brother.”

“Nonsense!” cried Mary. “I do not believe you yourself are affected one little bit by such a consideration. The Beatons are a noble family. You are seeking excuses. And I tell you this, Seton, that if you decided to marry Andrew, I would, as far as I am able, bestow some title upon him which would make the Setons quickly change their opinion.”

Seton shook her head.

“Seton, you are not refusing Andrew on account of someone else?”

“No other man has asked me to marry him.”

“I did not mean a man. You have some foolish notion that your duty lies with your poor mistress.”

Seton turned to Mary and threw herself into her arms. “Do you think I could ever leave you?”

“Oh Seton, Seton, this is unlike you. You must not weep. My dearest friend, do you think I could be happy knowing that I had stood between you and your happiness?”

“My happiness is with you.”

“No, Seton. It is with Andrew. Do you think I am blind?”

“I have vowed to stay with you forever.”

“Such a vow can be broken.”

“It never can!” cried Seton vehemently.

“It is going to be. I am going to command you to break it.”

“It is not as simple as you think. I have taken a solemn and sacred vow to devote myself to a life of celibacy. This could never be broken.”

“It could be broken if you had a dispensation. We will send Andrew to his brother the Archbishop who is now in Paris, and ask him to tell us the best means of securing this dispensation. He can bring us new silks for our embroidery while he is there and perhaps some clothes. Seton, will you agree that I send for Andrew at once?”

Seton’s eyes were filled with tears. “How could I ever leave you?”

“But you love Andrew.”

“I love you both.”

“Then, my friend, you must leave me to decide for you.”

Mary then sent for Andrew Beaton and in the presence of Seton told him of the conversation which had taken place between them.

“Go to Paris, Andrew,” she said. “Come back with your brother’s advice on how this foolish friend of mine can be released from her folly.”

Andrew turned to Seton, and as she smiled he strode toward her and took her into his arms.

Mary stood watching their embrace, smiling tenderly, praying that Seton would now enjoy the happiness she deserved, wondering whether the future might not hold some similar joy for her.

VERY SOON after that interview Andrew Beaton set out for Paris. It soon became known throughout the castle that when he returned he and Seton would be married. Mary brought out all the materials which had been sent to her from France and there was activity in her apartments. Several of the women, with Mary in charge, were working on Seton’s wedding dress which was to be beautifully embroidered. Caps and sleeves were designed and stitched, and each day there was speculation as to whether this would be the one on which Andrew returned.

Seton looked younger every day, and Mary was sure that she had made the right decision for her. When she has children, Mary thought, she will thank me for insisting that she take a husband and renounce her foolish vow to serve me.

Yet Seton’s happiness was clouded because that friendship, which had lasted all their lives, would never be quite the same again after she was married. The Queen had been her first consideration for so long, and Seton wondered how Mary would fare without her.

So they stitched through the summer days until the coming of autumn; and the main topic of conversation was Seton’s coming wedding.

IT WAS A DULL AUTUMN DAY when the messenger came to Mary. She took the letters he brought and, when she read the contents of one of these, she sat as though stunned. She could not believe it. It was too cruel. It seemed to her then that all those who loved her were as unlucky as she was.

She wondered how she could tell Seton; yet she knew that she must be the one to break the news.

One of her women came in and asked her what ailed her, if there was aught she needed; she could say nothing, only shake her head.

The woman went to Seton and said: “I fear the Queen has had bad news. She is sitting at her table, but she seemed bewildered.”

“I will go to her,” said Seton, knowing that in the hour of disaster they belonged together. What will she do if I am no longer here? Seton asked herself. How can I ever be happy—even with Andrew—away from her?

Seton went to the Queen and laid an arm about her shoulders. Mary turned and looked up at her. “Oh, so it is you, Seton?”

“You have had bad news?”

Mary nodded.

“Do you wish to tell me, or shall I help you to your bed and bring cool scented kerchiefs to lay on your head?”

“I fear I must tell you, Seton, because it concerns you even as it does me.”

Seton said in a whisper which was only just audible, “It is Andrew?”

“My dearest Seton, what can I say to comfort you?”

“Tell me, please.”

“He is dead. He died of a fever when he was on his way home to us.”

Mary put the letter into Seton’s hand. Seton read it and let it flutter to the table. But Andrew had been so young, so full of health and vigor!

