The Captive Queen of Scots

VI Tutbury

ELIZABETH, COUNTESS OF SHREWSBURY, had been delighted when she had heard that her husband was to be the new keeper of the Queen of Scots. A sign of Elizabeth’s favor, she believed; and to the strong-minded Countess that was very important.

She bustled about Tutbury Castle, giving orders which she herself made sure were carried out. There was not one person in the castle—even the Earl—who was not in awe of her. The Countess—Bess of Hardwick, as she was often called, for she was the daughter of John Hardwick of Hardwick in Derbyshire—although in her fifties was as handsome as she was energetic. She had been married to the Earl only about a year but he already knew who was master. Not that he minded. Bess had had three husbands before him and they had found her a stimulating partner. She was completely happy as long as she could have her way; and as her great desire was to promote the fortunes of all her family—sons, daughters and husbands—and as she was extremely efficient in this endeavor, they were all prepared to place the management of their affairs in her capable hands.

Her father had often said “Our Bessie should have been a man.” Bess herself did not agree. She did not believe that her sex should be a handicap. She might have the mind of a man but she was determined that her woman’s body should not hinder, but further her ambitions.

Tutbury! she was thinking as she awaited the arrival of the Queen of Scots on that bleak February day, not the most delightful of our homes.

But she was shrewd enough to know why the Queen had chosen this for Mary; it was doubtless because she believed her rival had been too luxuriously housed at Bolton.

This was certainty a chilly place. Not that energetic Bess noticed that; but she could not prevent herself from concocting schemes for improving the place; building houses was a passion with her. It was far more interesting though, to build a fresh one than attempt to improve an old place. Her most ambitious endeavor to date was the mansion of Chatsworth and the thought of her achievements there made her glow with pride—and long to repeat them. Bess never believed in standing still. She was determined to add several such mansions to her possessions before she died. Not that she ever thought of dying. Had she not been so practical, so bursting with common sense, she would have said that she was immortal. That being absurd, since after all even Bess was only human, she contented herself with acting as though she were.

Now she was considering what sort of welcome should be given the Queen of Scots. George would leave the matter in her capable hands, she knew. But it was a delicate matter since Queen Elizabeth was dismissing Knollys and Scrope for their too favorable treatment of the captive Queen; whatever else the excuse, Bess knew this to be true. Therefore the Shrewsburys must not emulate Knollys and Scrope. On the other hand the Queen of Scots was no ordinary prisoner, inasmuch as the fate of Kings and Queens could change in a very short time. They must never forget—while obeying the wishes of the Queen of England—that the Queen of Scots might one day, not only regain her throne, but take that of Elizabeth also.

“Ah yes,” Bess had told George, “this is indeed a delicate matter. Leave it to me.”

She would therefore make a cautious friendship with Mary, while she let her know that she must needs obey the will of Queen Elizabeth. And any suspicious conduct on the part of Mary must at once be reported to Elizabeth and not left to be discovered by others.

They should do well from this new task—provided Bess of Hardwick was in charge.

Bess could look back on the triumph which her own cool brain and determination had brought her. The daughter of John Hardwick had come far since, at the age of fourteen, she had been married to Robert Barlow. Robert, who was about her own age, had been a delicate boy too young for marriage. He had not long survived it, but he had left her a large fortune and when barely fifteen she had had the experience of being a considerable heiress. She had enjoyed her independence and had not married again until some sixteen years later—this time to Sir William Cavendish who had been thirteen years older than herself and had already had two wives. Those had been happy years with Cavendish. Bess had learned how to charm and govern at the same time—a rare accomplishment, but she was a rare woman. She had imbued Cavendish with her passion for building, and together they had planned Chatsworth, though he had died before it was completed, and she had had to finish it alone. The building of that mansion had been a great joy to her.

Cavendish had been a satisfactory husband; he was the only one who had given her children, and for that she would be grateful. More lives to govern! More to scheme for. She had three sons and three daughters and she was determined that they should follow their mother’s example and succeed in life. Of her sons there was her eldest, Henry, then William and Charles; and her daughters were Frances, Elizabeth and Mary.

She had persuaded Cavendish to sell his estates in the south and acquire land in her native Derbyshire; this he had done, and the result had been the building of Chatsworth.

Alas, Cavendish had died, and she then took as her husband Sir William St. Loe, a knight of Gloucestershire, who showed himself as willing—and even eager—to be governed by his wife as her previous husbands had been. It was true that there had been some unpleasantness with his family, who called her a masterful woman set on having her own way. Bess snapped her fingers at them; little did she care for their gibes; all that mattered was that St. Loe was an obedient, affectionate and adoring husband.

When he died all his vast possessions were hers, and that was another matter which annoyed his family. But what did Bess care, since she was now one of the richest women in England; and as such naturally she looked to one of the leading peers of the realm and found George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, greatly to her liking.

