The Captive Queen of Scots

V Bolton

GREAT WERE MARY’S MISGIVINGS when she first saw Bolton Castle. Set in beautiful Wensleydale in the North Riding of Yorkshire, it was indeed a fortress; and she was not surprised that Knollys had remarked that it was the highest walled castle he had ever seen.

It had been three days ago that, most reluctantly, she had left Carlisle. How happily she would have done so had she been going south to the Court of the Queen of England! But she knew the reason for this move. She was going farther away from Scotland, out of reach of those loyal lairds who were planning how to set up her standard again and bring her back to her own.

Lord Fleming had returned to Carlisle before she left; Elizabeth had refused to grant him a safe conduct to France, but Mary had been right when she had believed that George Douglas would not be denied one. George was allowed to go, ostensibly to make his home there and to see that heiress to whom he had been affianced. Lord Fleming had now gone back to Scotland, his object being to visit Dumbarton first—that loyal stronghold—and then join forces with Argyle and Huntley.

Before she left Carlisle Mary sent certain of her followers back to Scotland, among them the energetic Lord Claud Hamilton, for she realized that if she were to be a prisoner in England, these faithful friends could be of greater service to her cause in Scotland where she knew that men were rallying every day to Huntley’s banner.

So it was a depleted party which set out from Carlisle. Willie Douglas rode near Mary’s litter and threatened to draw that enormous sword if any tried to shift him. Now that George had gone he whispered that he was taking over Geordie’s duties as well as his own, and she had no need to fear as the Douglases were with her.

She was grateful to Willie, because he never failed to make her smile, and it was so much easier to reconcile herself to her fate when she could do that.

The journey from Carlisle had taken two days and nights, the first night being spent at Lowther Castle where she had been treated with respect and sympathy—for which she was grateful—by the entire Lowther family; she had spent the next night at Wharton, and the following day reached Bolton Castle having come twenty miles south from Carlisle.

The castle was built around a great court and, standing as it did on a hill, gave the occupants wonderful views of the surrounding country, which at this time of the year was startlingly beautiful.

Waiting to greet Mary was Lady Scrope, and this was a great pleasure because Mary had taken a liking to her when they had met at Carlisle; moreover this lady was the sister of the Duke of Norfolk who, during his interview with Mary, had managed to convey to her, amid his gallantries, his desire to help her.

“It is a pleasure to meet you again,” said Mary.

Lady Scrope made a deep curtsy and expressed herself honored to have the pleasure of entertaining Her Majesty of Scotland.

She led the way into the castle which Mary noticed was sparsely furnished; and it was clear to Mary that her hostess was a little concerned for her guest’s comfort.

Mary tried to set her at ease by telling her how pleased she was to find a friend waiting to greet her.

Lady Scrope gave her a look which implied that she was gratified to be called such, and Mary’s spirits rose. Friends were of more importance to her than fine tapestries.

On their way to the apartments which had been prepared for the Queen in the southwest of the building Lady Scrope showed her the great clock, of which the family were very proud, for it not only told the time but also the movements of the sun and moon, and day of the week. She explained also how the chimneys were tunnels in the sides of the walls, thus during the cold weather the chill was taken from the apartments.

Mary listened with interest and all the time she was thinking: Lady Scrope will be a go-between for myself and the Duke of Norfolk. How sincerely did he mean those veiled promises to help me, when I saw him at Carlisle?

THERE WAS MORE FREEDOM to be enjoyed at Bolton Castle; and providing she was surrounded by those whose duty it was to guard her, Mary was able to hunt in that exhilarating countryside. Her appetite increased and it was clear to all that her health had improved since she had come to Bolton.

English manners, although less courteous than the French, were nevertheless gracious when compared with those she had experienced in Scotland. All those who were in truth her jailors seemed determined to show her that they were not, wishing her to believe that they guarded her solely for her own protection and not to prevent her escaping to Scotland or receiving enemies of their own Queen.

Sir George Bowes, who had arrived at Carlisle in order to escort her to Bolton, accompanied by a hundred armed horsemen, expressed the greatest sympathy for her and, when he saw how inadequate was the furniture in her apartments, he immediately sent to his own house for bedding and hangings that they might be set up in Bolton for the Queen’s use. Never once did he imply that he was guarding her for the Queen of England and her ministers; and Mary, whose great misfortune was her too trusting nature, could easily forget that she must be continually on her guard against her jailors.

It was a different matter with Lady Scrope. She was pregnant and, liking to rest often, she would sit with the Queen in her apartments overlooking those glorious hills and dales, and they would talk together; and Margaret Scrope would always seek to lead the conversation to her brother, the Duke of Norfolk.

“He mentions you constantly when we meet or in his letters,” she told Mary. “He is so anxious that you should be well treated and delighted that you have now come to Bolton.”

“How pleasant it is to know that I have friends in England,” answered Mary.

Margaret would bring out the tapestry which Mary loved to work, and as their fingers were busy, so were their tongues.

“Thomas believes that you should not put too much trust in Secretary Cecil,” Margaret told Mary.

“I am sure he is right.”

“The Queen is apt to be guided by her ministers, particularly Cecil and Leicester. She is very vain and imagines that they are all in love with her. It is Your Majesty’s reputation as a beauty that makes her so interested in you.”

Mary told of the tattered garments Elizabeth had sent her. “Master Knollys said they were for my maids, but I do believe she meant them for me.”

Margaret looked over her shoulder. “She, in her rich satins and velvets ablaze with jewels listening to the flattery of the courtiers, likes to believe herself the most beautiful woman in the world! She knows this is not so and wants to make sure you do not have the advantage of wearing becoming garments.”

“Is she indeed so petty?”

Margaret, plying her needle, nodded; and Mary remembered that Elizabeth was royal and that it was not becoming in one Queen to tattle of another so she changed the subject to Margaret’s brother. Would he be coming to Bolton?

“Who can say? I’ll dare swear the Queen will not wish him to, while you are here. I believe he must have spoken admiringly of you.” Margaret laughed and rethreaded her needle. “Thomas is a handsome man,” she went on with sisterly affection. “It is a pity that he is a widower, for he was such a good husband to his three wives. How sad that death should have claimed them all and so soon!”

Margaret Scrope did not look at the Queen. She was thinking: Thomas married three heiresses; why should there not be a fourth? This heiress was a most romantic one. He would have to fight to reinstate her and that might mean rebellion, but Thomas had already quarreled with Leicester and was resentful of those men with whom Elizabeth surrounded herself and on whom she conferred favors. Nor could Elizabeth afford to ignore him, because he was the premier peer and one of the richest men in England. Cecil did not like him, nor he Cecil. As for Mary, she was not only Queen of Scotland but, if Elizabeth should not marry and have an heir, Mary was next in succession to the throne of England.

Margaret felt dizzy with ambitions on behalf of her brother and she regarded it as great good fortune that the Queen of Scotland had come to Bolton.

Mary was thoughtful. He had married three times, and so had she. But how different his marriages must have been from hers! If Lady Scrope could be believed her brother’s matrimonial life had been one of continual bliss. Mary felt a little envious as she listened to Margaret Scrope’s eulogies of her brother, and because she looked a little wistful Margaret said: “Your Majesty, one day you will marry again. You will regain your throne, and then you will live in serenity.”

“Sometimes I think that the serene life is not for me.”

“It would be,” Margaret assured her, “if you married the man who could give you it.”

The seed was sown. Mary’s interest in Thomas Howard was growing, and when they sat together, or walked about the castle, Margaret Scrope talked so often of her brother that Mary felt she knew him, and was growing fond of him.

She missed George Douglas. The passionate days and nights spent with Bothwell were so far away that they seemed like dreams.

She was a woman who needed love.

NEWS WAS SMUGGLED to her from France. It was easier now to receive such letters, for she had a strong ally in the castle—the mistress of the house herself.

George Douglas wrote that he had not been negligent in her service. He had been received by the Cardinal of Lorraine and the King of France, who assured her of their love. He had raised a thousand men who were armed and in training, waiting for the day when she should send for them.

Mary kissed the letter. “Dear George,” she murmured, “but I sent you to France to make your fortune, to marry your heiress and live happily there!”

There was also news from Scotland. Huntley and Argyle had ten thousand men assembled, waiting for orders to make an attack on Moray. Fleming was working zealously on her behalf. The Hamiltons were gathering in strength.

Moray must sleep very uneasily these nights.

Hope was high in Bolton Castle during those lovely summer days, and Mary’s health and spirits were at their peak. She was gracious and friendly to familiarity with all who served her. Her guards were susceptible to her charm, and Bolton Castle during those weeks could not have been less like a prison.

Then to crown her pleasure Lord Herries arrived back from London.

Mary embraced him when he came to her apartments. He was decidedly pleased and she guessed that he brought good news.

“You have seen the Queen?” she asked eagerly.

“Yes, Your Majesty, and talked long with her.”

“And what news do you bring?”

“That if Your Majesty will commit your cause to be heard by her order, not as your judge, but as your dear cousin and friend, and to commit yourself to her advice and counsel, she will see that you are once more set upon your regal seat.”

Mary clasped her hands with pleasure.

“It seems that she is aware of our relationship, and is indeed my friend. What plans does she set forth in this matter?”