Mary stood up suddenly and the two of them clung together wordlessly.

Mary thought: She did not wish to choose between us, and now fate has made the choice.

THE YEARS WERE PASSING, each day so like another that Mary lost count of time. News came to her now and then. Her uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, had died—one more friend lost to her. George Douglas married at last—not his French heiress but a certain Lady Barery, a rich widow of Fifeshire, and he appeared to have settled down with her on her estates close to Lochleven. Willie was with him, she believed. They were always the Queen’s men; and if opportunity occurred for them to aid her, she knew they would seize it. Lady Lennox died suddenly and Queen Elizabeth took a marked interest in little Arabella Stuart. Mary had been allowed to go to Chatsworth and been brought back again to Sheffield; because of the continued strife in Scotland Mary trembled for the welfare of her son. There was a rumor that Elizabeth was trying to have him sent to London that she might marry him to his cousin, Arabella Stuart. But James remained in Scotland and, although he wrote to his mother, his letters were rarely allowed to reach her.

Little Bessie Pierpont was growing up to be rather a precocious girl; her interest in the French secretary had increased. They chattered together in French and neither seemed completely happy unless in the company of the other.

Occasionally Mary was allowed to visit the baths at Buxton, but Elizabeth invariably cut short her visits, with the result that she was hurried back to Chatsworth or Sheffield.

After so many years in the household of the Shrewsburys she almost felt like a member of the family, and some of the Countess’s daughters were her friends—in particular Elizabeth, who never forgot the part Mary played in her marriage, and as it was a most happy marriage she was full of gratitude to the Queen for helping to make it possible.

There were times when Mary forgot she was a captive and there would be music in her apartments. It was pleasant to see little Bessie Pierpont—not so little now—in a flounced dress, made by the Queen, dancing daintily with her partner. Very often Jacques Nau would join the company, and he and Bessie danced very prettily together. Young Arabella was sometimes present. She was not yet four years old but a lively little creature.

The Countess doted on the child and scarcely took her eyes from her; but she liked to see her in the company of the Queen of Scots.

With the coming of the year 1582 Mary realized with horror that it was thirteen years since she had first set foot in England. Thirteen years a prisoner! What hope was there now of her escape?

It was during this year that a malady struck Arabella’s mother, Lady Charles Lennox. Bess immediately took charge and brought all her skill and energy to the nursing of her daughter. Even this however could not save her, and soon after the beginning of her illness she died, leaving little four-year-old Arabella motherless.

A fierce emotion took possession of Bess of Hardwick at that time.

She vowed that little Arabella should not miss a mother’s care. Her grandmother would give her everything she needed. And more also.

DURING THE WINTER of that year and the next, Mary was stricken with sickness and many believed that her life was at an end. Her patient nurses, headed by Seton, however, were determined to save her life, and they did.

“But why?” Mary asked wearily. “See how the time is passing. I no longer hope for release.”

She asked for her mirror, and when she looked into it she saw that illness had ravaged her lovely face still further. Her thick hair was almost white; and it seemed to her that this change had come upon her suddenly. But of course it was not so. Although each day seemed long and empty, looking back it appeared that the last years had passed quickly because of their monotony. She had not realized how they had slipped away.

They had indeed taken her youth with them.

She lay in bed watching Seton whose rheumatism had become worse. She noticed afresh the gray in Seton’s hair and the newly formed lines on her face, and she thought: Seton is a reflection of myself. We have both grown old in captivity. I have lived more than forty years, and I was only twenty-five when I came to England!

She called to Seton then. “Bring me my wig,” she said, “the chestnut one.”

Seton did so, and put it on Mary’s head. Mary held up the mirror. “Now I feel young again. That is how my hair once looked. Seton, you too must hide these gray hairs. We are helpless prisoners and I doubt that we shall ever be aught else. But let us pretend that we are young and gay. Oh, Seton, you have suffered with me. We must pretend to be gay. It is the only way we can go on living.”

And they wept a little; Seton for Andrew Beaton, and Mary for Bothwell who had since died, driven mad, she had heard, by such long imprisonment. She thought of him—he who had gone his own way reveling in freedom, forced to live his life in a dreary prison. She had heard that he had dashed his head against a stone wall in an excess of melancholy. How tragic to contemplate what the years had done to them all! Poor mad Bothwell, who had once been the gay and ruthless brigand.