George Talbot behaved exactly as Bess could have wished. He was so eager for the marriage that she could feign a certain aloofness; and thus, before their nuptials took place, she succeeded in arranging two excellent marriages for her children. Her eldest son Henry was married to Lady Grace Talbot, Shrewsbury’s youngest daughter—a good match for Henry. But Bess was never one to be satisfied when she saw further advancement for her family within reach; and as George Talbot had an unmarried son, she did not see why he should not be paired off with one of her daughters; thus Gilbert Talbot, Shrewsbury’s second son, was married to Bess’s youngest daughter, Mary. A very satisfactory linking of the families. These two marriages celebrated, Bess graciously gave her hand to Shrewsbury, so cementing the family alliance still further, and satisfying Bess’s passion for arranging the lives of others.

The union of Bess and Shrewsbury had been smiled on by Queen Elizabeth and, doubtless to show her approval, she was now appointing them guardians of the Queen of Scots. So Bess, determined to continue in the Queen’s favor, bustled about her castle giving orders.

The party must soon arrive, although the inclement weather was doubtless the reason for the delay. She climbed the stairs to those apartments which had been set aside for the use of the Queen.

“H’m!” she murmured with a grim smile, for they were two miserable rooms very sparsely furnished. There were patches of damp on the wall where the rain had seeped through the broken roof; and as there was no tapestry or hangings of any sort to cover the cracks in the walls the general effect was depressing.

Even Bess shivered slightly, although she prided herself on no coddling and was passionately devoted to fresh air.

Fresh air! The air in this chamber was far from fresh. That unmistakable odor came from the privy, immediately below the window, which was emptied every Saturday; then, of course, the stench was unbearable. There was always an unpleasant smell in these apartments; it was merely increased when the process of emptying was carried out.

But she will soon become accustomed to it, Bess decided.

The point was that Queen Elizabeth knew what Tutbury was like and she had expressly ordered that Mary was to be taken there.

But she will have the view, Bess told herself. The view? Well, the Queen, looking from her window, would see the marshes; they were not considered very healthy and doubtless the dampness of Tutbury was in some measure due to them, but the River Dove was charming enough, and Bess thought it pleasant because she could look across it to her beloved Derbyshire and felt when doing so that she was not far from home.

Bess went to the window. The smell of the privy made her draw back slightly, but as she did so she caught sight of a party of riders in the distance. Yes, and surely that was a litter she saw. The Queen would be traveling in a litter. At last they were approaching Tutbury.

Bess left the room and started on her way down to the hall. She saw one of the servants about to enter a room as she did so and called: “Come here, girl.”

The girl looked startled, but that did not displease Bess. It was how she expected her servants to look when she turned her attention to them.

“Come here!” she repeated.

The girl came shyly and, when she reached her mistress, she dropped an embarrassed curtsy. A flush stained her cheeks, giving them a soft, peach-like bloom. She was inclined to be plump and was rather more comely than Bess liked her maids to be.

“You are Eleanor Britton,” she said, for she made a point of knowing the names of even her humblest servants and would expect an account of their efficiency or lack of it from those whom she put in authority over them. This Eleanor Britton was a newcomer to the household and had been among the extra staff engaged for the coming of the Queen.

“Yes, my lady.”

“And why are you not in the kitchens?”

“My . . . lady,” stammered the girl, “I was sent to prepare one of the rooms for the Queen’s party.”

“I see. I believe my lord Earl to be in his bedchamber. Go to him now and tell him that the Queen will be arriving very soon. I have sighted her party less than half a mile away.”

Eleanor Britton bobbed another curtsy and made off with all speed, delighted to escape. One of the main occupations of the staff, both male and female, was to avoid claiming the attention of the lady of the house, and when they failed to do so, they rarely escaped without some reprimand.

Eleanor hurried to the Earl’s apartment. He called to her to enter when she tapped and she found him seated in his chair, dozing. He would have liked to stretch out on his bed, but Bess did not approve of sleeping during the day. It was a lazy habit and Bess, who was never lazy, deplored the fault in others.

The maid dropped a curtsy: “Begging your pardon, my lord,” she said, “but my lady says . . . you’re to . . . ”

She stopped, because it hardly seemed right to her that a noble Earl should receive commands from his wife.

George Talbot understood the girl’s feelings and he smiled faintly, and because she seemed an intelligent and perceptive girl, he looked at her with interest and noticed the color in her cheeks and how soft her skin was.

She was very young of course—little more than a child, younger than his own daughters. A pretty creature.

“What were my lady’s orders?” he asked gently.

“My lord . . . my lady has seen the Queen’s party. She says they’re not half a mile away.”

George Talbot rose. “Is that so then?” he said. And he went toward the girl, smiling.

She dropped a low curtsy and said in a frightened voice: “Is there aught your lordship wishes?”