“She will send for certain of your enemies and, before noblemen of England—who shall be chosen with your approval—they shall explain why they have deposed you. If they can give some reason for this, she will reinstate you, but there will be a condition that they are not deprived of their estates. If on the other hand they should not be able to give a reason, she promises to restore you by force of arms if they should resist.”

“But this is the best news I have heard since I left Scotland.”

“There is one other condition. If she helps you to regain the throne of Scotland, you must renounce any claim to the throne of England during her lifetime or that of any issue she may have.”

“I never wished to claim the throne of England,” said Mary. “It is true the title ‘Queen of England’ was bestowed on me in France, but that was not my wish.”

“There is something else. You must break your league with France and enter into league with England; you must abandon the Mass in Scotland and receive the Common Prayer after the manner of England.”

Mary was silent. “I am not anxious to interfere with the religion of my people.”

Herries said: “It seems that at last the Queen of England is ready to help you. It would be possible to receive the Common Prayer and allow those who wished to celebrate Mass privately to do so.”

Mary still hesitated.

“She could put Your Majesty on your throne more easily than any other. She could doubtless do it without bloodshed. Moray would never dare stand against the English. The French have to come from overseas and it is not easy to make a landing in a foreign country. But the English are on our Border. Moray would never dare risk a war with England and a civil war at the same time. He would be crushed between two strong forces and could do nothing to help himself.”

“I have always believed in negotiation around the council table rather than battle. But . . . George Douglas is raising men for me in France. He already has a force of a thousand armed men in training. That is but a beginning, I am assured. And you say the Queen of England declares that I must not accept help from France.”

Herries assured her that this was so. He had been deceived by the Queen of England who was one of the wiliest rulers of her day. She had made it her business to know a great deal about Herries. He was one of the most loyal of Mary’s adherents. Elizabeth knew that, because Leicester had sought to win him to Moray’s cause, while he was in London, with promises of great honors to come, and Herries had not even treated Leicester’s overtures seriously. A sentimental man, thought the Queen of England; she admired him for his loyalty and wished that he were a subject of hers. At the same time she knew how best to deal with such a man. So, when he had been brought to her, he had met a woman, completely feminine, deeply sympathetic to her dear cousin of Scotland, a little emotional and anxious to do what was right. She fervently hoped, she had told him, that the Queen of Scotland’s innocence would be established; she wished more than anything to receive her dear sister and cousin, to comfort her, to talk with her in private. But her ministers were in some way her masters. They were jealous of her reputation. They insisted that Mary’s innocence must be proved before she was received by their Queen.

Herries was as completely duped as she had intended him to be, so now he told Mary: “The Queen of England sincerely hopes to prove your innocence. She has assured me that she is on your side.”

“Yet,” said Mary, “I am a Queen even as she is, and it is not for her to sit in judgment over me.”

“She does not wish to. She only wishes to show her ministers that these evil rumors which have been circulating about you are without foundation.”

“Tell me how you were received by her. I would hear everything.”

So Herries told of how he had waited for an audience—waited and waited—and later realized that it was her ministers who had made it impossible for him to see her. But when he did so, she had convinced him of her love for the Queen of Scots. “She is my kinswoman, my lord,” she had said. “And do you think that I, a Queen, wish to see another Queen treated so disrespectfully by her subjects? Nay, I wish to restore to her all that he has lost; and I swear that once her innocence is proved, no matter what any man say, she will find me her firm friend.”

Mary smiled. She was picturing that meeting. Her cousin whom she had never seen, but who she knew was red haired, occasionally arrogant, sometimes gay, at times frivolous, loving to dance and be flattered, holding her little court of favorites to whom she liked to give the impression that they could become her lovers, seemed a very human person.

Mary endowed Elizabeth with the more pleasing characteristics which were her own—generosity, impetuosity, eagerness to help those in distress.

Thus she made one of the most ruinous mistakes of her life when she said: “I will write to George and tell him to disband his men; I will tell Argyle, Huntley and Fleming the same. I will put my trust in Elizabeth and do as she suggests.”

NO SOONER HAD MARY agreed to fall in with Elizabeth’s wishes than misgivings beset her.

She heard of George Douglas’s bitter disappointment whet he was forced to disperse his little army. Argyle, Huntley and Fleming were shocked beyond expression, but there was nothing they could do since the Queen ordered them to disband their forces. In the decision of a moment Mary had destroyed all that her friends had been carefully building up since the defeat at Langside. She was no match for her wily enemies.

She had written to Elizabeth telling her that as she had given her consent to the plan, she believed she should have Elizabeth’s own agreement in writing. She was sure the Queen would instruct Secretary Cecil to write to her confirming the offer which Herries had delivered orally.

Each day she waited for the Queen’s reply; but none came; yet she heard that Moray and Morton were preparing the case against her, and that it was accepted that she had agreed to have her case tried in England.

Sometimes she cried out in anger: “Who are these people to judge me? I will answer to one judge only and that judge is God, before whom I shall not be afraid to stand and declare my innocence.”

But it was too late to protest. Copies of the casket letters had already been translated, and Moray and Morton, in collusion with Cecil and his friends, were building the case against her.

Her friends in Scotland deplored this state of affairs. There was a little brightness in the immediate future however. Although she never went out unless accompanied by guards, and although the castle gates were carefully locked at night, Scotsmen were still allowed to come and go; and this meant that news could be brought to her from the world outside Bolton Castle.

While Herries walked with Mary in the grounds one day he said: “I think we have been too trusting.”

Mary nodded. “No word from Elizabeth. Do you think her ministers are preventing her from putting in writing what she told you?”

Herries was thoughtful. It was difficult to imagine the woman he had seen, taking orders from her ministers. She had appeared to him in the role of compassionate friend of his mistress, but he could not forget the demeanor of her courtiers, the docile manner in which they—and her foremost ministers—never failed to speak to her, as though she were a goddess. Could such a woman be waiting on the word of ministers who were so clearly preoccupied in discovering new ways of flattering her and winning her approval? Herries had begun to wonder whether he had been duped by the English Queen.

In any case while Mary was in England she was to a great extent at the mercy of Elizabeth; and knowing that ten thousand Scotsmen had rallied to Huntley’s banner, and that Frenchmen had been ready to come to her defense, he had been considering that if Mary were in Scotland she might have a better chance of bargaining with Elizabeth.

That was why he was thoughtful now. A scheme had been put before him. It was simple as he believed all good schemes should be. What could have been more simple than the escape from Lochleven? It could work.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I and others of your friends begin to think that we could more likely win Elizabeth’s help if you were not her prisoner. And let us face it—although she calls you her guest, you are in fact her prisoner.”

“You mean, if I were back in Scotland it would be easier to bargain with her.”

“I believe that to be so now, Your Majesty.”

“What would happen if I told Knollys and Scrope that I intended to return?”

“Your Majesty would be very politely and courteously prevented from doing so. That in itself should make us realize how necessary it is for you to return.”

“I see that you are as disturbed as I am because the Queen of England has not put her offer to me in writing, and has announced my willingness to have my case judged in England, without making it known what concessions she promised if I should do so. Oh yes, my dear Lord Herries, you are right, as you so often have been in all this wearisome business.”

“I fear I put too much trust in the Queen of England.”

Mary laid her hand on his arm. She understood how he had done that; she herself had been failing all along by putting her trust in those of whom he should have been wary. It was not in her nature to reprove others for faults which she herself possessed in greater measure. Nor would she have blamed any who made mistakes, if their intentions were good.

“So Your Majesty will perhaps listen to a plan for your escape,” went on Herries quietly.

“With pleasure,” she answered.

“Your servant, the Laird of Fernyhirst, has suggested that if you could cross the Border his castle would be at your disposal. Everything is being prepared to receive you there . . . providing you could leave Bolton Castle.”

Mary’s eyes began to sparkle. The thought of action after so much inactivity was inviting. Moreover she was weary of having to make continual requests to the Queen of England, who either ignored them or made promises which it seemed she was reluctant to keep. That box of worn-out shoes and rusty black velvet was not easily forgotten.

“How could I leave Bolton Castle?”

“Only after dark.”

“But there are guards at the doors.”

“The only way to escape would be through one of the windows of your apartments. If you could slip through the coppices, and down the hill, we could arrange for horses to be waiting there; and then . . . we are not so many miles from the Border.”

“Then let it be done,” cried Mary impulsively.

“There must be few in the secret, and few to go with you. Perhaps Mary Seton . . . Willie Douglas . . . myself . . . For a number of us to leave might mean our betrayal. Others could follow you once you were safely away. I am sure there would be no wish to detain them after you had gone.”

“Then let us decide how it shall be done.”

“First we will stroll around the castle to that window of your apartments which looks down on the grounds.”

They did this and, without appearing to pay much attention, carefully noticed the distance from window to grass below.

“You see,” said Herries, “it would be possible, once you reached the ground, to slip out through the coppices and if the horses were in readiness at the bottom of the hill you would be away in a matter of five or ten minutes.”

“What of the guards, and Scrope and Knollys?”

“They will be fast asleep in the ante-rooms. They will not think it possible for anyone to descend through that window. As long as the affair is conducted quietly you could be almost at the Border before the alarm is given.”

“Willie Douglas will doubtless have ideas of how this can be accomplished.”