“He is dead—but he had confessed to the murder of Darnley and exonerated me before he died,” she whispered; and she would always remember it.

But he was gone forever and so were the days of her youth and gaiety.

But as she held up her mirror and saw the chestnut hair reflected there she had an illusion of youth; and she knew that she would never cease to hope, and that when some knight like George Douglas, Norfolk or Northumberland came to her she would go on believing he could rescue her from her prison.

THE YEARS DID NOT WORRY BESS. She was as sprightly as she had been when Mary had first come under her roof. Her voice was as loud and firm as ever, and she kept the household in order as she had always done.

When her granddaughter Arabella was at the castle she never let the child out of her sight. She herself supervised her lessons; she would not allow anyone else to do that. She it was who made the little girl conscious of her rank, and everyone in the castle said that little Arabella was the apple of the Countess’s eye.

Bess was brooding about the future of this favorite granddaughter one day when, walking past the Earl’s apartments, she saw Eleanor Britton emerging, and there was something about the demeanor of the woman that aroused her interest.

She was about to summon her, but she changed her mind and made her way instead to the Earl’s chamber.

Bess was not feeling very pleased with her husband at this time; he had been obstinate about some property which she had wished to present to one of her sons. Shrewsbury had stood out against this. He was weary, he said, of so much that was his, passing to the Cavendishes. He reminded her that, though they were her children, they were not his.

This was rebellion, and Bess expected obedience from husbands; she told herself that Shrewsbury was her least satisfactory husband and, although she knew she would eventually have her way, she was far from pleased that it should be necessary to enforce her will.

She remembered now that there had been several occasions when she had come upon Eleanor in the Earl’s rooms. Of course the woman might well be there on some duty, but was it not a little strange that it should always be Eleanor whom she saw there?

She found the Earl in one of his relaxed moods, and she remembered that these were now frequent occurrences. He seemed to be pleased with himself in some way—how could she describe it? Self-satisfied? She remembered that mood from the early days of their marriage.

It is not possible! she told herself. Shrewsbury and a serving girl?

She was furious at the thought. Had it been the Queen, she would have been angry, because Bess would always be angry if deceived, but at worst the woman who had supplanted her would be a Queen.

Could it possibly be that a serving girl had supplanted Bess of Hardwick in her husband’s affections?

BESS WAS NOT ONE to let such a matter pass. She determined to find out if her suspicions regarding the Earl and Eleanor Britton were justified and kept a sharp watch on Eleanor. One day she saw the serving woman making her way to the Earl’s bedchamber, and hastily secreted herself in an ante-room from which she could gather what was taking place.

From the moment Eleanor entered the chamber, she knew that her fears were going to be confirmed. Suppressing her rage she waited; and when she believed they would be so absorbed in each other that they would not hear the quiet lifting of the latch, she opened the door a few inches and peeped around.

Her impulse was to dash upon them and beat them with the nearest object. But she hesitated, reminding herself of the scandal which would inevitably ensue if this were known. And how could she avoid its being spread if she made a fuss about it? She imagined Queen Elizabeth’s laughter and coarse jokes with her courtiers for Elizabeth would be the first to enjoy a joke at the expense of Bess of Hardwick. What an undignified position! She, the Countess of Shrewsbury, deceived by her husband and a serving girl!

Bess quietly shut the door and crept from the ante-room. Her face was white with rage; her eyes afire with the force of her fury. “You’ll be sorry for this, George Talbot,” she murmured; and she began to plan her revenge.

JANE KENNEDY and Seton were discussing the hideous rumor they had heard concerning their mistress.

“Do you think we should tell her?” asked Jane.

“I think it would be better for her to hear it from us than through any other source.”

“But it is so . . . ridiculous . . . so monstrous!”

“She has suffered from many lying rumors. I think we should tell her at once. It will come better from us.”

So Seton and Jane Kennedy went to Mary’s apartments and told her what was being said of her at the English Court.

Mary listened, wide-eyed. “But who could have started such a rumor? Shrewsbury and myself . . . . lovers! With Bess to keep him in order. What next will they say of me? And I have borne him two children! How could I have done this in secret?”

“It is horrible,” said Seton with a shudder. “What can we do to prevent this foul rumor spreading further?”

“I will tell the Countess,” answered Mary. “I feel sure that she will be as anxious to stop it as I am, and she has far more power to do so. Ask her to come to me at once, and then leave us together.”