“You must not be frightened, you know,” he told her. “There is nothing to fear.”

Then he wondered that he had bothered to say such a thing to a servant; it was most unusual. Why had he done it? he wondered. Was it because she seemed sorry to bring him one of Bess’s peremptory messages? Was it because he guessed that her recent encounter with Bess had terrified her? Was it because she looked so young and pretty in her embarrassment?

On impulse he said: “What is your name? I do not think I have seen you before.”

“It is Eleanor Britton, my lord.”

“Well, Eleanor, go on your way. I will tell the Countess that you gave me her message.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

She took one fleeting look at him as she hurried away.

The Earl went down to the hall, where his wife was already waiting to greet the Queen of Scots.

MARY FELT DESPONDENT as she rode nearer to Tutbury. It had been a tiresome and tedious journey, eight days having elapsed since she left Bolton. It had not however been an uneventful journey. Lady Livingstone, who had been ill before they started, became worse as they traveled over those ice-bound roads; as for Mary herself, she found that her limbs were stiff with the cold, and when she tried to move them felt excruciating pain.

They had spent the first night at Ripon and, because Mary and Lady Livingstone were so ill, it was impossible to leave the next day. Knollys and Scrope, believing that if they delayed longer Elizabeth would accuse them of deliberately prolonging the journey they had obviously been reluctant to undertake, assured Mary that they could give her no more than a day in which to rest.

But there was a whole day’s respite and this Mary spent in the room which had been provided for her, writing letters; and during the second night she lay at Ripon she listened to the howling wind and dreaded the resumption of the journey on the next day.

As the cavalcade traveled from Ripon to Wetherby, Mary was startled by a beggar who thrust his way to her litter and began begging for alms.

Knollys and Scrope were frowning and the guards made to drag the man away, but Mary would not have this. She said: “Heaven knows how we suffer, yet we do enjoy a modicum of comfort. I pity those who are homeless on days such as this.”

She turned to the man. “My good man,” she said, “I have little to offer you, but I would it were more.” As she took a coin from her purse the beggar put his head close to hers and whispered in a voice which was so unlike that of the whining beggar that Mary almost showed how startled she was: “Your Majesty, I am here on the orders of my Lord of Northumberland. He bid you be of good cheer. He wishes me to tell you that he will be in touch with you at Tutbury. He has plans . . . and men of influence are ready to stand with him.”

Mary’s spirits could always be raised by incidents such as this; unostentatiously she took a gold enameled ring from her finger and pressed it into the man’s hand, with the words: “Take this to your master. Say that I look to him to keep his promise.”

Northumberland’s messenger moved away from the litter and for the rest of that day Mary was scarcely aware of her discomforts, telling herself that because she had noble and influential friends in England, as well as Scotland, she could not long remain a prisoner.

But later when they arrived at Pontefract Castle, where they were to spend the night, even the memory of Northumberland’s message could not prevent the depression which descended on Mary as she entered that place of tragedy; and as she looked at the tall walls flanked by the seven towers, at the deep moat, the barbican and drawbridge, she could not help shivering at the thought of Richard II.

“Oh, Seton,” she said, when they were lodged in the apartment which had been put at their disposal, “I would not wish to dwell long in this place. I would rather face those bitter winds than live within these walls.”

“Your Majesty should be careful not to betray your revulsion; otherwise . . . ”

Mary finished for her: “My good cousin and dear sister might seek to make me her prisoner here. Yes, you’re right, Seton. I will take care.”

It was a restless night that was spent within those walls. Mary dreamed that she was a prisoner in the terrible dungeons to which, she had heard, there was no entrance except through a trapdoor above them, and from which escape was impossible.

Escape! Her mind was forever occupied with the thought of it. And that night it was as though the ghost of Richard II, who had met his mysterious and bloody death within these walls, came to her and warned her to escape from this prison—and any prison in which it might please the English Queen to incarcerate her.

How relieved she was to set out on her journey again; but depression descended on her when, at Rotherham, Lady Livingstone’s malady increased and all agreed that she was unfit to proceed; but as both Knollys and Scrope agreed that they dared not delay longer, Lady Livingstone was left behind while the rest of the party went on.

Mary’s head was aching, her limbs stiff and painful; but she was able to travel, and that was enough.

Her thoughts were with her dear friend Lady Livingstone, as she traveled on and spent the following night at a mansion near Chesterfield. This was a pleasant experience following on the stay at Pontefract, for here was a comparatively simple country house, presided over by a kindly hostess, Lady Constance Foljambe, who was determined to make the Queen of Scots as comfortable as possible.

The next morning, when Mary said goodbye to Lady Foljambe, she thanked her warmly for her hospitality and said how she would have liked to linger as her guest.