“I had thought to enlist his help, Your Majesty. In spite of his achievement at Lochleven he is not taken seriously here; which is doubtless what he intends in order to be ready for an occasion like this. He is a smart young fellow. Strutting about with his sword, showing that disrespect for people in high places, amuses everyone. Yes, Willie can help in this. I thought of sending him away to procure the horses. He is less likely to be missed than anyone else for, as Your Majesty knows, he sometimes goes off into the country and stays away for hours. We will send him off to find horses immediately.”

“Immediately?”

“Why not, Your Majesty? Fernyhirst is ready and waiting. As soon as you are safely in his castle he will send word to Huntley and the rest. I do not think that we shall then have to concern ourselves greatly about the conscience of the Queen of England.”

“I will take Seton with me,” said Mary.

“But no other maid. The entire success of this venture depends on its simplicity.”

“And you will be waiting for me with Willie and the horses.”

“I . . . or Livingstone . . . or one of us who can most easily be there. It matters not as long as you are away. You must make for the North without delay.”

Silently they continued their walk. Each was thinking of the plan.

It was so simple, they were sure they would succeed.

THE QUEEN HAD RETIRED for the night, and her faithful women who shared her chamber were alert. Mary did not undress. Instead she helped Jane and Marie who were knotting sheets together. They did not speak, for each knew the importance of making this appear to be like any other night the Queen had spent in Bolton Castle. In the next room Scrope and several of his men were sleeping. The low murmur of voices which had reached the waiting women had now ceased, and this meant that the moment had come, for the earlier the escape could be made the more time there would be for putting distance between the fugitive and Bolton Castle.

The window was high in the thick wall and a stool was silently brought so that the Queen could stand on it to climb to the scooped out aperture. Marie Courcelles firmly tied the knotted sheet about Mary’s waist. Jane Kennedy tested it and nodded.

Then the escape began. Mary reached the window and peering down saw a dark figure below. Herries? She said nothing, but as silently as possible clambered out of the window.

Behind her the sheet was held firmly by her waiting women; then she was swinging in mid-air, only her skirts protecting her from the rough castle wall as she was lowered.

She was seized in a strong pair of arms and with a rush of triumph, felt her feet touch ground.

Hastily she untied the sheet about her waist. There was no time for more. Then she and her companions were running toward the coppices, down the slope to where Willie was waiting with the horses.

Willie grinned at her and helped her into the saddle. She felt a great joy surge over her as she whispered to her horse: “Away!” And the gallop through the soft night air began.

As they started off she thought she heard a shout from the castle; then there was silence.

She heard Willie’s chuckle beside her and for a few moments there was no sound other than that of the thudding of horses’ hoofs.

IT WAS SETON’S TURN to follow. She knew that she had to catch up with the others, for the plan was that there was to be no waiting; and as soon as Mary reached the horses she was to mount and ride away.

“Quickly!” cried Seton. The knotted sheet were hauled up, but as this was done one of the women fell backwards, and in her fall, taking the stool with her, went crashing to the floor.

There were a few seconds of shocked silence as she lay there. Then Seton said: “Hurry. There is no time to lose.” Marie Courcelles was tying the sheets about Seton’s waist, when the door opened and Lord Scrope stood on the threshold of the room.

He took it all in at a glance: The knotted sheets and Seton preparing to descend through the window. Then his dismay was apparent, for he had noticed the absence of the Queen.

He said nothing, though he must have guessed that had he come in a few minutes earlier he would have caught the Queen in the act of escaping.

He went back to the ante-room, and the frightened women heard his shouted orders.

MARY LOOKED over her shoulder.

Where was Seton? She should have been close to them by now, because it took only a few moments to descend from the window.

Willie shouted: “She’ll catch us up. If not in England, in bonny Scotland. We’ll almost be there by morning.” They thundered on; but when they had ridden some two miles there was still no sign of Seton; but the night was dark, Mary told herself, and it might well be that Seton was not far behind.

They had reached a gap in the hills and, as they were about to pass through this, a horse and rider confronted them.

Mary thought: Seton! Then she must have come by another road to the gap.

But almost at once she saw that it was not Seton.

Lord Scrope said: “Well met, Your Majesty. Had you told me you wished to take a midnight ride, I should have arranged for a suitable escort to accompany you.”

Mary was speechless with dismay. She heard Willie let out an oath.

“And,” said Lord Scrope, “your descent from your window must have been very uncomfortable.” He laid his hand on her arm. “It shall be my pleasure now to escort you back to the castle.”

Mary had rarely felt so mortified. Her companions said nothing as the three of them, surrounded by the guards whom Scrope had brought with him, were conducted back to the castle.

SCROPE DID NOT retire to his bed on returning to the castle. He went to Knollys’ bedchamber and, awakening him, told him how he had prevented the Queen’s escape.

Knollys started up from his bed in consternation.

“You may well look alarmed,” said Scrope grimly. “If this plan had succeeded—as it so nearly did—it could have cost us our heads.”

He hastily explained what had happened. He had had an intuition that all was not normal in the women’s chamber and consequently he had not dropped off to sleep quickly, as he usually did. He had thought the women were whispering together and this was followed by a too sudden and unnatural quiet; then when he had heard a stool overturned and gone to investigate he had discovered the knotted sheets and that the Queen was missing.

Knollys congratulated him on his speedy action.

“I can tell you,” said Scrope, wiping his brow at the memory, “I had some uneasy moments.”

“What have you done now?”

“Posted guards at the door of the Queen’s chamber and others below her window. In future we shall have to make sure that she is guarded in every possible way. I cannot imagine what will be said when our Queen knows of this.”

“It is my belief that she will take the Queen of Scots from our care and place her in the custody of someone else.”

“I have heard Tutbury mentioned in this connection, and that would doubtless mean that she would pass into Shrewsbury’s care. He would be more than welcome to her.”

“What do you propose to do?”

“Write to Secretary Cecil without delay. He has asked for a full account of all that happens here. He must be told of this attempt. It clearly indicates that some action must be taken sooner or later, because there will be other attempts to free her.”

There was a knock at the door at that moment and, to the astonishment of both men when Knollys called “Come in,” Lady Scrope entered.

She had wrapped a loose gown about her and had clearly come straight from her bed.

She cried: “What is this? I was awakened by the commotion, and now I am told that the Queen almost escaped.”

“That is so,” her husband replied. “And you should return to your bed. You will catch cold. Remember your condition.”

“I am not cold,” answered Lady Scrope, “and as our child is not expected until the end of the year you need have no qualms about my condition. But I have qualms on another matter. Tell me what measures are you going to take?”

Knollys said: “Pray sit down, Lady Scrope.” And Scrope brought a stool for his wife, who sat down near the bed.

“We are doubling the guard of course,” her husband told her.

“But you must not let it be known that she almost eluded you!”

“My dear,” began Lord Scrope indulgently, “you do not understand . . . .”

“Do not understand Elizabeth!” she cried.

Both men looked uneasily toward the door, and Lady Scrope acknowledged their furtive glances by lowering her voice. “What do you think Her Majesty will say when and if she hears of this night’s doings?” she went on. “Two members of her Privy Council, and as many men as they care to employ, to guard one woman—and they almost fail! Do you think she will say ‘Well done!’ If you do, you do not know Elizabeth. I know that if you had allowed the Queen of Scots to escape, the Tower of London might very well be your destination. As you prevented that calamity . . . but only just . . . you might avoid the Tower, but you would not win Her Majesty’s approval, I do assure you.”

Both men were silent. There was a great deal in what Lady Scrope was saying. Naturally she was agitated; she had no wish to see her husband fall into disgrace.

“This must be hushed up,” she said. “If you are wise you will certainly not write to the Queen or her ministers about what has taken place tonight. You will stop the news being spread. The fewer who know, the better. As for the extra guards you intend to put on duty, do so, but let it be done with stealth. If you value Elizabeth’s good opinion and her favor, for the love of God do not let her know that you almost failed in your duty.”

Scrope came to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “You must not allow yourself to become too excited,” he cautioned.

“I shall only recover my serenity when you tell me that you will take my advice in this matter.”

Scrope was looking at Knollys, and Margaret Scrope was clever enough to know that her words were being considered. She guessed that both men realized the wisdom of them.

“We are thinking of this matter,” Scrope told her.

And the gallant Knollys added: “And we should always consider your advice, which we know of old is sound.”

Margaret sighed. “Then I will return to my bed satisfied that at least you will consider this matter.” She rose and Scrope led her to the door. She hesitated there, and looked back at Knollys who was a little discomfited to be in his bed. “Thank you both,” she said. “I feel at ease because I know that when you consider this matter you will see that I am right.”

Back in her own room Margaret Scrope threw off her robe and lay down on her bed.

They had understood that this attempt to escape from Bolton Castle should be hushed up. That was well, for if Elizabeth decided to move Mary to Tutbury and take her out of the charge of Scrope and Knollys what chances would Lady Scrope have of furthering a match between Norfolk and the Queen of Scots?

That was something Lady Scrope had set her heart on; and she believed that her visit to Knollys and her husband had prevented the destruction of this cherished plan.

ALTHOUGH there was now a stronger guard at the castle, both day and night, Mary’s attempt to escape was never openly mentioned, although it was whispered about among the guards and serving men and women; and the spot where she had been intercepted by Lord Scrope became known as “The Queen’s Gap.”

The friendship between Mary and Lady Scrope was growing fast, and one day when they were stitching their tapestry together, Lady Scrope asked Mary if she had ever seriously considered the Protestant Faith.

