The Captive Queen of Scots

XVI Tutbury Once More

THE CORTÈGE MADE ITS WAY SLOWLY along the rough roads. It would not reach its destination before nightfall, but there was not one member of the party who was eager to reach Tutbury Castle.

Seton, riding beside her mistress, noticed a certain alertness in her face. Mary was always mildly excited at the prospect of moving. Did she still dream that a band of gallant friends would waylay the party and free her at last from the captivity of years? Seton believed that she did; that in spite of encroaching age and even more unwelcome infirmity, Mary would always hope for what now seemed the impossible.

Seton moved painfully in the saddle. She was even more crippled with rheumatism than her mistress. But how could one live for years in drafty castles, never being allowed to take enough fresh air, without becoming infirm? They should be thankful perhaps that they were as healthy as they were.

The last months had not been easy, and in desperation Mary had sent Jacques Nau to London to plead with Elizabeth for her liberty. The seeds of scandal which Seton was sure had been scattered by the revengeful Bess of Hardwick, had taken root here and in France and Spain. Mary tried to vindicate herself in Elizabeth’s eyes by suggesting that none was safe from Bess’s evil tongue and hinting at the scandals the Countess had whispered to her concerning Elizabeth; but no sooner had she done this than she regretted it. Elizabeth, however, wisely chose to ignore both Mary’s hints and Bess’s gossip.

Was there no end, Mary asked herself, to the tribulations she must endure? And now that she had new jailors in place of the Shrewsburys, Mary was learning how free she had been in the charge of the Earl.

Seton could not help feeling a certain satisfaction because Sir Ralph Sadler had suffered from the rigors of the Queen’s prison and had found Wingfield and Sheffield so bad for his health, that in a few months he had become almost crippled with rheumatism and was restive to be released from his duty.

“Poor Sir Ralph,” Seton whispered to the Queen, “he at least suffers with his limbs as we do.”

Mary turned to look at her friend and in the harsh light noticed how worn her face was . . . worn with pain, anxiety and frustration. Poor Seton, thought Mary. When I look at her it is as though I look into a mirror. My pain and anxieties are marked on my face even as hers are. If she could have married Andrew; if she could have been the mother of healthy children . . . But what was the use of entertaining such thoughts? They were two women, unlucky in love; doomed, it seemed, to be prisoners for the rest of their lives.

So must it be for her. But it need not be so for Seton.

Mary said: “Seton, I shudder to think of Tutbury. Of all my prisons that is the worst.”

“It will be better when the spring comes . . . .”

“And the smell grows stronger . . . .” murmured the Queen. She turned almost angrily to Seton. “I must endure this life, Seton. But why should you?”

Seton sighed. “Because, as I have told you before, my place is at your side.”

“Nay, Seton. You should go away while there is time.”

“And leave you!”

“I never had patience with those who suffered unnecessarily.”

“It is only if I were separated from you that I should suffer.”

“Look at your hands. Your knuckles are enlarged with rheumatism. Do you think I cannot see how painfully you walk? You are in a worse state than I am, Seton. Why do you not go to France?”

“Ah, if we could both go . . . ”

“Let us indulge ourselves, Seton. Let us think about it.”

They were silent, thinking of those early days when they had ridden lightheartedly in the chase, when they were young and their days were carefree.

“There is no reason why you should not go, Seton,” whispered the Queen. “I could arrange for you to go into a convent with my aunt Renée. She would receive you with pleasure, knowing you to be my dearest friend. Dear Seton, go, while you can still walk.”

Seton shook her head.

“How obstinate you are!” sighed Mary. “There will come a day when I shall have to nurse you. You suffer more than I.”

“Do not ask me to leave you,” pleaded Seton. “While I can still walk I wish to serve you.”

They were silent for a while; then Mary said: “I knew Jacques Nau would do well at Elizabeth’s Court.”

Seton nodded. “She has an affection for all handsome men.”

“And Jacques is very handsome. I could not have chosen a better advocate.”

“Let us be thankful that he has persuaded the Queen that you are innocent of the Shrewsbury scandal.”

Mary laughed. “It all seemed so ridiculous, did it not? Yet there were so many ready to believe. But now, thanks to the good work of my French Jacques, the Countess and her sons have been made to swear I have been slandered.”

Seton nodded, but she was less sure than the Queen. She was thinking that scandal, once sent on its rounds, could live on forever.

“It would seem,” said Mary, “that we are arriving at a house. What is it?”

Seton looked ahead to the gabled mansions. “It is Babington Hall, Your Majesty. We are to rest here for the night, I believe.”

“Babington . . . the name seems familiar.”

“That is very likely. Your Majesty will remember Anthony.”

“Anthony Babington . . . why yes. He is that earnest and handsome young man who called on me at Sheffield and was so eager to serve me.”

“A Catholic gentleman,” murmured Seton; “and Your Majesty is right, he is a handsome one.”

“A charming person,” replied the Queen, as the cortège rode up to Babington Hall.

SIR RALPH SADLER was not going to allow Mary to forget that she was a prisoner; he immediately set his guards about the house and, summoning the chief citizens of the town, told them that Queen Elizabeth would be ill pleased if they allowed her prisoner to escape while lodging in their district. So the citizens posted their own guards in the streets of the nearby town as well as about the house.