“Our house is always at Your Majesty’s disposal,” Lady Constance told her; and there was compassion in her expression. She knew what the Queen would find at Tutbury.

MARY SAW THE CASTLE in the distance. Set on a ridge of red sandstone rock, it was impressive, and she could see that it would be almost impregnable, for surrounded by a broad and very deep ditch, it was a natural fortress. She was shivering, not only with the cold, as she drew nearer.

The party crossed the drawbridge; this was the only means of entering the castle and Mary noticed that the artillery in the gateway towers would make escape difficult.

That set her thoughts on Willie Douglas, and she wondered where he was now, and if he would ever be with her in Tutbury. If he were, she could be sure that he would begin to plan her escape.

The Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury were waiting to receive her. She noticed with relief that the Earl had a kindly face and that he was a little embarrassed to receive her as his prisoner. He was a man of some forty years. And there was his wife. Mary was not sure of the Countess whom she judged to be some ten years older than her husband, a woman who was undoubtedly handsome; but there was a severe aspect in her features which was faintly disturbing. As they came forward to make their bows and curtsies it occurred to Mary that the Countess was not quite the kind of woman to whom she would have looked for friendship.

“I trust Your Majesty will be comfortable at Tutbury,” said the Earl, almost apologetically.

“We shall see that Your Majesty is comfortable at Tutbury,” the Countess quickly affirmed.

“I thank you both. It has been a long and weary journey, and I am very tired.”

“Then allow me to conduct you to your apartments,” said the Countess. “There you may rest for a while, and I could have food sent to your chamber.”

“That is kind and would please me,” answered Mary.

The Countess went with Mary up the cold stone staircase.

There were two rooms allotted to Mary, one above the other, and these were connected by a short spiral staircase.

In the lower chamber Mary looked about her with distaste. She noticed the cracked, damp walls and she could already feel how very cold the place was.

“Perhaps Your Majesty would prefer the upper room,” said the Countess briskly; and they mounted the staircase.

Mary saw the vaulted ceiling with the damp patches and the moisture trickling down the walls; she could feel the icy wind blowing through the ill-fitting casement and door. She went to one of the two small windows cut out of the thick walls and looked out over the bleak and snowy countryside.

Suddenly she wrinkled her nose distastefully. “What is that I smell?” she asked.

Bess sniffed and looked blank. “I smell nothing unusual, Your Majesty.”

“It is most unpleasant. Seton, what is it?”

Seton who was looking out of the other window, turned and said: “It seems, Your Majesty, that the privies are situated immediately below this window.”

Mary looked sick, and indeed felt so.

“One soon becomes accustomed to the odor, Your Majesty,” Bess consoled her.

“I never shall.”

“But I assure Your Majesty that you will. It would be advisable on Saturdays, when the privies are emptied, to keep away from the windows. That is a day when the stench is really strong.”

Mary put her hands over her eyes in a gesture of horror, and Seton turned to the Countess. “Her Majesty is very tired. I am going to help her to her bed. Perhaps you would be good enough to have her food sent up.”

Bess bowed her head. “If that is Her Majesty’s wish, so shall it be. We wish to make her comfortable here.”

Then she left the apartment. Mary did not look at her; she was studying her new prison, and there was desolation in her heart.

IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE to keep warm during that first long night.

“Oh Seton, Seton,” Mary moaned. “This is the worst that has happened to us.”

Seton had covered her with all the clothes she could find, and lay beside her hoping to keep her warm. She had noticed Mary’s fits of shivering on the journey, and the fact that they had not abated on their arrival worried her.

“The weather is so bitterly cold,” soothed Seton. “It cannot last. Also I think that the Earl and his Countess were not prepared for your coming.”

“I think they were well prepared, Seton. Shall I tell you what else I think? Elizabeth no longer makes the pretense that I am her guest. I am nothing more than a state prisoner. You see, they did not have to make special preparations for my coming; I may be put in damp, cold and evil smelling rooms. It is of no importance because to them I am of no importance.”

“That is not so, Your Majesty. I am sure, if I speak to them and tell them that you must have some comfort, they will be ready to help.”

“The Earl looked kind,” Mary admitted.

“And the Countess too,” Seton added. “She appears to be sharp tongued but I am sure she has a kind heart. I will see what can be arranged tomorrow. You will feel better then.”

“Oh yes, Seton, I shall feel better.”

“Do not forget the message from Northumberland.”

“You are right, Seton. I have some good friends in England. Norfolk will not forget me. Nor will Northumberland.”

“Tomorrow, everything will seem different,” said Seton. But it was a long time before they slept.

THE NEXT DAY Mary was not well enough to leave her bed. She had a fever and her limbs were stiff and painful.

Seton announced that the Queen would spend the day resting, and while she lay in her bed her women came into her chamber and set out some of the tapestry which they had brought with them from Bolton. These were inadequate to cover all the cracked walls, but they did add a little comfort; and Mary felt happier to have them, and also to see her women.