Mary replied that she had been born a Catholic and that during her childhood and girlhood, which had been spent in France, she had been brought up among Catholics and had therefore always been led to believe that that was the true faith.

“Yet there are many good men who are Protestants, Your Majesty,” Lady Scrope reminded her.

Mary agreed that this was so. “My own Lord Herries is a Protestant; so is George Douglas. Indeed yes, I have much for which to be grateful to Protestants.”

Lady Scrope’s eyes sparkled. Her brother, the Duke of Norfolk, was a Protestant, having had John Foxe as tutor; and if there was to be a marriage between them, it would be wise if they both conformed to the same religion. Norfolk had written to his sister, suggesting that if Mary could be induced to change her religion she would find it easier to regain her throne, because one of the biggest grudges many of her Protestant subjects bore against her was that she was a Catholic.

“I could answer Your Majesty’s questions on the subject as far as I am able,” Lady Scrope continued. “I also have books which might interest you.”

Mary was enthusiastic about the project. It would be one way of occupying her mind and making her forget, temporarily, to wonder what sort of morass she was falling into, for since her attempted escape had been foiled, there could be no doubt whatever that she was Elizabeth’s prisoner.

So now those occasions when they sat over their tapestry were enlivened by discussions between Mary and Margaret Scrope; others of the ladies joined in; and soon it became known throughout Bolton Castle that the Queen was considering becoming a Protestant.

WHEN SIR FRANCIS KNOLLYS heard the rumors he was delighted. As a stern Protestant, it pleased him that the Queen should be considering conversion to what he believed to be the true religion.

He himself offered to give her instruction, and soon Mary was reading the English prayer book with him.

He was persuasive, and Mary was enjoying her lessons.

While they read together Knollys, acutely aware of her charms, thought how sad it was that she should be in her position. He would have liked to see her back on the throne; she would need a husband to help her rule, and he did not see why she should not have an English husband.

He grew excited, believing he knew the very man for the position. This was his nephew, George Carey, a handsome young man who was surely eligible because of his relationship to Queen Elizabeth. Knollys’ wife was first cousin to the Queen, and her brother, Lord Hunsdon, was the father of George Carey. It was true that the relationship came through Anne Boleyn rather than the royal house; nevertheless the ties were there.

He could not refrain from mentioning his young nephew to her, and immediately began to plan a meeting between them.

“I look upon my nephew as my own son,” he told Mary. “He will shortly be in the district and will wish to call on his uncle.”

“Naturally,” Mary agreed.

“And if he should come to Bolton Castle, have I Your Majesty’s permission to present him to you?”

“I should take it ill if you did not,” Mary told him; and Knollys was satisfied.

GEORGE CAREY KNELT before the Queen of Scots. He was young and extremely personable, and when Mary told him that she was pleased to see him, she was speaking the truth.

“I pray you be seated,” she went on. “Have you news from the English Court?”

“None, I’ll swear, that Your Majesty does not know already,” answered the young man.

“But I know so little. Tell me, is my sister and cousin in good health?”

“Her health is excellent, Your Majesty.”

“And did she, knowing you were about to visit your uncle and therefore would come to my lodging, give you any message for me?”

“She gave me none, Your Majesty.”

Mary was despondent, but only momentarily; it was such a novelty to have a visitor, and such a charming young man, who could not hide his admiration for her, was very welcome.

“Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth is displeased with Scotsmen at this time,” she went on. “I have had complaints that on the Border some have been carrying out raids on English territory. I am sorry for this, but she must realize that at this moment I am in no position to enforce my rule.”

“Her Majesty would know that, I am sure,” answered George.

“I wonder if you would be good enough to carry a message from me to the Queen?”

“I could take a message to my father who would see that it reached her.”

“Then tell him that if any border robbery has been carried out by any of my followers I could have them punished. If their names are sent to me, my friends would see that, since they injure my cause, they should be suitably dealt with. But if they belong to my enemies—which I think certain—it is beyond my power to prevent their ill conduct.” She went on confidingly: “You will have heard talk of me.”

“I have, Your Majesty.”

“And much that is ill has been said of me, I’ll swear.”

George flushed slightly and then said vehemently: “I would never again believe aught against Your Majesty.”

She smiled ruefully. He had told her so much in that remark; she guessed that gossip, concerning Darnley’s murder and her hasty marriage to Bothwell, was rife and that the scandal touching herself was boundless.

“Ah,” she said, “it is sad when evil stories are spread regarding a lonely woman who has no means of defending herself.”

“I shall assure all I meet of your innocence,” he told her.

“Which has not been proved to you,” she reminded him.

“But it has, Your Majesty. Ever since I came into your presence I have known those tales to be false. I know that your conduct could never be aught but good and noble.”

Here was adoration similar to that which she had received from George Douglas. Her spirits were raised. George Carey would be her good friend—even as that other George had been.

She told him of her adventures since she had arrived in England. “It is August now, and it was May when I came south. I thought to go straight to Hampton Court that I might meet the Queen and lay my case before her. Alas, here I remain—the guest of the Queen of England, but in truth her prisoner.”

“If there were aught I could do . . . ” began George passionately.

“You could speak with your father who I believe has some influence with the Queen of England.”

“I will do this. And if there is aught else I can do to serve Your Majesty . . . ”

When Sir Francis Knollys asked permission to enter the Queen’s apartments and found his nephew still in her company, he was well pleased.

He could see that it had been an excellent plan on his part to bring the young man to Bolton Castle.

DURING THOSE late summer days bad news came to Bolton Castle. Rumors of Mary’s possible conversion to Protestantism had reached Moray and filled him with panic. Nothing could have caused him greater disquiet.

The Queen a Protestant! If that were indeed true, before long there would be a clamor for her return. The only reason why so many had flocked to his banner was because he was of their religion and the Queen was not.

Moray never delayed when he thought action was necessary. The greatest boon he could ask for was that Mary should remain Elizabeth’s prisoner, an exile from Scotland.

This was indeed a blow. And he must take immediate countermeasures. So the result of Mary’s brief flirtation with the Reformed Faith was that a vicious attack was made on her supporters in Scotland; and the Regent’s forces seized their lands and possessions so that those who might have rallied to Mary’s aid would not be in a position to do so for a very long time.

ALL THROUGH SEPTEMBER Mary waited to hear news of when the Conference, at which her future would be decided, was to take place.

She knew that some of her friends deplored the fact that she had allowed matters to go so far in such a direction. Seton was one who believed that the Queen of Scotland should never have put herself in such a position as to allow herself to be judged by a court set up by the Queen of England and her ministers.

How right Seton was! thought Mary. And yet, what could she do? When she had fled to England she had placed herself in Elizabeth’s power.

Lady Scrope, now far advanced in pregnancy, came to her one day with news that Elizabeth had named her Commissioners.

The Earl of Sussex was to be one, and Sir Ralph Sadler another.

Mary was horrified to hear that the latter had been appointed. Sadler had been one of Cecil’s agents, and she knew that he had long been engaged in negotiations with Moray. Cecil was her enemy and sought to keep her in England, she knew, so that Moray might hold the Regency. And this man—who was assuredly one of her most bitter enemies—had been appointed a Commissioner of the Queen!

Why therefore was Lady Scrope—who had always shown herself to be a friend—looking so pleased?

“There is one other who has been appointed with these men,” Margaret Scrope explained. “It is natural that he should be. Even the Queen must realize that he is the premier peer of England.”

A smile was slowly spreading across Mary’s face. “You mean?”

Margaret nodded. “His Grace the Duke of Norfolk is also among Elizabeth’s Commissioners, and Your Majesty may be sure that he will apply himself to your cause with all the zeal of which he is capable.”

In her relief Mary embraced her friend. Margaret smiled, well content.

She was certain that a marriage between them would not be displeasing to Mary.

NOW THAT MARY HEARD that Elizabeth’s Commissioners were chosen she decided on her own: Lord Herries should be one, and he, with Livingstone and Boyd, should be assisted by Sir John Gordon, the Laird of Lochinvar, Sir James Cockburn of Skirling and Gavin Hamilton, the Abbot of Kilwinning.

There was one other whom she was anxious to consult—the Bishop of Ross, John Lesley—and she lost no time in sending a messenger to London, where she knew he was, asking him to come to her with all speed.

Lesley arrived at Bolton Castle during early September, and as soon as she talked to him Mary realized what a grave view he took of her case.

He had been endeavoring to obtain permission from Elizabeth for the Duke of Châtelherault to come to England that he might be present at the inquiry; but Elizabeth had made continual excuses not to grant this.

Lesley shook his head sadly. “The reason being of course that she fears the appearance of one of royal blood at the hearing might sway opinion in your favor.”

“You believe then,” said Mary, “that it is the Queen of England’s desire that I should appear guilty?”

Lesley lifted his shoulders noncommittally, but he continued to look grave and Mary went on impulsively: “But this hearing of the case is being conducted that the disobedient lairds shall answer before the Queen of England’s Commissioners for their ill-treatment of me. When they have admitted their offenses, it is agreed that they shall be forgiven, and we shall all be reconciled and I regain my throne.”

But Lesley, a man of wider experience than Herries, was not so easily deceived by Elizabeth; and he did not believe in evading the truth for the Queen’s comfort.