The housekeeper, an old widow named Mrs. Beaumont, came forward to greet the Queen on behalf of her master and mistress.

Mary graciously embraced her, kissing her on both withered cheeks, a gesture which enchanted the old lady.

“My master will be delighted that Your Majesty has honored his house,” she said.

“You must tell your master that I remember him well and think of him often,” Mary answered.

Sir Ralph, watching suspiciously, demanded that the Queen be taken to her apartments; and the widow nodded, saying she would lead the way.

It was not easy to have any communication with strangers while Sir Ralph was near; but Mrs. Beaumont did manage to speak to Mary. She told her that if there were any letters the Queen wished delivered to her friends she could safely leave them with her. Her master was the Queen’s most ardent servant and he would think ill of his housekeeper if she did not serve her in every way possible while she was under his roof. He would be sorry that he was absent from his home during the Queen’s visit; but he was at this time abroad. Mrs. Beaumont knew, though, that he lived to serve the Queen.

That night in Babington Hall, while the noise of her guards below her window prevented her from sleeping, Mary thought of handsome young Anthony Babington; and she felt young again because hope had come back to her.

TUTBURY was even more unpleasant than Mary remembered it. Robbers had entered it since she had last stayed there, and much of the furniture and bedding had been stolen.

The cold was intense; the foul odor more pronounced.

Mary went to her old apartments and saw at once that many of the hangings with which her servants had once covered those walls, were missing.

Seton came in looking doleful. “There are scarcely any blankets in the place; and there are only nine pairs of sheets. I’ve counted them myself.”

Mary shivered. “And how many of us are there?”

“Forty-eight. They have even stolen the feathers from many of the bolster cases. I fear we are going to be most uncomfortable until we can obtain supplies.”

Sir Ralph Sadler came into the Queen’s apartment looking worried. There was no need for him to say that he was heartily weary of his task. He longed to pass over the guardianship of the Queen to someone else. He had quickly realized that it was a dangerous and thankless task.

“I will write to Lord Burleigh at once,” she told Sadler. “If we are to stay here, either he or the Queen must send us some comforts.”

Sadler agreed with her. Every day he was revising his opinion of Mary, for previously he had believed her to be fractious and demanding; now he realized all that she must have been made to suffer over the years.

During the next weeks his attitude toward her changed still more. She was a Catholic—a fact which he, a stern Protestant, deplored; she was a danger to his Queen; but at the same time he had to admire the patience with which she bore hardship and her unfailing concern for those who served her.

Soon after their arrival Mary became ill; as for Seton, she was scarcely able to move; both women bore their infirmities with fortitude; but when one of Mary’s oldest servants, Renée Rallay, a Frenchwoman who had come with her when she left France, fell sick and died, Mary’s grief overflowed, and she demanded of Sadler how long the Queen of England intended to keep her in this state.

Sadler decided then that when the spring came he would allow her to ride out with him and watch the hawking. He saw no harm in that, provided she was surrounded by guards.

SO ONCE MORE with the coming of more clement weather Mary’s health improved; and it was a great pleasure to be allowed to ride out even in the company of Sadler and Somers, and accompanied by guards.

With her on these occasions rode Bessie Pierpont, now a blooming beauty of sixteen.

It was one day when they returned from such an excursion that they found Jacques Nau was in the castle, having come straight from Elizabeth’s Court.

Mary was so delighted to see him that she did not notice the flush of pleasure which rose to Bessie’s cheeks, nor did she intercept the ardent looks which passed between the girl and the secretary.

“My good friend,” cried Mary, “how it delights me to see you.”

Jacques kissed the Queen’s hand, but even as he did so he could not prevent his eyes straying to the lovely young girl who stood beside Mary.

“Pray come to my chamber with all speed,” said Mary. “I can scarce wait to hear your news.”

As they made their way there, Bessie walked close to him and when his hand reached out for hers, and pressed it, Bessie could have wept for joy. She would tell him when they were alone that she had lived in great fear that he would have met some fair lady at the English Court who would have made him forget all about simple little Bessie Pierpont. But it did not seem so, and she was exultant because she believed that Jacques was as pleased to be with her as she was to see him.

At the door of the Queen’s chamber, Bessie must leave them, but the look which Jacques cast in her direction told her that soon he would be seeking her out.

When they were alone together Mary complimented Jacques on the manner in which he had accomplished his mission. She saw at once that there was a change in the young man’s manner. There was a new air of confidence; she believed she understood. Elizabeth had a fondness for handsome young men, and Jacques was undoubtedly handsome. Elizabeth would have been enchanted by his French manners, for there was no doubt that Jacques knew how to turn a pretty compliment. Yes, the visit to the English Court had changed Jacques in some way. He was full of assurance having become an ambassador, whereas before he had been a mere secretary.

“Jacques,” said Mary, “I have to thank you for the manner in which you dealt with my affairs. But for you, I am sure, the Countess of Shrewsbury would have been allowed to go on repeating her scandals.”

“It was a great pleasure to me,” Jacques replied, “to achieve an apology in the presence of the Council.”