Knollys and Scrope came to say goodbye to her; and she was deeply sorry to see them go. She sent affectionate messages to Margaret Scrope through her husband; and she was sorry to see Knollys looking so sad. Poor Knollys! His was not an enviable fate. He had lost the wife he loved, and his Queen’s favor at the same time. Yet he had been a kindly jailor. She would always remember that.

“I trust Your Majesty will be happy under the care of the Earl and Countess,” said Knollys.

“Thank you,” Mary replied. “I hope you have explained to the Earl that I am allowed certain privileges—for instance, my own servants and my friends to visit me when they come to Tutbury.”

Knollys answered gravely: “The Earl will make his own rules, I fear, Your Majesty. You know that those of myself and Lord Scrope were not considered to have been adequate.”

“It is bad enough to live in this cold and dreary prison, to endure that perpetual odor. I do not know how I shall go on living here if those small privileges are to be taken from me.”

“Speak to the Earl about these matters,” Knollys advised.

“Not to the Countess,” Scrope added.

“Certainly I should speak to the Earl. I suppose he is in charge here.”

Scrope and Knollys exchanged glances and Scrope said: “I have heard that Bess of Hardwick is always in charge wherever she finds herself.”

Mary smiled. “I believe that I shall be able to win their friendship,” he said confidently.

Then Scrope and Knollys took their leave. Mary heard their departure but she did not go to the window to watch them. She felt too emotional, too weary, and she knew she had a fever.

DURING THE FIRST WEEK at Tutbury, Mary scarcely left her bed. At the end of that time the fever had left her; she still suffered acutely from the drafts, but she fancied she had grown a little accustomed to the smell. She had seen little of the Earl and Countess; her servants brought her food, of which she ate very little, and looked after her as well as possible. She supposed the Earl and Countess were waiting for her to leave her bed, or perhaps for instructions from Elizabeth.

One day, when the wind was slightly less keen, several heavily laden packhorses lumbered into the courtyard. Eleanor Britton who had seen them arrive ran out to discover what they were.

A man who had leaped from his mule called to her: “Hey, girl. Take me to the Earl of Shrewsbury without delay.”

“And who are you then?” asked Eleanor.

“Never you mind, girl. Do as you’re told.”

“But I must say who you are,” Eleanor insisted.

“Then say we come on the Queen’s business.”

Eleanor, suitably impressed, ran into the castle, eager to carry this important message to the Earl before anyone else could do so. Already some of the grooms had appeared and were asking questions of the newcomers.

Eleanor did not go to the Countess’s apartments although she had to pass these to reach the Earl. It was so much easier to talk to the Earl than to the Countess, because he was a kind man and had a smile which seemed to say that he was aware of her even though she was only a lower servant. Whereas the Countess . . . Well, one did not speak to the Countess if one could avoid doing so.

The Earl was in his apartments and he was alone, so that Eleanor was not made to pass on her information to one of the servants.

“My lord,” she stammered, “there are men in the courtyard with laden horses. They come on the Queen’s business.”

The Earl strode toward her and stood looking at her as though he had not quite heard what she had said.

“The Queen’s business, my lord,” she repeated.

“They have come heavily laden?” he asked; and he smiled suddenly. “Ah, if this is what I believe it to be I shall be very pleased.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He put out a hand as though he would grip her shoulder but he changed his mind and his hand fell to his side. “Comforts for the Queen of Scotland,” he murmured. “Poor lady, I fear she suffers much from the cold. I sent for them but I did not expect to receive them so soon.”

Eleanor smiled with him. It was pleasant to feel she shared a secret with him. How strange that he should have told her what the messengers had brought!

“Come,” he said, “we will go down and see what they have brought, and then, my child, you can help carry the comforts—if this they be—to Her Majesty’s apartments.”

He signed to her to go before him. It was an odd sensation going on ahead of the Earl, aware of him, close—very close behind. Eleanor hoped that none of her fellow servants would see her. They would think it so strange. And what if the Countess saw!

Eleanor quickened her pace, and very soon she was in the courtyard where now several servants had gathered. They were chattering, until they saw the Earl, and then fell silent. But they did not realize that he had come down with Eleanor.

THE EARL WAS ASKING for admittance to the Queen’s apartments.

“I bring Your Majesty good news,” he said. “I have sent to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, for articles which will give you some comfort. May I have them brought up?”

“This is good news, my lord,” Mary replied. “Pray do not hesitate to bring them up.”

The Earl turned and signed to the servants to carry in the packages.

“They come from the royal wardrobe of the Tower of London, I believe, Your Majesty; and if they are what I asked for, I am sure they will please you.”

Mary called her women to her as the packages were carried in, and they helped unroll them.

There were several pieces of tapestry hangings lined with canvas.