When Bess was alone with her, Mary told her what she had heard and how angry this had made her.

Bess’s reception of the news astonished Mary, who had expected the Countess to be as angry as she herself was. Instead Bess laughed heartily.

“I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life,” she said at last. “Your Majesty should put the matter from your mind, because I am sure no one will believe such a silly rumor.”

“I do not like it,” Mary pointed out.

Bess snapped her fingers. “Your Majesty should laugh at it. Of all the absurd things which were ever said about anyone, this is the most ridiculous. Who of any sense is going to believe it?”

“There are many who are always eager to believe the worst.”

“Even they cannot believe this.” She asked permission then to send for her husband, and Mary readily gave it.

When the Earl appeared it was Bess who told him, amid laughter, what had been said.

The Earl looked grave and said he shared Mary’s view of the matter; but the Countess laughed at them both.

“When slander is carried too far,” she assured them both, “it becomes absurd and no one believes it.”

She was watching her husband closely. How embarrassed he was! Embarrassed to be suspected of carrying on a love affair with a Queen! Yet he was delighted to do so with a serving wench!

Ah, George Talbot, she said to herself, you are going to be very sorry you ever deceived Bess of Hardwick. This is only a beginning.

What would these two say if they knew that the rumors concerning their scandalous conduct had been started by her?

This was the beginning of her revenge. She was going to expose George Talbot as a lecher; but never should it be known that he had so demeaned his wife by preferring a serving girl. His infidelities must be with a Queen already notorious for her fascination and her scandalous life.

When they returned to their apartments she twitted the Earl with references to “his love, the Queen”; and although she knew this increased his embarrassment she continued to plague him.

But of course that was only a beginning.

THE COUNTESS WAS IN DISPUTE with her husband. She had hoped that, in view of the unpleasant rumors concerning him and the Queen, and her lighthearted treatment of them, he would have been disposed to grant her this little request.

All she was insisting on was the passing over of certain properties to her sons, but the Earl was adamant, being weary of the demands of the family she had had by a previous husband.

“Very well,” said Bess, “if you will not show me a little consideration, why should I bother to help you in your difficulties? Why should I pretend not to believe these stories of your lechery?”

“Pretend not to believe them!” cried the Earl aghast. “But you have clearly said that you do not.”

“Of course I said it. What else did you expect? That I wish to tell the world that you are carrying on an adulterous intrigue under our own roof?”

“So . . . you believe that of me . . . and the Queen of Scots!”

Bess faced him and looked unflinchingly into his face. “My lord, I know you to be an adulterer. Pray do not think to deceive me on that point.”

She was glad of his perturbation. He was going to pay for all the stolen pleasures with that serving woman. Eleanor Britton indeed. She wanted to shout at him: If it had in truth been Mary I would have more easily forgiven you, but since it is that slut I never shall!

But no. She would remain calm. She was going to turn this situation to advantage. It was more than revenge on Shrewsbury that she sought. She was going to discredit the Queen of Scots at the same time. A Queen who had borne two or three children to Shrewsbury would not gain the support that a virtuous Queen would receive. There would be few to pity one who could behave so during her imprisonment. And if Elizabeth should die and Mary should have become unpopular, Arabella might have a very good chance of reaching the throne.

Bess had two great desires now: to take revenge on Shrewsbury and, even greater still, to sweep Arabella Stuart to the throne of England.

So she was going to see that the whole country heard of this scandal. It was necessary to soothe her own vanity which had been so outraged by Shrewsbury’s intrigue with a serving girl, and to help Arabella on her way to the throne.

She knew the way to make everyone aware of this matter.

“I shall no longer live under the same roof as you and your paramour,” she said. “I am leaving at once for my own house of Chatsworth.”

With that she left him, and before the day was out had made her preparations and departed.

THE QUARREL between the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury was the main topic of conversation, not only in Sheffield Castle but at Court.

From Chatsworth Bess had started a suit in Chancery against the Earl, and had written to Elizabeth telling her of what she called his lewd and unhusbandly conduct.

Shrewsbury also wrote to Elizabeth. His wife, he feared, was a malicious and wicked woman; the scandals she had uttered concerning him and the Queen of Scots were undoubtedly without foundation; he was sure Her Majesty would understand that in the circumstances he must beg to be relieved of his duties, and he prayed that she would appoint another guardian of the Queen of Scots to take his place.

Elizabeth was annoyed. Shrewsbury had been Mary’s jailor for so long and had proved himself to be a good jailor; she knew full well that the cost to him of such a task had been tremendous, but he was rich enough, she consoled herself. Elizabeth was parsimonious by nature; it was a habit learned in her days of poverty, when she had had to scheme with her governess to procure some trifling garment or a new ribbon for a gown. She was always delighted when she could pass on some responsibility to one of her nobles—letting him shoulder the cost; and this for many years Shrewsbury had been doing very satisfactorily.

She replied firmly that she was not yet ready to relieve Shrewsbury of his task and that if he were going to take every rumor seriously he was indeed a fool.

Nevertheless she sent for Bess.

They eyed each other shrewdly and, for a few fearful seconds, Bess believed that the Queen was seeing through her motives. If it occurred to Elizabeth that the Countess had any thought of promoting young Arabella Stuart, she, Bess, had better tread very warily; it was a very short step from the moment of understanding to the Tower, and an even shorter one to the block.

“What’s this I hear about the Queen of Scots and Shrewsbury?” the Queen demanded.

“It is a rumor, Your Majesty, spread by their enemies.”

“Poof!” Elizabeth’s gaze did not leave the Countess’s face. “Your trouble is over these estates which you are trying to get for Cavendish’s children. You don’t believe these rumors, do you?”

Bess lowered her gaze and tried to look troubled.

“It’s nonsense,” thundered Elizabeth. “You are too clever not to have seen at once if any such thing was going on under your roof. I refuse to believe anything but that. And what is more, I shall write to Shrewsbury and tell him so.”

Bess was relieved yet disappointed. But she would not return to Sheffield. She went back to Chatsworth and Elizabeth wrote to Shrewsbury quoting what she had said to Bess.

It was her way of telling Shrewsbury he was to remain at his post despite scandals.

FROM CHATSWORTH Bess pursued her plans with her usual energy, and so widespread were the scandals concerning Shrewsbury and the Queen of Scots, and such appealing letters did Elizabeth receive from the latter, that she was at last convinced that she must remove Mary from Shrewsbury’s care.

She had heard that Mary’s health had deteriorated rapidly since she bore the additional burden of this scandal, and she gave permission for her to visit Buxton.

Mary’s sojourn at the Spa had its usual beneficial effect and when she had returned to Sheffield Castle Elizabeth wrote to Shrewsbury telling him that she had at last decided to relieve him of his duties.

She was appointing in his place three gentlemen—Sir Ralph Sadler, Sir Henry Mildmay and Mr. Somers.

Shrewsbury received the news with mixed feelings. It was impossible, he knew, for him to continue as the Queen’s guardian when such rumors were rife. It was fifteen years since Mary had come under his charge, and the relationship between them had grown cordial. They understood each other, and parting in such circumstances must necessarily be painful.

He decided that he would not break the news to her at once, for he knew that she did not like Sadler, and would be distressed at the thought of a new jailor of any kind.

He came to her apartments and told her that he had news.

“I am to go to Court,” he said, “where I shall endeavor to plead your cause with Her Majesty.”

Mary impulsively held out both hands to him and he took them.

“I shall miss you when you are away,” she told him.

“Have no fear that I shall not do my best for you while I am there. In the circumstances . . . ”

Mary broke in: “My lord, what has happened has distressed us both, but you more; I am accustomed to insults. And you have lost your wife.”

Shrewsbury said bitterly: “It was no great loss, I come to believe, Your Majesty.”

“It is always sad that there should be such quarrels. I begin to think that not only am I cursed but that I bring bad luck to all around me.”

“Your Majesty should be of good cheer. I doubt not that you will now have a new lodging.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Sir Ralph Sadler, who will be with you during my absence, thinks that you should stay at Wingfield Manor, while some other lodging is made ready for you.”

“So it is Sadler!” She smiled ruefully. “I shall pray that you soon return. It will be strange to leave Sheffield after so long.”

“I sincerely hope that you will find a lodging more to your liking.”

“You might ask the Queen if I could lodge at Low Buxton. I verily believe that if I could do so I should quickly regain my health.”

He looked at her sadly. He felt it was wrong to deceive her, yet he could not tell her yet that he was in fact saying goodbye.