“You found the Queen of England fair and just?”

“I did, Your Majesty.”

Ah, thought Mary, if only I could see her. If only I could have a chance of talking to her.

Failing that, it was comforting to have someone such as her good and loyal French secretary to look after her affairs.

But there was one other piece of news which Jacques must break to her. He knew that it was going to cause her sorrow and he dreaded telling her. Since he had entered the castle and seen young Bessie Pierpont, he was yearning to be done with business and be with her. He was surprised that he could feel little else but this great need to be with Bessie.

“I have news of Your Majesty’s son.”

The Queen’s expression changed; she clasped her hands together.

Jacques did not look at her as he said: “His Majesty of Scotland finds it difficult to act as joint sovereign with yourself. He has therefore entered into a treaty with the Queen of England as sole sovereign of Scotland.”

Mary looked at her secretary as though she had not heard him. Slowly the implication of what this meant came to her. So he is repudiating me! she thought. At last my enemies have succeeded in taking him from me utterly. He . . . my own little Jamie, now finds his mother an encumbrance. He tells me that I am, in his opinion, no longer Queen of Scotland.

She said slowly: “Is this indeed so?”

Jacques answered gently: “I fear so, Your Majesty.”

Mary covered her face with her hands.

“Your Majesty would wish me to leave you?” whispered Jacques.

The Queen nodded.

BESSIE WAS HOVERING near the door of the Queen’s apartment, and as he came out she threw herself into his arms.

“It has been so long . . . .” she whispered. They were kissing, exploring each other’s faces with their lips.

“Bessie . . . my Bessie . . . .” murmured Jacques.

“You can have no idea how desolate this place is without our secretary Jacques.”

“Can it be as desolate as the English Court without Bessie Pierpont?”

“Oh Jacques . . . what shall we do . . . ?”

“There is one thing we must do . . . and that quickly. Marry.”

Bessie laughed. “I hoped you would say that.”

“Do you think they will allow us to?”

“The Queen never refuses me anything.”

“What of your grandmother?”

“I believe I am a little like her. I am going to do the deed and tell afterward . . . as she did in the case of Arabella’s parents.”

Jacques was thoughtful. He had to remember that he was after all only a secretary. He wondered what action would be taken by the Shrewsburys if he married their granddaughter. He was passionately in love with this charming young girl, but he had to think for them both. It would be disastrous if for the sake of a brief week or so of passion they allowed their entire future to be jeopardized. Jacques was really in love for the first time in his life, but ardently as he desired Bessie, he could yet consider the years ahead of them. Bessie was not only to be his wife, but the mother of his children. This was no sudden blazing passion; he had watched Bessie grow since she was a child of four, and the happiest moments of those long ago days had been when she sat beside him, the tip of her little pink tongue showing at the corner of her mouth as she bent over a Latin exercise with which he was helping her. He had loved her then, and now that she was a woman he desired her as he had never desired a woman before; but the tenderness, the longing to protect had remained; and this he knew to be love in all its aspects.

Thus when he had danced at the English Court, when he had paid the gallant compliments expected of a Frenchman, he had never ceased to dream of young Bessie Pierpont, and all other women could be nothing but passing fancies to him.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her gently.

“My Bessie,” he said, “my true love Bessie, I shall love you until I am laid in my tomb.”

“And I you, Jacques,” she declared solemnly.

“And because I love you as I do I will curb my need of you until that time when I can be sure that in taking and sharing the delights which must surely be ours, I can assure myself that no harm shall come to you.”

“There is no time like this moment, Jacques,” cried Bessie. He embraced her with such fervor that she cried out in her ecstasy. But he released her suddenly and shook his head.

“First there shall be marriage,” he said. “It is how it must be, since you are Bessie my only love. But there will be obstacles and, because I will not have you hurt, we must be patient. Little Bessie, from this day we shall begin to make our plans.”

SIR RALPH SADLER was dismayed. He had often heard of the schemes which had harassed Shrewsbury during his term as jailor; having been with the Queen, and perceiving her patience, he had been inclined to believe most of them to be exaggerated. “All that happened in the early days of her captivity,” he told Somers. “Now she is too old and ill to think of escape. We should be grateful for that.”

And now it seemed that he had been wrong.

One day while he was at supper his servant came to tell him that a man was at the castle begging an interview, as he had news of great importance which he believed Sir Ralph must hear.

Sir Ralph allowed the man to be brought to his presence and found him to be a certain Humphrey Briggs, an uncouth and unprepossessing man—clearly one who bore a grievance.

“What is your business?” asked Sir Ralph.

“I come to your honor because I feel there is news I should give you.”

“Well, let me hear it.”

The man hesitated.

“You want payment?”

The dull face brightened. “It’s important news, Your Honor. Touching our Lady Elizabeth herself.”

“It sounds like treason. In that case, man, you would do well to tell me quickly, for it is treason to hold back anything that threatens the Queen.”

Briggs looked a little taken aback. He stammered: “I’m a good subject of the Queen’s, Your Honor. I serve the Queen . . . .”

“Then prove it by telling me what news this is.”

Briggs, now alarmed, decided to forgo hopes of reward and content himself with revenge. “I worked for Nicholas Langford, Your Honor.”