Mary clapped her hands. “I cannot wait to hang them,” she cried. “They will keep out the drafts a little.”

Seton spread them out and saw that they were not only useful but decorative, portraying as they did the history of Hercules. Next there were four feather beds with bolsters.

“They make me warmer even to look at them!” said Mary.

This was by no means all. There was more pieces of tapestry—one set depicting the story of the Passion; there were cushions, stools and Turkey carpets. There were even hooks and crochets with which to hang the tapestry.

Mary turned to the Earl, her face radiant. “How can I thank you?” she asked.

He smiled. “Your Majesty, it grieved me that you should come to Tutbury which as you know is too ill furnished to receive you. When I knew that you were to be here, I asked that these objects might be procured for you. I am only sorry that they have been so long in coming. The bad state of the road is the cause.”

“I shall certainly sleep more comfortably now,” she told him, “and my thanks are due to you.”

Everyone in the room was now looking toward the door which had been left open. The Countess stood there.

Mary said: “My dear Countess, I am thanking your husband. I must thank you also, I know. These things are going to make a great deal of difference to my comfort.”

The Countess sailed into the room. Eleanor, watching her, thought: She did not know. He did it without asking her.

She dared not look at the Earl; she felt there would be fear in his face, and she did not want to see it. It was brave of him, she thought, to do it without telling her. Anyone must be brave who stands against her.

“I am delighted that Your Majesty is pleased,” said the Countess, her sharp eyes taking in the tapestry, the beds, the rugs and all the furniture.

“Such a difference!” sighed Mary. “I really do not think I could have endured the cold without something to keep out the drafts.”

“I trust the servants are doing all you require of them?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Then the Earl and I will beg your leave to retire.”

“But of course.”

The Countess looked at the Earl, and her eyes were expressionless.

She curtsied and the Earl made his bow.

As they went out together Eleanor wanted to whisper: You should not be afraid of her. You are the Earl. You should tell her so.

When they reached her apartments Bess turned to her husband; now she was smiling because she prided herself on always being in complete control of her feelings.

“So you sent to the Queen for those fripperies?” she asked.

“I thought they were necessary for our guest’s comfort.”

“I dare swear that if Her Majesty had thought them necessary she would have sent them without being asked.”

“She does not know how comfortless Tutbury can be.”

There was a brief silence while Shrewsbury thought of his first wife, Gertrude, eldest daughter of the Earl of Rutland. What a gentle person she had been! He was beginning to remember her with increasing regret.

“I hope she does not think you are going the way of Knollys and Scrope.”

“Because I ask for a carpet, a bed and some hangings to keep out the drafts?”

Bess gave a sudden harsh laugh. “Our Queen knows Mary’s reputation,” she said. “It is rumored that she bewitches all men who set eyes on her. Is this the beginning of bewitchment?”

“Nonsense,” retorted the Earl. “The poor woman is ill. Her Majesty would not be very pleased with us if it were said she died through neglect.”

Bess nodded her head slowly. “So, without consulting me, you sent for comforts for her.” Again she gave that hard laugh. She slipped her arm through his and she was smiling. “George,” she went on, “I think, in view of the disgrace of Knollys and Scrope, we should be careful. Of course if she is in danger of dying of neglect, I shall see that she does not do so. Perhaps it would be better if such matters were left to me. No one could accuse me of being bewitched by the charm of the Queen of Scots, I fancy!”

Shrewsbury was beginning to hate that cold laughter of hers. What she was saying was: Next time leave it to me to make arrangements. I am the one who makes decisions here.

He was pleased that he had managed to procure the comforts before she had had a chance to interfere. Then, as he looked into her domineering, handsome face, he thought of Eleanor Britton; which seemed unaccountable. It’s the contrast, he told himself. One so arrogant; the other one so meek. But of course Eleanor Britton would be meek. Was she not a servant?

TWO PLEASANT OCCURRENCES quickly followed the arrival of the comforts from the Tower of London.

Lady Livingstone, who had been so ill on the journey, had recovered and came on to Tutbury. Mary who had thought it possible that she might never see this dear friend again was overcome with joy.

Lady Livingstone however was shocked by the Queen’s appearance.

“I have recovered more quickly than Your Majesty did!” she said aghast.

“Ah,” laughed Mary. “But you have not been at Tutbury.” She was serious suddenly. “You should not stay here. It is a foul place. The stench at times is unbearable. Why do you not return to Scotland? I still have friends there, and you and your husband could return to your estates and live in comfort.”

“And leave you!”

“My dearest friend, I do not know how long I shall be here. Sometimes I think it will be for years.”

“Then if we must remain prisoners for years, so be it.”

Mary embraced her friend. “It seems meet and proper,” she said, “that I should have a Livingstone with me. In my youth it was your sister-in-law, Mary. She would be with me still, as Seton is, if she had not married. But if at any time this becomes too much for you, you must not hesitate to return to Scotland.”