“It was a grave mistake, I fear,” he told her, “to have allowed the English to interfere in this matter. This reconciliation which we all fervently hope will come about, should be a matter between you and Scotsmen, and should be achieved without meddling by the English. I fear Your Majesty has many enemies and they will do all within their power to defame your character.”

“Alas, I fear you are right. But I rejoice to hear from Lady Scrope that her brother, the Duke of Norfolk, has been appointed one of Elizabeth’s Commissioners. I know him to be my friend. I have had friendly messages from him, which have been delivered through Lady Scrope. And with you and my friends to represent me and yet another good friend at the head of the English Commissioners, I do not see how the verdict can fail to be in my favor.”

“Sadler will do his best for Moray against Your Majesty.”

“But it will be necessary for one of his standing to listen to a noble Duke,” replied Mary complacently.

Lesley was less confident. Sir Ralph Sadler was an able and cunning man, and he was unsure of the ability of the Duke of Norfolk to stand up against him.

However they must make the best of a bad business, and Lesley gave himself up to the task of advising the Queen.

THE CONFERENCE OPENED at York early in October when Mary’s Commissioners began by complaining, on her behalf, of those of her subjects who had conspired against her and imprisoned her in the Castle of Lochleven. They accused Moray of taking over the Regency and ruling in the name of Mary’s baby son, while he took unlawful possession of her personal effects such as her valuable jewels, as well as the arsenals of Scotland. Mary wished these rebel subjects to confess their faults and restore the throne to her.

Moray, Maitland and Morton were disturbed. The prevarication of the Queen of England made them unsure of what help they could expect from her. Moray had already sent to Elizabeth, asking whether the power to proclaim Mary guilty of murder should lie in the hands of the Commission. Unless it did so they were reluctant to make the accusation. Elizabeth replied that everything which took place at the Conference was to be made known to her and that judgment was to be given according to her orders.

Moray was at a loss to know how to proceed. He was eager not to offend Elizabeth who might object to the public accusation of murder and adultery against a Queen. Therefore his answer to Mary’s statement was that Bothwell had murdered Darnley, had raped the Queen and kept her captive at Dunbar until he had divorced his wife, and a so-called marriage had taken place between him and Mary; and that he, Moray, and the Scottish lairds had taken up arms to protect Mary from this tyrant.

Meanwhile Moray had in his possession translations of those letters which Mary was reputed to have written to Bothwell in French, and he was wondering how best he could use them.

He began by showing them privately to Norfolk, who had been appointed president of the Conference.

When Norfolk read those letters, with their suggestion of great passion and abandon, he felt more than ever attracted to the Queen of Scots. If she had written them she was a murderess and adulteress, but what an exciting wife she would be! He had seen her and he knew her to be beautiful; to him she had seemed generous and ready to be affectionate. He had not been unaware of the fire beneath the kindly exterior. Norfolk was a man of great vanity, and he believed that he would succeed with Mary where Darnley and Bothwell had failed.

If the letters were not genuine—and Mary would most certainly declare they were not—she was still the most attractive woman he had ever met, and it would be piquant to endeavor to discover the truth of what had happened in Holyrood House and Kirk o’ Field during those eventful days.

Norfolk’s desire for marriage with the Queen was intensified. He would not look too far ahead, but he was certain that she would through him regain the Scottish throne. And what of England? He was related to Elizabeth, on her mother’s side. And Elizabeth was no longer a young girl; she had not married; and there were many who said she never would. What if there were no heirs to the English throne? Mary would be next in the line of succession.

The prospect was even more dazzling after reading those erotic letters. Not only would he have a wife who could bring him a crown—perhaps two—but a voluptuous mistress skilled in the arts of love.

MAITLAND OF LETHINGTON sought out Norfolk. Maitland had his own reasons for not wishing the circumstances of Darnley’s murder to be brought into the light. Darnley had been no friend of his, for it was due to Darnley that at one time his life had been in danger; and but for Mary’s intervention he might have lost it. Mary would never forget that he was the husband of Mary Fleming—one of the four Marys who had shared her childhood—and for his wife’s sake, if not for his, she had done everything possible to save him. Therefore Darnley’s murder had been something he would not have moved a step to prevent; indeed he was strongly suspected of being in the plot to murder. Much better, thought Maitland, not to delve into the matter.

Moreover, although a shrewd statesman, he was deeply in love with his wife and he knew that she was concerned about the Queen’s plight because she was constantly imploring him to do what he could for Mary.

Maitland believed that he could serve himself best by preventing the accusation of murder being brought against the Queen; and he saw that the man who could be most useful was Norfolk.

He summed up Norfolk immediately: Vain in the extreme, arrogantly aware of his position as premier peer, eager for power, anxious to add another heiress to the three he had already married and from whose estate he had benefited.

“My lord,” said Maitland, “I have come to talk to you in secret. I believe you to be the wisest of your Queen’s Commissioners, and as you are the most highly born I am of the opinion that the plan which I shall suggest may not seem impossible of achievement.”

Norfolk was alert.

“The Queen of Scots is a young woman, who has not yet celebrated her twenty-sixth birthday. She is inclined to frivolity and needs a husband to guide her.”

“I believe you to be right,” answered Norfolk.

“I am sure that there is not another more fitted for the role than yourself.”

Norfolk could not hide his elation. That his secret ambition should be suggested by one of the most powerful Scots might have been astonishing to one less vain. But Norfolk could immediately explain to himself: But it is true. She does need a husband. And who is more suitable to be the husband of a Queen than the premier peer of England?

“The project is not distasteful to Your Grace?” asked Maitland.

“Distasteful! Indeed not. I have seen the Queen and thought her most comely. And I agree with you that she is in need of a husband to look after her. She is delightfully feminine . . . and, you say, she is inclined to frivolity . . . in urgent need of a guiding hand.”

“Let this matter remain a secret for a while,” suggested Maitland, “but I would have you know that I shall do all in my power to further it.”

Norfolk nodded. “I shall not forget your friendship,” he said a trifle pompously. “There is of course . . . Bothwell.”

“There would be no difficulty about that. A divorce could be arranged. There are many who believe that the marriage was no true marriage.”

“And the Queen?”

“Will be ready enough to rid herself of Bothwell forever at the prospect of marriage with Your Grace.”

“You believe this to be so?” Norfolk was smiling; he believed it wholeheartedly. His sister Margaret had told him frequently that Mary enjoyed talking to him, and had asked many questions about him. With Margaret to help him at Bolton, and Maitland of Lethington secretly in favor of the match, what could prevent it?

“I do indeed. I believe too that we should proceed with care in this inquiry. It would be well if the case brought against the Queen were merely her hasty and unseemly marriage with Bothwell. I do not think it would be wise to continue with this charge of murder. If the Queen’s innocence were not proved it could well be that the Scottish right to succession might be endangered, and that could of course be harmful to the Queen’s future.”

“I see that you are right in this,” replied Norfolk readily.

Maitland smiled. “We must work together in this matter, Your Grace, and, I repeat, in secret. Others may not see the great good which could come of the success of this plan.”

Norfolk smiled his agreement.

He was well pleased.

MAITLAND ’S NEXT TASK was to see Moray.

“I have sounded Norfolk on a possible marriage to your sister,” he said.

“And the young coxcomb is delighted at the prospect of being husband to a Queen?”

“That is so. And a good prospect it is, for it provides a solution to our problems. Married to Norfolk she would reside in England and it would be necessary to appoint a Deputy to take charge of matters in Scotland.”

Speculation was in Moray’s eyes.

It was a way out. He was determined to cling to his position of Regent; but he did need peace in Scotland. While the Queen was a prisoner in England there would be factions in her favor springing up throughout the length and breadth of Scotland. But if she were kept out of the way through marriage, that would be a different matter.

“It would be necessary to suppress the more vile charges against her,” said Maitland.

Moray was disappointed. He had looked forward to the wide circulation of those “casket” letters.

“Norfolk could scarcely marry a murderess, even though she is a Queen,” insisted Maitland.

Moray was thoughtful. There was a great deal in what Maitland suggested.

LADY SCROPE was beside herself with excitement. She had heard from her brother that certain of the Scottish lairds were in favor of his marriage with Mary. In that case she believed there could not fail to be success.

She was preoccupied with thoughts of the coming child; and Mary, although being with Lady Scrope reminded her poignantly of her own little James whom she had lost, threw herself wholeheartedly into the plans for the new baby.

She was with Lady Scrope in the nursery, inspecting the cradle, the clothes which were being prepared, and listening to details of preparations which were being made for the lying-in, when Margaret whispered: “Who knows, perhaps ere long Your Majesty will be making similar preparations.”

“Ah, who can say,” replied the Queen; and she thought of those months when she had been expecting James. What sad, violent months they had been! She remembered sitting at the supper table, with David Rizzio singing and paying his lute . . . and how his murderers had stormed into the room and dragged him from her side to plunge their knives into his quivering body. Poor David! And that had happened during the months of waiting for little James!

But how different it would be to wait in serenity as Margaret Scrope waited . . . thinking of nothing but the coming of the child and the possible romance of her brother and a captive Queen.

Yes, such serenity was enviable. Would it ever be her lot? she wondered. And wondering she found a yearning within her. She was weary of her loneliness. If this marriage ever came about she would welcome it.

A servant came to them and announced that Lord Herries wished to see the Queen immediately.

“It is news of the Conference,” said Mary to Margaret. And to one of the servant: “Bring him to me without delay.”

One look at Herries’ face told Mary that he was far from pleased.

“What news, my lord?” she demanded.

“It is simply this, Your Majesty. The Queen of England is not pleased with the manner in which the Conference has gone at York, and she is disbanding it. There is to be a second, which will take place next month at Westminster.”

“I see,” said Mary slowly.

“She is not pleased that those vile accusations were withheld, I fear,” said Herries.

Mary’s eyes narrowed. “If there is to be a conference at Westminster,” she said, “and accusations are to be made against me, I wish to go in person to answer them.”

Herries did not reply, but continued to look sadly at his mistress.

SIR FRANCIS KNOLLYS found the Queen taking exercise in the ground of the castle, and asked if he might join her. She gave him her gracious permission and told him that he was looking a little anxious lately.

“My wife is ill,” he said. “I am worried about her.”

Mary was immediately all concern.

“But you must go to see her. I am sure she would like to have you with her at such a time.”

“Alas, I cannot do that.”

“But . . . ” began Mary and stopped, There was a silence for a while and then Mary went on: “So your Queen refuses to allow you to leave Bolton?”

“She feels that my duty lies here at this time.”

“But that is heartless.”

Knollys was silent, and Mary lapsed into thoughts of her own. She felt that, although she was not allowed to come face-to-face with the Queen of England, that woman’s character was gradually being unfolded for her. Had she known more of Elizabeth, would she have been so eager to ignore the advice of so many of her friends and take that trip across the Solway Firth?

She was sorry for Knollys who, in addition to having this rather objectionable task thrust upon him—and she was sure it was objectionable, for he was not a natural jailor—was not allowed to visit his sick wife.

He seemed eager to change the subject, and Mary said: “Do you think that it is your Queen’s intention to have another conference?”

“Indeed yes. It is to be held at Westminster.”

“And do you think she really wishes to see me reconciled with my subjects?”

“It is Her Majesty’s desire that this should be so. Your Majesty, I pray you forgive my asking this question . . . but . . . would you consider a proposal of marriage?”

Mary was silent for a while. She immediately thought of Norfolk as he had been at Carlisle. Young, handsome, ardent, he had implied that he would be her staunch ally; and she believed he was. She was certain that the reason the conference at York had gone so much in her favor was due to him.

Knollys went on eagerly: “If a proposal came from a close relative of the Queen of England, would that be to Your Majesty’s liking?”

Mary smiled faintly. “I would not greatly mislike it,” she answered.

She did not realize that Knollys was not thinking of the same man who was in her thoughts. Both Norfolk and George Carey were related to Elizabeth through Anne Boleyn, for Lady Elizabeth Howard had been Anne’s mother; and George Carey was the son of Mary Boleyn, Anne’s sister.

Knollys was delighted with the reply. It was invigorating to plan for his family; it took his mind away from the anxieties about his wife.

When he left Mary he went to his own apartments and there wrote at once to his brother-in-law, Lord Hunsdon, and told him that Mary Queen of Scots was very favorably disposed toward his son George, and a royal marriage for George could be changed from a possibility into a certainty.

IT WAS THE 25TH NOVEMBER before the Conference was opened at Westminster. Elizabeth had refused to allow Mary to appear in person; and the atmosphere of the court was quite different from that of the one which had taken place at York, for Elizabeth intended this to be a criminal court and was determined that Mary should be tried for the murder of her husband. The Earl and Countess of Lennox, Darnley’s parent, had been begging her to see justice done, and her desire was to find a legitimate excuse to keep Mary her prisoner, to avoid meeting her, and to sustain Protestant Moray in the Office of Regency.

Elizabeth could not forget that there were many Catholics in England who did not believe she was the legitimate daughter of Henry VIII, and, if this were indeed the case, the true Queen of England would be Mary Queen of Scots. This doubt of legitimacy which had hung over Elizabeth all her life—especially so in her youth, when with sickening regularity she had been in and out of favor, never certain what was going to happen next—made her suspicious of any who might contest her right to the throne.

She would never forget that Mary had called herself the Queen of England while she was in France. That was reason enough in Elizabeth’s opinion to send her to the scaffold. Elizabeth could not however send her to the scaffold . . . yet; but he could hold her prisoner. That was what she determined to do.

Therefore she would intimate to Moray, who dared not disobey her, that every means at his disposal was to be used to defame the Queen of Scots. She heard most of what was going on; she had alert spies. She had those ministers to whom she playfully referred as her Eyes, her Lids, her Spirit . . . . There was her dearest Leicester whom she would always trust. There were shrewd Cecil, and Walsingham who served her so ardently that he had a spy system, which he maintained at his own expense, and it was all in order to preserve her safety.

It was not surprising therefore that she heard that two bridegrooms had been proposed for Mary Queen of Scots: George Carey and Norfolk!

She was furious, being determined that Mary should have no bridegroom. Unlike Elizabeth Mary was no virgin—all the world knew that; and Elizabeth could well believe that the lecherous creature yearned for a man. Well, she should have none; she could be as celibate as her cousin Elizabeth because this state for them both was the choice of Elizabeth.

She sent a sharp note to Hunsdon expressing her deep displeasure that he should have thought fit to scheme for marriage between his son and the Queen of Scots. She was considering whether it smacked of treason.

She sent for Norfolk, and shrewdly looking him in the eyes asked bluntly if he were planning to marry the Queen of Scots.

Norfolk was terrified. He remembered how his father, the Earl of Surrey, had lost his head for the flimsiest reason by the order of this Queen’s father. Ever since, he had determined to walk warily; and now he saw himself caught in a trap.

He promptly denied that he had any desire to marry the Queen of Scots and that he knew anything of such a plan; and if Her Majesty had heard rumors of it, then it was put about by his enemies.

“Would you not marry the Queen of Scots,” asked Elizabeth artfully, “if you knew it would tend to the tranquillity of the realm and the safety of my person?”

Norfolk, feeling he was being led to betray a desire for Mary and the marriage, replied vehemently: “Your Majesty, that woman shall never be my wife who has been your competitor, and whose husband cannot sleep in security on his pillow.”

This remark appeared to satisfy the Queen, and she dismissed Norfolk with a smile. She even allowed him to resume his presidency of the Conference.

Norfolk was in a cold sweat when he left her presence. He had decided not to dabble in dangerous affairs again. He must be careful during the Conference not to give an impression that he cherished tender feelings for Mary.

KNOLLYS WAS ALARMED. Mary sensed it. And it was not only his wife’s illness which disturbed him. Margaret Scrope had told her that he had had a sharp reprimand from the Queen because he had been too ambitious for his nephew George Carey. Knollys was afraid he was out of favor, and that could be a dangerous thing at Elizabeth’s Court.

“I have not heard recently from my brother,” went on Margaret. “I’ll warrant he is busy on your behalf at Westminster.”

Letters had been coming frequently from George Douglas in France, where he was longing to gather together another army for Mary’s defense.

She thought of him tenderly and often wished that he were with her. But she was glad that he was in France. There he would be leading a more normal life than he could in captivity with her; and she knew that her uncles would make it a point of honor that he was given every chance.

She wished that she could do the same for Willie. Then an idea occurred to her.

She sent for the boy.

He came into her apartment still wearing the sword which no longer looked quite so incongruous as it had when they had escaped across the Solway Firth, because Willie had grown considerably in the last months.

“Willie,” she said, “you are no longer a boy.”

Willie gave his grin. “I’m glad Your Majesty recognizes the fact,” he said.

“And I have a mission for you.”

She saw the pleasure leap into his eyes.

“A dangerous mission,” she went on, “but I trust you to complete it.”

“Oh ay,” said Willie.

“You are going to France, taking letters from me to George and my uncles.”

Willie’s eyes sparkled.

“First it will be necessary for you to obtain a safe conduct from London. So you must make your way there. Send word to me through the Bishop of Ross when you have received it. Then I shall know that you will shortly be in France. And I shall wish to hear from you and George that you are together.”

“And am I to bring back letters to Your Majesty?”

“We shall see. First go to George. He will give you your instructions.”

“We’ll get an army together,” cried Willie. “Ye’ll see. We’ll come and win England from the redheaded bastard and give it to Your Majesty.”

“Hush, Willie. And pray do not speak of a royal person in such a manner in my hearing.”

“No, Your Majesty, but that won’t alter my thoughts. When do I start?”

“I leave it to you, Willie.”

She knew it would be soon. She saw the desire for action in his face.

He left next day. She watched him set out, and she felt very sad.

“Yet another friend has gone,” she said to Seton.

“If it saddens Your Majesty to lose him, why let him go?”

“I think of his future, Seton. What future is there for any of us . . . in this prison?”

“But we shall be back in Scotland one day.”

“Do you think so, Seton?” She sighed. “If you are right, the first thing I shall do is send for George and Willie and try to recompense them in some measure for all they did for me. In the meantime, I like to think of them . . . over there . . . making their way in the world. Because there must be one prisoner, that does not mean there have to be hundreds.”

Seton was silent, thinking: She is melancholy today. She is wondering what is happening at the Conference. Knollys’ depression affects her.

She looked out of the window and saw that the snow had begun to fall.

THIS WAS A SPECIAL DAY. Twenty-six years before, in the Palace of Linlithgow, a baby had been born. That baby was Mary, Queen of Scotland and the Isles.

Mary opened her eyes to see her women around her bed, all come to wish her a happy birthday; she embraced them one by one.

They had presents for her which delighted her—little pieces of embroidery mostly, which they had managed to hide from her until this morning.

There were tears in her eyes as she cried: “The best gift you can give me is your presence here.”

But it was a birthday, even though it must be spent far from home in a castle which was a prison. For today, thought Mary, she would forget everything else but the fact that this was her birthday. They would be merry.

They would have a feast. Was that possible? She was sure her cook could contrive something; they would invite everyone in the castle. They would all wear their best gowns and, although she had no jewels to wear, Seton should dress her hair as she never had before. They would dance to the music of the lute, and they would forget that they were in Bolton and imagine they were dancing in those apartments which in Holyrood House had been known as Little France.

So the happy day progressed. It was too cold to go out, and a great fire was built up to warm the apartments. Everyone in the castle was eager to celebrate the birthday, and there was an air of excitement from the cellars to the turrets.

Seton dressed her mistress’s hair by the light of candles, and the face which looked back at Mary from the burnished metal mirror seemed as young and carefree as it had before the days of her captivity had begun.

It was her duty, Mary told herself, to throw off gloom, to forget her exile from her own country, that little Jamie was being kept from her, that in London a Conference was being held and perhaps the most evil charges were being brought against her.

The meal was prepared; she heard the laughing voices of her servants as they scurried to and fro; she smelled the savory smells of cooking meats.

And when the table was set in her apartments the whole household assembled there, and she received them like a Queen in her own Palace.

She sat at the center of the table and Knollys insisted on handing her her napkin; Lord Scrope and Margaret looked on with pleasure.

Margaret was getting uncomfortably near her time, and her husband was anxious that she should not tire herself, but she declared she was happy to be there; and when the meal was over, she sat with the lute players and watched the Queen lead the others in the dance.

Mary, flushed with the dancing, her chestnut hair a little ruffled with the exertion, seemed like a very young girl in her excitement.

Knollys watching her thought: How easy it is for her to forget. She was meant to be joyous. When will this weary business end?

It was while they were dancing that messengers from Elizabeth, delayed until now by the bad weather, arrived bringing letters for the jailors of the Queen of Scotland.

Knollys and Scrope went down to receive them. Knollys was startled when he read the letter which was addressed to him; he could only read it again, hoping he had been mistaken.

Elizabeth was displeased with Mary’s jailors. They had shown too much leniency toward their prisoner; and had indulged in schemes for her marriage. Elizabeth therefore proposed to deprive them of their duties, and they were to prepare to conduct the Queen of Scots to Tutbury Castle, where the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury would be her new keepers.

“Tutbury!” he murmured. And he thought of that bleak Staffordshire castle which was one of the most comfortless places he had ever seen, lacking the chimney tunnels which were a feature of Bolton Castle and which had helped so much to make the large apartments bearable during this bitterly cold weather.

Knollys was filled with pity for the Queen of Scots who was so surely at the mercy of the Queen of England; he was even sorrier for himself. He had offended Elizabeth, and who could know where that would end! How could he have guessed that she would have taken such a view of his attempt to marry his nephew to Mary? George Carey was a kinsman of hers, and she had always favored her relations—particularly those on her mother’s side, for those on her father’s might imagine they had more right to the throne than she had.

There was a postscript to the letter. He was not to leave Bolton until he did so with the Queen of Scots. It would be his duty to conduct her to Tutbury and place her in the hands of the Shrewsburys.

He thought of Catherine, his wife, who was so sick and asking for him.

He let the letter drop from his hands and sat staring ahead of him; then he noticed that Scrope was as agitated as he was himself.

He tried to thrust aside his personal grief and said: “But Tutbury . . . in this weather! We could not travel there while the blizzards last. It is too dangerous.”

“Tutbury . . . ” said Scrope as though repeating a lesson.

“Yes, I suppose she tells you what she tells me . . . that we are to be relieved of this task, and that it is to be handed to the Shrewsburys?”

“Yes,” said Scrope as though dazed, “she tells me that. But . . . how can I move her? How could she go now?”

“We shall have to wait until the weather has improved a little,” said Knollys. “She will be reluctant. Remember how difficult it was to remove her from Carlisle.”

“I was thinking of Margaret . . . .”

“Margaret!”

Scrope tapped Elizabeth’s letter. “The Queen orders that Margaret is to leave Bolton without delay. She expects to hear that she has gone before Christmas.”

“But in her condition!”

Anger blazed in Scrope’s eye. “She suspects Margaret of meddling to make a match between the Queen of Scots and Norfolk; therefore she says, pregnant or no, Margaret is to leave Bolton without delay.”

“But where . . . ” began Knollys.

Scrope spread his hands in desperation. “I do not know. I cannot think. But unless I am to displease the Queen still further I must set about finding a lodging for Margaret without delay.”

Outside the wind howled. Knollys was thinking of his wife, who was dangerously ill and asking for him; Scrope was thinking of his, who would very shortly bear their child. Elizabeth was telling them that their personal affairs must not be put before their duty to her. Not that they needed to be reminded of how implacable could be the wrath of a Tudor!

They did not return to the birthday party.

Knollys said quietly: “There is no need to tell her tonight that she is to be moved to Tutbury. Tomorrow will suffice.”

“TUTBURY!” cried Mary, looking from Scrope to Knollys. “I cannot go to Tutbury in weather like this!”

“Those are our Queen’s orders,” said Scrope. Mary noticed that his expression was blank, his face gray, and she believed that he was afraid because this meant that he had failed and for this reason the charge of her was being transferred to others.

“I shall refuse,” retorted Mary. “I think there are occasions when your Queen forgets that I am the Queen of Scotland.”

Knollys looked at her dully. What did rank matter to Elizabeth! All she cared was that her desires be gratified.

“We can make the excuse of the bad weather for a while,” answered Scrope. “But we should begin to make our preparations.”

“I have heard that Tutbury is one of the bleakest places in England and that Bolton is full of comfort in comparison.”

“Doubtless much will be done to make Your Majesty comfortable.”

“I refuse to consider making the journey until the winter is over,” said the Queen.

Neither Scrope nor Knollys attempted to advise her; they were both thinking of their personal problems.

Later that day Mary discovered the reason why, when one of Lady Scrope’s attendants came to her and asked if she would go to her ladyship’s apartment as she was too unwell to come to her.

Her pains cannot have started yet, Mary thought. It is too soon.

She hurried to Lady Scrope’s bedchamber and there found her lying on her bed.

“Margaret!” cried Mary. “Is it indeed . . . ?”

“No,” said Margaret. “But I have bad news. I have displeased Elizabeth and . . . for my punishment I am to be banished from Bolton.”

“Banished! But you cannot go from here in weather like this . . . in your state.”

“Those are her orders. I am to leave at once.”

“For where?”

“We do not know. But Her Majesty insists that I am to go . . . presumably because he does not wish us to be together. She has heard of our friendship and . . . ”

Mary clenched her hands together. “Has she no pity!” she cried. And it was characteristic of her that she could feel more angry over the harsh treatment of Margaret Scrope than over any injustice that had been done to herself.

“No,” answered Margaret. “She has no pity when she feels that her subjects have worked against her. She must have learned that I have been giving you news of my brother . . . .”

“But this is monstrous. I’ll not endure it. You are to stay here, Margaret. You are to have your baby here, as you have arranged.”

Margaret put up a slim hand to touch her neck. She smiled grimly. “I am in no mind to lose my head,” she said.

“Oh Margaret, Margaret, how can she be so cruel!”

“You do not know her, if you can ask that,” replied Margaret bitterly. “But I am being foolish. I have to go.” She had suddenly become calm with the serenity of pregnant women. “I’ll swear the child will be born as easily elsewhere as here.”

“But the journey! I have heard the roads are almost impassable.”

“Still, it must be, Your Majesty.”

“Then we must say goodbye, Margaret?”

“I fear so.”

“You know I am to go to Tutbury.”

“I do. And that means that you will pass into the care of the Shrewsburys. But we shall meet again . . . soon. My brother will not forget, and one day . . . ”

Mary did not answer. She was looking at Margaret’s swollen body, and her indignation was so great that she could not trust herself to speak. She thought of all the mistakes she had made as ruler of Scotland; and she thought of wily Elizabeth who was shrewd and, if ever she found herself in a delicate situation, managed to extricate herself with the genius of a born statesman.

They accuse me of murder and adultery, thought Mary. Yet I would not care to have her sins on my conscience.

HOW WRETCHED were those days before Christmas! Mary missed Margaret Scrope who had been moved to a lodging only two miles from the castle, but the bad weather and her condition made it impossible for her to visit the Queen. It was some comfort, though, that Lord Scrope had managed to find a lodging that was not too far away.

What was happening in Westminster she had no means of knowing, for the bad weather held up messengers and it might have been that those of her friends who knew were reluctant to tell her that the damning “casket” letters had been produced and that the case was going against her—since it was the will of Elizabeth that it should.

There was only one episode that lightened those dark days. That was when a messenger did get through to bring her letters from the Earl of Northumberland.

Northumberland had been converted to the Catholic faith and, having heard rumors that there was a plan to marry Mary to Norfolk who was Protestant, he had become busy trying to prevent this. Mary’s recent flirtation with the Protestant religion had alarmed him; but that had not been of long duration and he had said on more than one occasion that he believed every man should worship God according to his conscience, and when she returned to rule her country she would endeavor to see that this was the law.

Northumberland however yearned not only to free Mary but to bring England back to Papal rule; and he had believed the best way of doing this was to arrange a marriage between Mary and Philip II of Spain. This plan had been simmering in his mind for some time; and he had been in communication with Philip about it. Philip however had now remarried, and he suggested that a marriage be arranged between Mary and his illegitimate brother Don Jon of Austria, who was both personable and a popular hero.

So during those sad weeks Mary had letters from Northumberland about this project; and although she had made up her mind that her next husband would be the Duke of Norfolk—so eulogized by his adoring sister that Mary had begun to see him through Margaret’s eyes—she could realize the advantages of being married to the dashing hero, who would not rest until he had won back her kingdom for her.

But Margaret’s letters brought back to her so vividly the conversations they had shared together, and Mary wrote to Northumberland that he must tell the King of Spain that, as he was in the hands of Elizabeth, she was in no position to enter into a matrimonial engagement at this time; for before it became possible to do so she required help in order that she might regain the throne of Scotland.

To the anxiety for Margaret was added another; there was no news of Willie Douglas, and this was overdue.

Christmas was a melancholy season at Bolton Castle.

THE WEATHER WAS slightly warmer and some of the snow had thawed in the roads to and from the south.

Letters came from the Bishop of Ross. He told Mary how the Conference was progressing, and it did not make happy reading. But there was one fact which worried her more than any other: The Bishop did not mention Willie Douglas.

Deeply disturbed Mary wrote at once to the Bishop asking him to have inquiries made concerning Willie, and a week later she heard from him again. Willie had been seen in London; he had received a passport in the Queen’s name and from that day had been seen no more. Inquiries had been made at his lodgings; but he had not returned to them; his landlord was indignant because Willie had left owing money.

The Bishop wrote that Willie’s landlord had been paid and that further inquiries were being made.

Now Mary was really uneasy, feeling certain that some calamity had befallen Willie. It was known that he had been shrewd enough to make possible her escape from Lochleven; did this mean that someone believed he was too sharp a boy to be allowed to go about on the Queen’s business?

Elizabeth had written letters expressing her displeasure to Scrope and Knollys. She had given orders that the Queen of Scots was to be removed to Tutbury, and she could not understand why there should be this delay. Knollys wrote back that the delay had been due to the bad condition of the roads and the fact that there were no horses.

Elizabeth’s retort was that horses must be borrowed from neighbors and the journey made as soon as the roads were sufficiently cleared to make the journey possible. She added that she was well informed as to the state of the roads and was not pleased with dilatory servants.

“There can be no more delay,” said Knollys to Scrope. “We shall have to set out.”

Scrope was as unhappy as Knollys; he was hoping that his child would be born before they must leave for Tutbury; but both men agreed that preparations must go ahead. The two of them were so much out of favor that, if they offended their Queen further, they might be in serious trouble.

Scrope’s troubles lightened a little during the next days, for his wife was delivered safely of a son. Knollys was less fortunate.

When news came to the castle that his wife had died, asking for him, he shut himself in his own chamber and remained there for some days. He no longer cared what happened to him; temporarily he hated Elizabeth who had prevented his being at his wife’s bedside, and he was afraid that if he spoke to anyone he would give such utterance to his wrath that he would be in danger of being named as a traitor.

When he emerged he was subdued, but there was a terrible bitterness in his face which Mary noticed and understood. All her sympathy was for him; and she felt: He is that callous woman’s prisoner, even as I am.

“My dear Sir Francis,” Mary said, “I would there were something I could do to comfort you.”

“Your Majesty is good,” he answered listlessly.

“At least you know she suffers no more.”

He turned away, his sorrow, choking him, prevented speech.

“Have you written to the Queen asking permission to go to her?” she asked gently.

“Of what use now?” he murmured.

“You will wish to bury her,” Mary told him.

He nodded.

Mary laid a hand on his arm. “Then write to her. There are others who can take me to Tutbury. She cannot refuse you this.”

“I will write to her,” he said. “I thank Your Majesty for your sympathy.”

He looked into that lovely face and saw that the long eyes were wet with tears; and he was so moved that he could only turn and stumble away.

ELIZABETH’S RETORT was sharp. Knollys’ duty would not end until the Scottish Queen was safely delivered into the hands of her new keepers at Tutbury, that mission which, to her amazement, had not yet been carried out.

Knollys could not believe that she had refused him this. But there was no mistaking her meaning.

“Ah well,” he murmured, “What does it matter now? What does anything matter?”

SETON AND MARY were together looking out onto the snowy landscape.

“There will not be many more nights when we shall look from these windows at that scene,” Mary was saying. “We shall miss it. It is very beautiful. Oh Seton, we are going farther into the heart of England. Each mile we go south means a mile farther from Scotland.”

Seton was silent. She had no comfort to offer. Like her mistress she was beginning to understand that the Queen of England was extremely capable in the art of double-dealing.

At last she said: “Perhaps it will be less of a fortress than this one.”

“I doubt not we shall be well guarded. And I am to lose Knollys and Scrope.”

“For the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury, who may become your true friends. Your Majesty has a way of finding friends.”

“Let us hope I find a friend who will help me to regain my kingdom. But they say that Tutbury is one of the bleakest castles in England.”

“We will do our best to make you comfortable; we have not done so badly here.”

While they talked, messengers arrived with letters from London.

Willie’s whereabouts remained a mystery. There was one, however, she was told, who might have more opportunity of discovering what had happened to him than Scotsmen who were treated with some suspicion in London, and that was the French ambassador, Bertrand de Salignac de la Mothe Fénelon. Mary’s friends in London had mentioned the matter to him, but if she herself wrote he might be inclined to double his efforts.

Mary said: “I will write at once. I cannot rest easily until I know what has become of Willie.”

IT WAS LATE FEBRUARY when Mary was preparing to leave Bolton Castle. The weather was bitterly cold and the roads only just negotiable. Progress would be very slow and uncomfortable, but Elizabeth was growing impatient and neither Scrope nor Knollys dared delay longer.

While the last preparations were being made, a note from the French ambassador was brought to Mary, and when she read it she grew pale and called to Seton.

“Is it Willie?” asked Seton.

Mary nodded.

“They have not . . . ”

Mary smiled. “Oh no . . . He is alive. But he is in prison in the North of England. He must have been arrested as soon as he acquired his passport.”

“And all this time he has been a prisoner. What will become of poor Willie?”

“He will be freed. I shall insist on it. I shall not rest until he is free. What has he done but be a loyal subject to his Queen!”

“You think that something can be arranged?”

“Yes, through Fénelon. Elizabeth will not wish the French to know that she is clapping my supporters into jail simply because they are my supporters. I shall not rest, I tell you, until Willie is free.”

“And then?”

“And then,” said Mary firmly, “he shall remain with me until it is safe for him to join George in France. I shall write at once to Fénelon. He must do this for me.”

Mary sat down at her table and wrote an impassioned appeal which she knew would not fail to move the heart of the King of France. She reminded him of those long ago days and how happy they had all been together. Now she asked his help because his ambassador could more easily than any other friend of hers obtain the release of one of her most faithful servants. She implored Charles to help in this instance. The release of Willie Douglas—her savior of Lochleven—was the greatest boon she could ask of him; and she knew he would instruct his ambassador that this was a task in which he must not fail.

She sealed the letter and dispatched it; then she wrote another to de la Mothe Fénelon.

There was nothing more she could do but continue with her preparations for departure.

THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND was pleased with the outcome of the Conference. Nothing had been clearly defined—which was what she had hoped for—but Mary’s character had been completely blackened; Elizabeth herself had declared that she could not, without manifest blemish of her own honor, receive her into her presence. The ruling had been that nothing had been proved against Moray and his supporters that might impair their allegiance and honor; and nothing had been sufficiently proved against the Queen of Scots.

The affair had ended in a stalemate. But Elizabeth had a satisfactory excuse for not receiving her cousin at her Court. Moray could return to Scotland and still hold the Regency, while Mary remained in England at the mercy of Elizabeth.

It had all been a splendid example of procrastination such as Elizabeth desired.

Now Mary should remain in captivity; for Elizabeth could never feel entirely at peace while one so close a claimant to the English throne, and of undoubted legitimate birth, was free. The picture of Mary Queen of Scots being hailed as the Queen of England—as she had once dared to be in France—still haunted Elizabeth’s dreams. It was pleasant therefore to visualize her on the weary journeys from one bleak castle to another.

SO, ON A BITTERLY COLD DAY in the middle of winter, the cavalcade left Bolton Castle. Mary was carried in her litter over the rough roads which were often icy and dangerous. She had insisted on a litter for Lady Livingstone who was indisposed and unfit for travel. But it was no use pleading that excuse. It had clearly been commanded that there were to be no more excuses.

The snow began to fall and settle on the litter and the hoods of the ladies who rode on horseback.

Mary closed her eyes and longed to reach Tutbury. And when she did, she asked herself, what then? To what would this new journey along the road of her misfortunes bring her?