“And he has dismissed you?” asked Sir Ralph shrewdly.

“’Twas no fault of mine.”

“Never mind. Tell me.”

“My master, with the help of his secretary, Rowland Kitchyn, hears the Mass regularly in his house . . . and that’s not all. He receives priests in his house, Your Honor; and he writes letters.”

“Letters?”

“To the fair devil of Scotland, Your Honor. And with one end. He is with them that wants to see her in place of our own good Queen. And that’s why I thought it right to tell Your Honor . . . .”

Sir Ralph nodded.

“You may go to the kitchen,” he said. “There they will give you food.”

“I’m a poor man, Your Honor . . . .”

“It will be necessary for me to look into this matter,” said Sir Ralph. “I know you to have been a servant of Nicholas Langford and to have been dismissed by him. You bear a grudge against him. But if I find your information to be true, have no fear that you shall lack a reward . . . but first it must be proved.” He waved his hand for the man to go; and when he was alone he wrote down the names of Nicholas Langford and Rowland Kitchyn, and planned how he would begin his investigation.

IT WAS NOT EASY for Bessie to hide her happiness. Mary noticed that the girl seemed subdued and it occurred to her that she was, after all, no longer a child and that perhaps it was high time she married.

Thinking of Seton’s fate, as she so often did, Mary was determined that this bright young girl should not suffer in the same way. Whenever she was able to lay her hands on rich materials—which were sometimes sent to her by friends in France through the French ambassador—it was clothes for Bessie that she planned. She had taught the girl to embroider, and as they sat together working on a new gown Bessie said suddenly: “It is twelve years that I have been with Your Majesty. I wonder if I shall always be with you.”

“Ah, Bessie, that must not be. One day you will marry and go away from me. I would not have you live your life in these drafty prisons.”

“Oh but . . . ” began Bessie, and she almost said: Jacques will be your secretary, and where Jacques is there must I be. Then she remembered that Jacques had said they must keep their secret as yet.

Mary laid her hand over Bessie’s. “My dearest,” she said, “I can never explain how much your presence here has meant to me. I lost my own child and to some extent you took his place. That is why, even though it will grieve me to lose you, I shall be happy to see you go . . . when the time comes.”

“Your Majesty,”—Bessie spoke breathlessly—” when do you think . . . the time will come for me to go?”

“It will not be long delayed,” answered Mary with a smile. “I will tell you something else. You do not think your grandmother could resist making a grand marriage for you, do you?”

Bessie was silent as the numbness of fear crept over her. Mary however did not notice the change in her goddaughter and continued: “It is to be a grand marriage for you, my dear. The Countess of Shrewsbury certainly has plans for you. It is some time now since she decided on a husband for you.”

“Who . . . ?” stammered Bessie.

“My Lord Percy, eldest son of the Earl of Northumberland.”

Bessie was staring down at the material in her hands; defiance was born in her then. Never! Never! Never! she was saying over and over again to herself.

“So you see,” went on the Queen, “you have not been forgotten, my dear; and when the time comes I shall use all my influence to bring about this match, for I consider it, though one of the best possible, not too good for my own dear grandchild.”

“I do not wish to marry Lord Percy,” said Bessie in a stony voice.

The Queen laughed. “You will . . . in time, my love.”

“I never shall,” replied Bessie vehemently.

She was trembling; she was about to throw herself at the Queen’s feet, to confess her love for Jacques, to implore Mary’s help. But Jacques had said that their love was to be a secret as yet . . . and she was afraid to do so. If her grandmother—the energetic Countess—had decided she was to marry Lord Percy, she must do something quickly.

She was saved from confessing the truth by the Queen’s next words. “I hear the sound of voices below. Someone is arriving at the castle.”

Mary had risen and the material had dropped to the floor. She still hoped that a messenger would bring news of her release, that some friend might have come to visit her, some loved one from Scotland or France, or perhaps Queen Elizabeth herself.

Bessie, trembling, went to the window and stood beside the Queen.

A man was being hustled into the castle; he looked harassed, as though he were a prisoner.

“I wonder who that can be,” said the Queen. “Bessie, go and see if you can find out.”

Bessie was glad to escape, but instead of obeying the Queen’s command she went straight to that chamber in which Jacques was working. He looked up from his writing table when he saw her, and for the moment all Bessie’s fears vanished as she watched the joy sweep over his face.

“My love!”

She ran to him and put her arms about his neck. “Oh Jacques . . . Jacques . . . what do you think? They are going to try to marry me to Lord Percy.”

He smiled into her frightened eyes, trying not to show that he shared her fear. “Why, Bessie,” he said, “do you think I should allow that?”

She laughed gaily. “Of course you wouldn’t. Neither of us would. We’d . . . die rather, wouldn’t we, Jacques.”

But her eyes were shining and she had no intention of dying. She was going to live and love.

In that moment young Bessie had a look of the grandmother whose name she shared.

SIR RALPH WAS INDULGING in his favorite occupation, which was composing letters to Elizabeth explaining why it would be wise to withdraw him from his post as guardian of the Queen of Scotland and put another in his place.

“I am crippled with rheumatism . . . I am unfit for this task . . . .” he murmured. How fortunate Shrewsbury was to escape it. But Shrewsbury had had fifteen years as jailor. Pray God he, Sadler, did not have to endure more than one.

He was particularly worried at this time, for he had found it necessary, on the testimony of that odious fellow Briggs, whom he had loathed on sight, to investigate the case of Nicholas Langford; and although Mr. Langford had answered his questions so plausibly that he could bring no accusation against him, his secretary, Rowland Kitchyn, had shown himself to be an ardent Catholic and had actually admitted serving the Mass.

Uncertain how to act, Sadler had had Rowland Kitchyn brought to Tutbury and was keeping him prisoner there while he submitted him to questioning.

If Sadler could prove Mary to be the center of a plot against Elizabeth, he would then go to London, see the Queen and implore her to send a younger and more healthy man to take charge of Mary. He was hoping that he would be able to prove this.

Rowland Kitchyn was each day brought from his dungeon in Tutbury Castle into the presence of Sadler and Somers and there questioned, but in spite of these examinations nothing could be drawn from him but the fact that he had served Mass; he refused to utter a word against his master and denied that he had been involved in a plot to free Mary and place her on the throne.

Since he admitted to being a Catholic, both Sadler and Somers thought it their duty to insist on his attending the chapel in order to hear prayers. As a Catholic, Rowland Kitchyn refused to attend the chapel; so before the service two guards were sent to his cell to bring him there; and often Mary would hear his cries of protest as he was dragged across the courtyard.

Bessie had discovered what was happening, for Jacques had told her.

Jacques was worried—not only because of the proposed match with Lord Percy, but because Sir Ralph Sadler was persecuting Rowland Kitchyn, whose only crime seemed to be that he was a Catholic.

“Bessie,” Jacques had said, “you and I are Catholics. If he decides to persecute one, he might persecute others.”

Bessie clung to him and said: “Jacques . . . what is happening all about us? Once I felt so safe. Now I feel safe no longer.”

Jacques did not answer that. He might have told her that they had been living in a dangerous world for as long as he could remember. The only difference was that Bessie was growing up and was becoming more and more aware of this.

“SETON,” said Mary, “what are they doing to that poor man?”

“They have brought him in for questioning, and they insist on his going to the chapel every day.”

“What does it mean, Seton?”

Seton shrugged her shoulders.

“Will they soon begin to persecute us, do you think?” asked Mary. “Do they drag him across the courtyard beneath my window every day, to remind me that I worship in a manner different from theirs?”

“Who can say?” sighed Seton.

“Oh, Seton, I am going to write to my aunt Renée. You are going to her. You must.”

Seton obstinately shook her head.

“Sometimes I despair of ever leaving my prison,” said Mary. “Sometimes I think I shall be carried from my prison to the tomb.”

“These are doleful thoughts, Your Majesty.”

“These are doleful times, Seton.”

There was silence for a while then Mary said: “They are bringing him back now. What does it mean, Seton? What are they planning now?”

SIR RALPH LOOKED into the face of the man who had been brought to him for questioning.

“I have told you all I know,” said Rowland Kitchyn.

“How can we be sure of that?”

“I have nothing else to say.”

“We have means of extracting the truth,” said Sir Ralph.

He saw that the man had turned pale, and he noticed that he was a frail man, a man more accustomed to wielding a pen than a sword.

“You mean you would torture me?”

“We would consider the means were unimportant if through them we arrived at the truth.”

“Do men speak truth under torture? You know they do not always do so, my lord. They cry out what is demanded of them . . . anything to stop the torture.”

Sir Ralph looked into that pale face and saw the sweat at the temples; the fear in the eyes. It was not the fear of pain, so much as the fear that he would not be able to withstand it. There was a difference, and Sir Ralph was wise enough to see it. He wondered whether it would only be necessary to talk of torture. He hoped so, for he was not a violent man.

“Think about this,” he said. “Tomorrow you will be brought before me again. I am eager to know the truth.”

Rowland Kitchyn was taken back to his cell; he was sick with fear. He did not know how he would stand up to torture. He had never suffered it. He was a man of great imagination, and he was afraid . . . terribly afraid that his body would take possession of his mind and insist on his saying that which was false, in order to save it from pain.

ROWLAND KITCHYN awoke in the night. He felt the cold of the stone floor through his pallet, yet he was sweating. He had dreamed that he was in a dungeon of this evil Tutbury and there they had tortured him; and that as the pain possessed him he lost all sense of decency, all sense of honor; thinking only to save his wretched limbs from pain, he had cried out lies against his master.

“I must not, I must not,” he moaned. “I will not.”

But how could he be sure? He knew full well that under torture men lost all sense of reason, all sense of justice.

They wished him to betray his master.

“I will never do it. I never will,” he whispered.

But in his dream he had done so; and how could he be sure when awake he would be more brave?

A terrible belief had come to him. The dream was a warning. He would betray his master under torture.

“I never will. I never will,” he moaned.

But how could he be sure?

There was a way. It was the only way. He lay in the dark, thinking of it.

SIR RALPH SADLER said to Somers: “I am sure that fellow Briggs was a vengeful rogue, and I am certain that both Langford and his secretary Kitchyn are guiltless of intrigue against the Queen. Catholics they are, alas. But there are many Catholics in England.”

“What do you suggest we should do? Release Kitchyn?”

Sir Ralph nodded. “Come with me to his cell. We will tell him that he is a free man.”

Together the pair made their way to the prisoner. Sir Ralph unlocked the door and, peering into the gloom, saw Kitchyn lying on his pallet; he was very still.

The two men approached, and Sadler murmured: “Kitchyn, wake up. We are come to speak to you.”

There was no answer and, bending over the figure of the man on the pallet, Sadler gave a sudden exclamation, which brought Somers to his side.

Both men stood staring down at the lifeless body of the prisoner, who had strangled himself.

HER WOMEN HAD NOT yet come into her bedchamber to help her rise, but Mary was awake. Something had awakened her early on this morning, some evil foreboding which prevented her from sleeping.

She had felt uneasy ever since she had seen that poor man being dragged across the courtyard to the chapel. The persecution of others never failed to move her deeply, perhaps because she had suffered so much herself.

She lay for a moment, wondering whether it was some unusual sound of activity which had awakened her; there was no sound now in the courtyard below.

As it was impossible to sleep, she rose and put her wrap about her; she went to the window and looked out.

For a moment as she stared at the horror which confronted her, she thought that she was living in some nightmare.

“No . . . ” she whispered, but it was so. That man who was hanging from the turret opposite her window was the prisoner whom they had been holding in the castle for the last three weeks.

For some seconds she stood staring at the lifeless form hanging there. Why had they hung him opposite her window? There could be only one answer. They were saying to her: This man offended us because he was a Catholic. You are a Catholic also.

On whose orders had that man been hung there?

Turning shuddering away, Mary went back to her bed and lay there.

It was thus that Seton found her.

“Seton!” she cried. “We have never been in such danger as we are now. I have felt it in my bones. And now I have proof.”

“What proof?” asked Seton.

“Go to the window and you will see.”

Seton went, and Mary heard the exclamation which escaped from her before, white and trembling, she came back to the bed.

THERE WAS NOT A CATHOLIC in Mary’s household who did not see in the fate of Rowland Kitchyn a grim warning to themselves.

Now an atmosphere of dread and suspicion existed throughout the castle. Looking back, Mary thought with longing of the early days when she had been in the charge of the Shrewsburys, before Bess had conceived her absurd lies.

Trouble was coming. Every day she expected to hear that she herself would meet the fate of Rowland Kitchyn. Young Bessie told her that he had strangled himself, but she did not believe that. He had been taken, she was certain, imprisoned in Tutbury and hanged as a warning to her of what she might expect.

She called Jacques Nau to her and asked him to repeat what Elizabeth had said to him on the subject of freedom of religion.

“Her Majesty assured me,” answered Jacques, “that it was never her wish that any of her subjects should suffer for the sake of conscience or religion.”

“But there are fanatics in this land,” she said. “I fear them, Jacques.”

“I am of the opinion that Queen Elizabeth is not one of them.”

“You comfort me,” Mary told him; and he wondered whether now was the moment to tell her of his desire to marry Bessie. No, he decided. At this time she was too anxious about other matters. They must wait, he and Bessie. There must be no betrayal of their secret until they were sure. The fact that Lord Percy had been selected for Bessie was going to raise great difficulties. There was too much at stake to risk their future happiness.

Mary dismissed Jacques and wrote to Elizabeth.

. . . If it should ever come to pass that an open attack were made on me for my religion, I am perfectly ready, with the Grace of God to bow my neck beneath the axe, that my blood may be shed before all Christendom; and I should esteem it the greatest happiness to be the first to do so. I do not say this out of vainglory while the danger is remote . . .

When she had finished writing this she resolutely took up a pen and wrote to her aunt Renée at Rheims.

She was not going to plead with Seton any more. She was going to order her to go to France. Seton was in danger even as she was; she could no longer bear to watch her dearest friend growing a little more haggard, a little more crippled every day, sacrificing life itself for her sake. When she had written those letters and dispatched them, she sent for Seton.

“My dear friend,” she said, “I have written to Rheims. You must prepare to leave.”

Seton was speechless, but Mary had become regal.

“It is an order, Seton—one I should have given long ago.”

“You are commanding me to leave you?”

Mary turned away, desperately afraid of weakness.

“There will be our letters, Seton. You must write to me regularly. I must know all that happens to you.”

Seton was staring out of that window where, not long ago, the lifeless body of a man had hung.

SURELY THE PARTING with Seton was the most bitter tragedy that had happened since her imprisonment. It had been useless for Seton to plead; Mary had been adamant. She had written to her aunt and asked her to care for Seton, to nurse her back to health for her dear sake; and she knew that Renée would do it.

“At last,” she whispered when she embraced her dearest and most faithful friend for the last time, “I shall know that you are enjoying some comfort, and that must give me pleasure. Oh, dearest Seton, you cannot guess how it has grieved me to see you growing more and more infirm.”

Seton’s mouth was set in pain. “You know that my place is with you.”

“No, Seton. You have lived my life too long. Do you realize that that is what you have done from the very moment when you were brought to my nursery—the dearest of my four Marys? If you wish to comfort me, write to me that you sleep in a warm and comfortable bed, that you take fresh air; that your pains grow less. That is what I ask of you now: and you have never denied me what I wanted—save that you refused to leave me long ago when I told you that you should.”

When the moment of parting had come they had clung together and Seton had cried out that she would never leave her mistress. Only Mary knew how near she had come to agreeing, for she could not conceive how dreary the days would be without this loving companion.

But she would not say it; and she restrained her tears until from her turret window she saw that Seton and the little party which accompanied her were too far off to notice how she wept when they turned to wave the last farewell.

NOW JANE KENNEDY and Elizabeth Curle had become her constant companions, trying to take the place of Seton. Mary turned to them, although she knew that there could never be another Seton. They would sit over their needlework and talk of what the future might hold; and this was a cheerless occupation, for tension still brooded over the castle.

“Yet,” said Mary, “I do not think we should despair. I am sure Sir Ralph would never allow me to be the victim of foul play while I am under his care.”

“He hanged the dead body of Rowland Kitchyn opposite Your Majesty’s window,” Jane reminded her.

“Because he hopes to make a Protestant of me,” answered Mary. “It is true he is a fanatic on matters of religion. But in all else I feel him to be a just man. That is why I am going to ask him if I may not have a friend to replace dear Seton. The Countess of Atholl has written to me asking me to take her into my service. I think I will speak to Sir Ralph now. Jane, go and ask him to come to me.”

Jane did as she was bid, and in a short time Sir Ralph entered the apartment.

“Sir Ralph,” said Mary, “the Countess of Atholl asks if she may come and stay with me. As you know, I have lost one of my closest friends. Do you think you might use your influence to bring this about?”

Sir Ralph was silent for a while, then he said: “I have to tell Your Majesty that I shall not be with you much longer. I have had orders from my Queen to retire from this post. She is sending another of her servants to take my place. This request of yours is therefore one which you must make to him.”

Mary was startled. She had not known that change was contemplated. She was alarmed. Sir Ralph had scarcely been a generous guardian but there could be many worse.

“May I know the name of the man who is to succeed you?”

“Your Majesty, it is Sir Amyas Paulet.”

Mary was stunned. She knew the man to be the fiercest of Puritans, a man who, because she was a Catholic, would believe her to be the wickedest of sinners.

She had not been mistaken. Harsher measures were going to be taken; her prison was to become more rigorous than ever.

Sadler, watching her, read her thoughts. Since he had been guarding her and had suffered so much himself from the lack of comfort and had been aware of the deterioration of his own health, he had softened toward her.

Her life with him had been cheerless; he knew, as she did, that it would be worse with Paulet.

He said gently: “Your Majesty, if you ask for the Countess of Atholl to be allowed to come here, your request will almost certainly be refused, for the Atholls are known to be your friends, and Catholics. If you were to ask for the company of a Protestant lady, I doubt not that your request would be granted; and I have heard that there are Protestants in Scotland who are your friends.”

Mary did not answer; she had sunk into a chair; rarely had she felt so deeply submerged in despair.

THE SPRING HAD COME and with the warmer weather Tutbury was always more bearable, even though Sir Amyas had arrived at the castle and he proved to be as stern and forbidding as Mary had feared. There were new rules to be observed; the guards received strict instructions that on no account was Mary to leave the castle; if any attempt at escape were made, Mary was to be killed rather than allowed to go free. Sir Amyas was shocked because she had tried to bring a little color to her dreary apartments with the bright tapestries she and her women had worked and hung on the walls. He told her that she would be well advised to pass her time in prayer rather than in sewing fancy silks and playing the lute. He offered to instruct her in the Protestant religion, and when she refused this invitation he muttered that she was heading for eternal damnation.

When during May Sir Ralph and Somers left—they had stayed some weeks until Sir Amyas was accustomed to the routine of the castle—Mary felt she would be ready to try any foolhardy scheme to escape from Paulet’s rule. Never in all the years of captivity had the days seemed so long and dreary.

Then two newcomers arrived at the castle, and their coming lightened the gloom and brought a little change to the dull days.

The arrivals were two charming girls, Barbara and Gillies Mowbray, the younger daughters of Sir John Mowbray, the Protestant Laird of Barnbougal. Mary welcomed the two girls with great warmth, for she was always touched that anyone should wish to leave a luxurious home to share her prison life, and she knew that Barbara and Gilles had begged to be allowed to do so.

On the day the girls arrived, Mary staged a gay gathering in her apartment, because she did not want them to find their new life too gloomy. She need not have worried; they were sprightly creatures, very fresh and lovely, particularly Barbara; and as soon as Mary saw them she loved them.

So it was a merry party which took place in her apartment, and it pleased her to see the young people dancing. As Bessie was there, dancing with Jacques, she had invited her other secretary, Gilbert Curle, to join the dance. She was very fond of Gilbert, who was Elizabeth Curle’s brother and a Scotsman devoted to her interests. He might not be so dashing and handsome as the French Jacques, but she trusted Gilbert; and as she herself played the lute and watched Bessie trip her measure with Jacques, and Barbara with Gilbert Curle, she thought that at all the grand balls of the past she had never seen four such handsome young people so happy together.

WITH GILBERT CURLE and Barbara Mowbray it was love at first sight. They made no secret of it; and indeed had they tried they would have been unable.

Everyone was talking about the lightning courtship and what a difference it had made to the little community of Tutbury Castle. How much more pleasant it was to contemplate a love affair than wonder whether an attempt was being considered to remove one from this world! thought the Queen. She concentrated on the one, and refused to dwell on the other.

She forgot grim old Sir Amyas, and constantly invited Gilbert and Barbara to her apartment.

There were two others who watched the new lovers with interest.

“See how the Queen helps them,” said Bessie. “Surely she would help us also.”

“It is different,” answered Jacques. “Barbara is not promised to a noble lord.”

“But I feel sure I could persuade her. Shall I try, Jacques?”

But Jacques was fearful. Each day he loved her more; each day he was more impatient for her. But they must curb their impatience, he told her again and again. Their whole future was at stake.

Barbara had arrived in September, and before October was out she and Gilbert Curle had asked the Queen for her blessing on their marriage.

“I see no reason why this should not take place,” Mary told them. “I will write to Sir John and tell him that, if he will but give his approval, the match shall have my blessing.”

And why not? she reasoned. Gilbert Curle was of good family, and when two people loved each other as these two did and there was no reason why they should not marry, it seemed sinful to put any obstacle in their way.

When Sir Mowbray replied that, since the Queen of Scots considered the match a worthy one for his daughter, he could have no objection, there was rejoicing throughout the Queen’s apartments. Mary busied herself with preparations for the wedding; she herself would make the bride’s dress; she had little money to spare, but she was going to give the young couple two thousand crowns as a wedding present.

She called Jacques to her and told him what she intended to do.

“Your Majesty is overgenerous,” he murmured.

“Nay,” she replied gaily. “It does me so much good to see these young people happy.”

Jacques turned to her suddenly, and for a few seconds she waited for him to speak, but he remained silent and she thought she saw a sullen look on his face which had not been there before.

She thought: He is jealous of Curle.

She laid a hand on his arm. “My dear Jacques,” she said, “when you find a bride I shall do the same for you.”

He murmured conventional thanks; and it was from that moment she noticed the change in him. He was, she believed, a more complex character than her frank Gilbert Curle. Yet she was fond of him.

I am fortunate, she told herself, to have servants whom I can love. But it seems there must inevitably be these rivalries between them.

While the plans for the wedding were on, Mary was ill once more. It was to be expected, for November was almost upon them and so damp were her apartments that if the furniture was not wiped for a few days a mildew would begin to appear.

She wrote imploringly to the French ambassador, asking that she might be removed from the odious Tutbury—the worst of all her prisons; and he promised that he would endeavor to persuade Elizabeth to grant her request.

THERE WAS DANCING in Mary’s apartment. The bride and groom radiated such joy that the whole room seemed illumined with their happiness.

Mary could no longer dance but she could play the lute, and as she sat watching Barbara and Gilbert lead the dance while others joined in behind them, she noticed Jacques standing somewhat sullenly by, and Bessie with him . . . neither of them looking very pleased.

Was Bessie jealous of her affection for Barbara?

Mary sighed. So there must be intrigues even among her friends.

“Jacques,” she called sharply. “You must join the dance. And look you. Bessie is not dancing either. Both of you, dance at once. You dance so well together.”

They obeyed her and as she watched she tried to forget the pain in her limbs, the hopelessness of her cause; she tried to feel young and gay again with Gilbert and Barbara, Jacques and Bessie.

Sir Amyas came into the apartment, walking slowly because he was not unaffected by the discomforts of Tutbury. He looked with distaste at the scene of revelry. He hoped that the Queen was not attempting to convert Protestant Barbara to her Catholic ways because Barbara, flushed and excited, was behaving in a manner which he considered to be incompatible with her religion. Sir Amyas would have liked to see the marriage celebrated in a solemn and dignified way.

“Sit beside me, Sir Amyas,” said Mary cordially. “Have you come to wish the bride and bridegroom well?”

“I have come to tell Your Majesty that I have had word from the Queen,” he replied. “She grants her permission for you to leave Tutbury for Chartley Castle.”

Mary clasped her hands together in delight.

“Oh, what a happy day this is!” she cried. “I will have preparations made at once.” She looked around the walls of the room. “And when I leave this place,” she added vehemently, “I hope never to see it again.”

Sir Amyas, his hands folded in his lap, stared bleakly at the dancers.

Mary was unaware of him; hope, which was never far from her thoughts, came springing back. Let me leave Tutbury, she thought, this place of evil omen; let me enjoy a little comfort, and I shall be young again.

Who knew . . . perhaps she would be restored to her throne, perhaps she would hold her son in her arms; perhaps she would send for Seton. Perhaps the days of sorrow were over.

She was past forty but that was not so very old. She only felt so because she was in constant pain, and the pain was caused by the conditions in which she was forced to live.

The future had grown suddenly bright on that day when Barbara Mowbray married Gilbert Curle.