“One day we shall go together,” was the answer.

IT WAS SHORTLY AFTERWARD when a young man was admitted to her apartments. In the first seconds she did not recognize him. Then she cried out in great joy. “Willie!”

Willie Douglas bowed and, as the light fell on his face, she saw how thin he was.

“Oh Willie, Willie!” She took him into her arms and held him tightly against her. “This is such joy to me.”

“And to me, Your Majesty.”

“You have suffered since I last saw you, Willie.”

“Oh ay.”

Releasing him she laid her hands on his shoulders and looked searchingly into his face.

“But you are back now, and I thank God.” She drew him to one of the stools which had been sent from the Tower of London and bade him sit.

There he told her that he had traveled jauntily to London, had received his passport and had been ready to make his way to the coast and France. But as he walked through an alley in the City of London, where he had his temporary lodging, he had been set upon.

“They came upon me from behind, Your Majesty, and I never saw their faces. There I was walking along that alley where the houses seemed to meet at the top, when I was attacked. I woke up in a dark cellar, trussed up and with my head bleeding. I’d lost all my papers. I knew I’d been robbed then. I lay there for what seemed days and nights, but I had no means of telling. But at last they came for me . . . rough men I’d never seen before. They put me in chains and set me on a mule, and I knew we were coming north. I thought I was being brought back to you, but I soon learned that was a mistake. I was taken into a place like a castle and put in a cell there. There were bars at the window, and now and then a crust of bread and pitcher of water were thrust in at me. Other than that the only companions I had were the rats and beetles.”

“My poor Willie! I had evil dreams of you. I knew something fearful had befallen you. That was why I asked the French King to command his ambassador to discover what had become of you. You must have spent many weeks in that prison.” She thought: But for my French friends it might have been for the rest of your life, and that, for Willie in those conditions would not have meant more than a year or so.

“I used to lie there thinking of how I could get out,” went on Willie. “There didn’t seem any way, but I went on trying to figure something out. Then it got so that I couldn’t walk very well and I could only think of when I was going to get my next portion of bread and water.”

“I fear you have suffered much for my sake, Willie.”

He gave her a return of the old grin. “Oh ay,” he murmured.

But she knew that he would never be the same jaunty urchin he had been before he set out for London. Willie had grown up considerably since they had last met.

LORD HERRIES ARRIVED at Tutbury from London with those who had been acting as her Commissioners at the Conference. They were very grave, realizing fully how Mary’s position had deteriorated since the Conference.

At the little council meeting held in those evil-smelling apartments, Herries said: “We cannot go on in this way. We should try to bring Your Majesty out of England. I do not think that any good purpose can be served by your remaining here.”

“But how can I leave?” Mary wanted to know.

“Only by a demand from your Scottish nobles that you should do so. I do not think Elizabeth would risk war. Moray is her ally; we must depose him and his party and, once that is done, there can no longer be an excuse for keeping you here.”

“What do you propose?”

“That I return to Scotland with my brother-in-law, Cockburn.”

“Then I shall lose two of my most faithful friends.”

“Not lose them, Your Majesty. But merely allow them to be of greater service to your cause. Livingstone and Boyd will be here to advise you; and the Bishop of Ross can act as your envoy at the Court of Elizabeth. I am of the opinion that we could not serve you better.”

“I am sure you are right,” she told him. “Oh, my dear good friend, one thing I ask you, help to bring me out of this noisome place, for I believe that I shall not stay here long. I must either leave it soon on my two feet or be carried out in my coffin.”

Herries begged her not to despair, but he himself was very anxious, for he could see how the place was affecting her; and she had not recovered yet from the long journey through the ice-bound country from Bolton.

Herries and Cockburn left within a few days. Mary watched them from her window until they were out of sight. Herries, who had been her trusted friend; and as for Cockburn, his mansion and his village of Skirling had been completely destroyed by Moray in vengeance on one who was the very good friend of the Queen of Scots.

MARY WOULD SIT at her tapestry with her women; occasionally she would sing or play the lute. But each day she was more easily fatigued, and her friend watched her with misgivings. The Earl spoke to the Countess. “I am anxious,” he said. “Her health does not improve and she might well fall into a mortal sickness.”

“Nonsense,” retorted Bess. “She has but to adjust herself. What does she do all day but amuse herself! Look at me. Think of what I do. I am years older than she is.”

“I fear the rigors of Tutbury ill suit her.”

“We live at Tutbury, do we not? I’ll admit it is not the most sweet of our houses—but there is nothing to harm in a stink. If she had more to do she would be well enough.”

There was a knock at the door and, when Bess commanded whoever was there to enter, Eleanor came in.

She looked fearfully at the Countess but she was very much aware of the Earl.

“Well, girl?” said Bess sharply.

“My lady, there is a messenger below. He is asking for the Earl.”

“I will see him without delay,” said Bess. “Send him to me.”

Eleanor curtsied and retired, returning shortly with the messenger.

Bess imperiously held out her hand for the documents he had brought.

“Take this man to the kitchens and see that he is refreshed,” she commanded Eleanor who, curtsying once more, caught the eyes of the Earl on herself and flushed deeply.

Bess was too eagerly examining the documents to notice the demeanor of her serving-maid.

“Orders from the Queen,” she said, and the Earl came to stand beside her and look over her shoulder.

“Ah!” went on Bess. “So her friends are suspected of planning her escape. You see what you have done by showing your desire to pamper her. You have aroused our Queen’s suspicions. Depend upon it, George Talbot, we have to tread very warily if we are not to find ourselves in disgrace along with Scrope and Knollys.”

“What does Her Majesty require?”

“That Boyd and the Bishop are not to be allowed to remain with her or come to see her. They are to be banished at once to Burton-on-Trent.”

The Earl sighed. Poor Queen Mary! he was thinking. Here was another blow.

THE EARL MET ELEANOR BRITTON on the staircase near the Queen’s apartments.

She flushed and curtsied.

“Do you serve the Queen of Scots then?” he asked.

“I help her servants, my lord.” She added quickly: “It is the order of the Countess that I should do so.”

He nodded. “Poor lady, I fear for her health.”

“She is not happy at Tutbury Castle, my lord.”

“She has told you so?”

“We have all heard that it is so, my lord.”

There was the briefest of silences, and each felt drawn to the other through their sympathy for the Queen of Scots. This young girl, thought George Talbot, is aware of the Queen’s charm as Bess never could be. But then, of course, Bess never saw people or circumstances through any but her own eyes; it was an impossibility for her to put herself in any other’s place.

“I wish she could be moved to a healthier place,” he said, as though speaking to himself.

“Yes, my lord.” The girl was looking at him with an odd expression in her eyes. Was she telling him that he was the lord of Tutbury, the first guardian of the Queen? She made him feel strong, more powerful than he had felt for a long time . . . surely since his courtship of Bess of Hardwick.

He passed on, but he could not dismiss the maid from his thoughts. She was so young, scarcely more than a child, without doubt a virgin. She would not remain so long, perhaps. Even Bess could not prevent the men servants and the maidservants frolicking together.

He felt angry that a young girl should be exposed to such contamination.

Strange, this preoccupation with a serving girl—and a Queen. It was having an odd effect on him. He went straight to his private apartments and there wrote a letter to Elizabeth of England, in which he told her that he feared for the life of Mary Queen of Scots if she remained at Tutbury. Would Her Majesty agree to a removal to his nearby seat of Wingfield Manor where he felt sure the health of the Queen of Scots would be improved.

This he dispatched, telling Bess nothing of what he had done.

BESS STORMED into her husband’s apartment, and with an angry wave of her hand dismissed his servants.

When they were alone she held up a letter and cried: “Her Majesty writes that, in answer to your letter, she is agreeable that the Queen should be removed to Wingfield Manor until further notice.”

“Ah, I am glad. It is what Queen Mary needs.”

“So you wrote to Elizabeth?”

Although he had rehearsed this scene many times, knowing it was inevitable, now that the moment had come to face Bess, he found it difficult to do so.

He stammered: “I thought she would be ill pleased if the Queen were to die of her malady soon after coming under our care.”

“Die!” snorted Bess. “She has many years left to her.”

But she was not thinking of the Queen of Scots and her dilemma; what astonished her was to be confronted by such a disobedient husband.

She went on: “Do you think it was wise to suggest this move?”

“It was wise and humane,” answered the Earl firmly.

“The Queen will have a poor opinion of us if we continually present her with complaints.”

“The Queen knows us both well. She has long since formed her opinions of us.”

“She chose us for this task, and it is one well within our compass, if we are wise and do not allow ourselves to be duped by the wiles of one who, I understand, has but to give a man a smile to make him obey her.”

“She has not been very successful in making men obey her, poor lady.”

“Poor lady! Not so poor! She is waited on hand and foot. I am surprised, George, that you should have taken this step without consulting me.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Well,” he said mildly, “it is done. What we have to do now is prepare to leave for Wingfield Manor.”

Bess was watching him covertly. She had thought he would always be obedient to her wishes as her three earlier husbands had been. It was disconcerting to find him asserting his independence.

What could it mean?

Was he a little enamored of the Queen of Scots? She must be watchful. Bess was a woman who demanded a husband’s affection and devotion as well as obedience. She would not allow it to be said that Shrewsbury ceased to be a devoted husband when the Queen of Scots came under his roof.

That woman might bewitch other men but, Bess was determined, never George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury.