The Captive Queen of Scots

VII Wingfield

MARY WAS DELIGHTED TO ARRIVE at Wingfield Manor. She could not feel grateful enough to Shrewsbury for arranging the removal for, in comparison with Tutbury, Wingfield was charming. Situated as it was on a steep hill it commanded a beautiful view of the valley of Ashover and seemed to be shut in by hills.

The manor house had been built some hundred years before by Ralph, Lord Cromwell and, because he had been Treasurer of England, bags and purses had been carved in the stone over the gateway which led to the quadrangle. Having been built at that period when the comfort of castles was being questioned, and desirability of building palaces realized, this was an excellent example of what a hundred years before had been considered a new type of architecture.

The house was built around two square courts and as soon as Mary stepped into the spacious hall with its Gothic windows, one of a very unusual octagonal shape, her natural optimism took possession of her. Tutbury was left behind and she was telling herself that nothing so unfortunate as her stay in that noisome place would ever happen to her again. She should rejoice that that evil was behind her.

Countess Bess took her to the rooms which had been allotted to her.

“They are on the west side of the north court, Your Majesty,” she said, “and this is generally judged to be the most beautiful part of the building.”

Mary stood for a while looking out over the hills.

“It is undoubtedly beautiful,” she said. “A change from the marshlands of Tutbury. And how pleasant to have lost that appalling odor.”

The Countess gave her a quick, sudden laugh. “I am sure Your Majesty will be comfortable at Wingfield. Allow me to show you these stairs. They lead up to the Tower which will be part of your quarters.”

Mary mounted the spiral staircase to the top of the Tower, and from there she had a wider view of the countryside than that from the windows of her bedchamber.

She stood looking into the far distance.

One day, she thought, my friends will come riding here to rescue me.

She turned away and smiled at the Countess who had followed her to the Tower.

Yes, she could certainly rejoice that she had come to Wingfield Manor.

EVEN NOW THAT SHE was in more salubrious surroundings Mary needed time to recover from the harm which had been done to her during that journey through the snow from Bolton to Tutbury and her stay in the damp apartments of the latter. She was never free from twinges of pain in her limbs and sometimes when she attempted to rise from her bed she found it impossible to do so without assistance.

“Ah, Seton,” she would often say, “I left my youth behind me in Tutbury.”

She spent those first weeks in Wingfield writing letters and recuperating, promising herself that when the spring came, and she could go hunting or hawking in this beautiful countryside, she would feel young again.

The Countess seemed to soften at Wingfield and was solicitous of Mary’s comfort; she implied that she was in charge of the household and any request Mary wished to make should be made, not to the Earl, but to herself; and Mary quickly realized that as long as she accepted the Countess’s supremacy, Bess was ready to be her friend. Seton had said that she would be happier with the Countess as a friend rather than an enemy, with which statement Mary had agreed.

Spring was now on the way and, although its coming must remind Mary that she had been almost a year in England, she was pleased to see it.

One evening after supper Mary complained of sudden pains and as she rose from the table began to shiver. Her women, startled by her pallor, crowded about her, and she told them that she felt alarmingly sick and dizzy.

Seton, taking charge, hastily conducted her to her bedchamber and as Mary lay writhing on her bed a horrible suspicion came to Seton that her mistress had been poisoned.

She turned to Jane Kennedy and said: “Go at once to the Earl and Countess and tell them that I fear the Queen is grievously ill.”

Jane hurried to the Earl’s apartments and, finding him alone there, told him of Seton’s fears. The Earl went at once to Mary’s bedchamber and when he saw her he was deeply disturbed.

“Her Majesty’s apothecary is preparing a remedy for her,” said Seton. “But I think she may need greater skill than his.”

At that moment the Countess came into the apartment.

“What is wrong?” she demanded. Then she saw the Queen. “I shall send at once for Dr. Caldwell,” she said. “I do not like what I see.”

For once Seton was glad of the Countess’s methods when, in a very short time, the doctor for whom she had sent arrived in the Queen’s chamber.

He spent the night at her bedside and in the morning, much to the surprise of all those who had seen how ill she was and the nature of her illness, Mary still lived.

BESS TALKED in private with her husband.

“I do not like the look of this,” she said.

“Nor I.”

“I believe someone tried to poison her.”

The Earl nodded. Bess looked at him in silence for a few moments, then she said: “Do you think she has commanded this to be done?”

“Never!” The Earl was emphatic. “If the Queen of Scots were to die of poison, the first person to be suspected would be Elizabeth. She would not want that. If there are men and women in this country who would wish to set a Stuart on the English throne, there is nothing more likely to advance their cause than such a murder. The Queen of Scots would become a martyr while the Queen of England would be reckoned a monster. I am sure this has nothing to do with Elizabeth.”

“Then it is clearly one of Moray’s people.”

“And how can we say who? Scotsmen come and go. They declare themselves to be friends of Queen Mary, but depend upon it, there are spies among them. If she were to die . . . .”

His wife interrupted: “We should no longer enjoy Elizabeth’s favor. She would blame us for allowing poisoners to have access to her.”

“But how can we prevent that?”

“By being more watchful of course, and making sure that this does not happen again. I am going to send for Dr. Francis who is as good a physician as Caldwell. The two of them together will pull her through.”

The Earl bowed his head, and Bess put up one of her strong white hands to ruffle his hair. She could be affectionate at times; she liked to have a man about the house as long as he obeyed her. And George was being sensible over this matter.

He took her hand and kissed it. “I am glad that you are sending for Dr. Francis.”

She laughed almost roguishly. “You would not like this to be the end of our romantic captive?” she asked.

“In point of fact,” he said, “I was thinking I should not like this to be the end of the Shrewsburys.”

Bess laughed. “Leave this to me. I shall see that she does not die.”

The Earl was certain that Bess would succeed, and was glad at that moment that he had such a clever, forceful and capable wife.

WHEN MARY RECOVERED within the next few days, after, as everyone admitted, coming near to death, many were convinced that there had been an attempt to poison her. This seemed certain when news came to Wingfield that in Scotland the Regent Moray was taking military action against all her friends, robbing them of their lands and riches and levying exorbitant taxes on those whom he allowed to keep some of their possessions.

So rigorous had been the measures taken, and so great was his power now throughout Scotland, that Argyle had thought it wise to accept his authority and had signed a treaty acknowledging this. When Huntley and Herries did likewise it seemed that Mary’s cause was lost; and the fact that these events were taking place in Scotland while Mary had had her mysterious sickness at Wingfield, confirmed the suspicion of many that this had been an attempt by Moray’s agents to poison her.

Willie Douglas was incensed at what had happened and, coming unannounced into the Queen’s apartment one day, had implored her to allow him to keep a closer watch on all who came near her.

“You have my permission, Willie,” said the Queen. “Indeed, I shall only feel safe if you do so.”

So Willie was often to be seen at the door of her chamber, and he kept his eye on all who came into her presence and who conferred with each other in the castle. Previously he had been concerned with finding a method of bringing the Queen out of captivity; now he had an additional task. He had to save her from those who planned to murder her.

It was startling and significant when news came from London that Mary’s death had been reported there.

“It would seem,” said Seton to Willie, “that some were so eager to announce it that they did not wait for it to take place.”

“If I can find the man that harms her,” Willie growled, “I’ll cut his head off with my sword, I will, and I’ll march around the castle with the bauble dripping on my sword.”

“We will watch over her together, Willie,” said Seton.

“We’ll never leave her while she needs us,” answered Willie.

“I have sworn an oath that I never will,” Seton said solemnly.

And it was as though they had made a pact together.

MARY WAS BETTER NOW and able to walk in the grounds; the May sunshine was warming and she quickly showed signs of regaining her health.

But she soon found herself in a predicament which caused her alarm and was desperately seeking a way out of it.

As she walked with Seton on one side and Jane Kennedy on the other she spoke to them of her troubles.

“I am becoming very short of money, and the doctors whom Shrewsbury summoned are asking for payment. The fact is, I have no money with which to meet their demands, and I do not know how I can raise it.”

Seton began taking stock of their valuables, but most of the Queen’s possessions were now in Moray’s hands.

“Even if we sold everything we have there would not be enough,” said Mary. “And I wonder how I am going to continue to live. I owe you all so much.”

Jane and Seton declared that she owed them nothing. But Mary sighed and said there was nothing she could do but write to Lesley, Bishop of Ross, in London and tell him of her embarrassment.

“Do this, Your Majesty,” advised Seton, “and I will summon Borthwick to convey our letter to London with all speed. The sooner Lesley begins to deal with it, the easier you will sleep.”

So they retired to Mary’s apartments where she wrote her letter, and Borthwick left with it at once for London.

He returned before they expected him; and to their surprise and pleasure he brought money with him.

There was two hundred pounds which would relieve her of her immediate anxieties, and more would be following.

Mary was astonished by this ready response. Then she read the letter which Lesley had written and which, Borthwick said, was to be delivered into her hands alone. Her benefactor was one from whom it was most meet and fitting for her to receive assistance: the Duke of Norfolk to whom she was almost—though in secret—betrothed.

Norfolk was true to his word. Within the next few weeks more money arrived and very shortly Mary had received nine hundred and sixty-six pounds from the man who hoped to become her husband.

There was however a letter from Lesley who, having heard of Norfolk’s generosity, was a little uneasy. He believed that by accepting the money, Mary was entering into an intrigue from which she might find it difficult—supposing she wished—to extricate herself. He advised her to ask for money from France and to look upon that which Norfolk had sent her as a loan.

Mary, completely generous, accepted as readily as she would have given. But she did trust Lesley’s judgment. She therefore made an endeavor to obtain money from France and sent her secretary across the Channel with that purpose. His efforts failed, but meanwhile rumors of her pecuniary difficulties became known in certain quarters, and those who were carefully watching the political state of affairs in England decided that this matter might be turned to advantage.

LESLEY RECEIVED A CALL from the Spanish ambassador.

“I have heard,” said the ambassador, “that the Queen of Scots needs money, and I have had instructions from His Most Catholic Majesty that I am to do all in my power to assist the Queen.”

Lesley was exultant. It seemed to him that if Mary must accept money it were better to do so from a friendly power than from a private individual. Mary’s secretary, Raulet, had been sent to France to try to raise a loan; and here was one being offered by Spain.

“I know His Most Catholic Majesty to be the good friend of the Queen of Scots,” murmured the Bishop.

“He desires to help her in her need,” went on the ambassador, “and I will give you a bill of exchange which you may draw on the banker, Roberto Ridolfi.”

“I tender you my most grateful thanks and I know that the Queen will do the same.”

“Then come to my lodging in an hour’s time and you shall have it.”

Lesley said that he would do so, and when they had parted the Spanish ambassador went to the Italian banker and talked with him for a while. He knew that Ridolfi was a Papal spy; and that both the Pope and the King of Spain were determined to prevent at all costs the marriage of Catholic Mary with Protestant Norfolk. “If she accepts our money,” said the banker, “she will have taken the first step. The Northern Catholics assure me they are ready to revolt under Northumberland. We will set the Queen of Scots at their head. And then . . . with luck we shall drive the bastard Elizabeth from the throne.”

“She will accept the money. She needs it; and she realizes that it is not meet for her to take it from Norfolk. It will be for ten thousand Italian crowns . . . a sturdy sum, which will show her that we are her friends. Doubtless she feels the need of friends at this moment. And I’ll swear she has no notion of how ready Northumberland is to march on the Protestants of England.”

The two men conferred further together, and when Lesley arrived he was greeted warmly by the banker, who hinted that he was aware of Spain’s desire to help the Queen. He was certain too that the Pope deplored her present plight.

Lesley left, with the money which seemed like a fortune to him; and, what seemed almost as good, the knowledge that Mary had powerful friends.

LESLEY, BISHOP OF ROSS, came to Wingfield to talk with the Queen.

Mary received him eagerly and was pleased to see how optimistic he was, for Lesley was never a man to disguise the true state of affairs.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I come in person because there are some matters it is better not to trust to letters. I have great hopes that your captivity will soon be over.”

“My dear Bishop,” cried the Queen, “you could not bring me better news.”

“Your marriage with Norfolk will bring you freedom, and the project is now receiving the support of men of standing.”

“Yes?”

“Leicester himself.”

“Leicester! Then this means that Elizabeth herself gives her consent.”

Lesley was thoughtful for a moment. “I am not sure that we have come as far as that. In her bad treatment of you, Elizabeth has been advised to act as she did by Cecil, who is determined to keep a Protestant ruler in Scotland. Cecil’s influence on the Queen does not please her ambitious ministers. But for Cecil, Leicester might have been Elizabeth’s husband. I believe that at the time of the Amy Robsart affair he came near to it. Leicester never forgave Cecil, and he sees now a chance of flouting his authority by giving his support to the marriage with Norfolk.”

“They say the Queen is still enamored of Leicester.”

“I believe it to be true. I have seen them together, and although she encourages others to admire her, there is a shade of difference in her manner when she is near him. If Leicester approves of the match with Norfolk, I am of the opinion that he will persuade Elizabeth to do so. I have letters here from Leicester and certain other noblemen in which they praise Norfolk and tell you that they will give their support to a marriage between you.”

“Give me the letters,” said Mary; and when Lesley did so she opened them with hands which shook with excitement. What Lesley had said was true. There was the letter, written in Leicester’s own hand, commending the Duke of Norfolk, persuading her to marry him, and assuring her that he had the nobility behind him when he told her that, should the Queen of England die without heirs, they would support her as the rightful heir to the throne. He went on to say that he was sure the Queen of England could be persuaded to see the wisdom and justice of this.

When Mary had finished reading, she looked at Lesley with sparkling eyes. She felt young again; full of hope. “I shall soon be free of my prison,” she murmured.

Then she thought of another prisoner. Bothwell. What hope had he of ever being released! The French would insist on his remaining shut away; they would never allow one who had played such a devastating role in her life to go free; and if he were free, where would he go? To Scotland, where certain death awaited him at Moray’s hands? To England? Elizabeth would never tolerate him there. What were his thoughts at this time? How much had he changed?

These months of imprisonment had for her been at times almost intolerable. But what of him? She at least had her friends, and a certain consideration must be shown a Queen even by her enemies. But what did Bothwell suffer, and how would one so bold and vital endure such suffering?

She had ceased to yearn for him as she had a year ago. She knew that he had disappeared completely from her life and she would never see him again. Indeed, if they did meet they would not be the same people because the Mary, who had lost her crown for love of him, had gone forever. A woman grown sober by captivity and suffering had taken the place of that headstrong girl. Bothwell must have changed too. What was that blustering, fascinating, irresistible adventurer now?

She was aware of Lesley, waiting for her to speak. “Bothwell?” she murmured.

“We do not anticipate any difficulty in having that marriage annulled,” said Lesley.

THE EARL OF SHREWSBURY was anxious. It was all very well for Bess to say that she would manage their affairs, but he was the one who would be blamed if they failed in their duty. The guarding of such an important political prisoner was a constant anxiety, and he had never been a man who could stand up against perpetual worry. His head ached continually; he found that when he rose from his bed in the mornings he was giddy. It was no use complaining to Bess of these matters, or even mentioning them. “All you need is a little fresh air,” she would say, “and you’ll be better tomorrow!”

Bess was alert however. She knew as well as he did that messengers from the North and South were finding their way to the Queen’s apartment. Intrigue was rife and, if it ever was brought into the light of day, the Shrewsburys must be on the right side.

Which was the right side? The Queen of England was strong; but if it were true that men such as Leicester, Arundel and Pembroke were eager to promote the marriage of Norfolk and Mary without having first obtained Elizabeth’s consent, who could be sure what would happen next?

Shrewsbury was a man who wished to remain poised cautiously between two factions, so that he might leap onto the winning side at an opportune moment.

He had already reported to Elizabeth that a young man named Cavendish—who was connected with Bess through her second husband, Sir William Cavendish—was bringing letters to Mary from Norfolk. Elizabeth’s reply had been that she was aware of this and that she wished Cavendish to be allowed to carry messages to the Queen. This sounded as though Cavendish were a spy for Elizabeth while feigning to work for Norfolk. Who could know who was a friend, who was an enemy, in such a morass of deceit?

It was small wonder that he found the task too much for him and sighed for the old days of comparative peace before he had been singled out to guard the Queen of Scots.

He went to his bedchamber and there, risking discovery by Bess, he lay on his bed; but when he did so the room seemed to rock as though he were on board ship.

He lay for some time and gradually the giddiness left him.

I never felt thus before, he thought. Is this an illness brought on by worry?

There was a knock on the door, so quiet that he was not sure whether he had imagined it. He ignored it, and then he saw that the door was slowly opening, and the serving girl, Eleanor Britton, was standing in the doorway watching him.

“What is it?” asked the Earl.

“I come to ask if there is aught you want,” she answered.

“Why? I did not send for you.”

“But I saw how sick your lordship looked and, begging your pardon, I came to see if there was aught you needed.”

“Come in and shut the door.

She came slowly to his bedside and the light from the Gothic window shone on her round young face. She was comely; he noticed her neat yet plump figure beneath her serving maid’s gown; but it was the expression on her face which held his attention. She looked enraptured, almost angelic, he thought. What a strange girl she was! No wonder he had singled her out for his attention.

“My lord is well?” she asked; and that mobile face was suddenly filled with sorrow.

“I am well enough,” he answered.

“Is there aught I could do, my lord?”

“Nay.”

They looked at each other in silence for a few seconds, then he held out his hand.

“You are a comely girl,” he told her. “It pleases me to see you in my house.”

She lowered her eyes and dropped a curtsy—he was not sure why.

He wondered what would happen if Bess came in and saw the serving girl standing by his bed. The girl would be dismissed—and he . . . he would never hear the end of the matter. She could taunt him with what she called his bewitchment by the Queen of Scots. She did it half jokingly, although there was a certain malice in her words. She was displeased but not outraged that he should find Mary attractive; but what would she say if she knew that he, one of the noblest Earls in England, was a little fascinated by one of her humblest serving girls?

He was feeling a little light-headed, and in this unusual state he did not care.

“Come nearer,” he said.

She came, her lips lightly parted showing good teeth; he knew then that he had only to order and she would obey.

He took her hand and drawing her to him kissed it, not with passion, but with gentleness while a soft flush spread from her neck to the roots of her hair.

She knelt beside the bed and pressed her lips against the hand which held hers.

He was aware of a rising passion such as he had never known before; he wanted to seize her roughly, to embrace her, but he knew that if he gave way to such feeling he would be too giddy to stand.

He thought then: She is so young and I shall not always be sick.

There was a sudden clatter of horses’ hoofs below. They were both startled, and the girl rose to her feet.

“You must go and see who has arrived,” he told her. “Come back and tell me.”

She left him and he lay still listening to the clamor below.

IT WAS NOT ELEANOR who came back to his apartment but Bess.

She came in without knocking and was startled to see him lying on the bed. He thought: She might have come thus when I was talking to Eleanor. And the thought made his heart beat fast.

“So you are lying down!”

“I felt unwell.”

“You look a little pale. You do not take enough fresh air. I came to tell you that Leonard Dacre is here.”

The Earl raised himself on his elbow. “Dacre!”

Bess nodded. “I think we should go down to greet him. In view of his connection with Norfolk we cannot know what he may be up to.”

The Earl passed a weary hand across his brow. “Not more trouble, I hope.”

Bess gave her short laugh. “Trouble! There will always be trouble while we have your romantic Queen under our roof. Did you not know that?”

“I am learning it.”

She gave him a sharp look. “And I’ll warrant you think such a beauty is worth the trouble.”

“I’d gladly give the task back to Scrope and Knollys,” he retorted, “for all her beauty.”

She appeared almost arch, but her gaze was searching. “I shall not tell her what you say,” she replied. “It would appear ungallant.”

He thought then that she would be a jealous woman if she discovered infidelity in her husband; and he wondered what form her jealousy would take.

Rising from his bed he tried to fight off his giddiness, and as he followed his countess down to the hall he felt it receding. By the time he was ready to greet Dacre it had left him.

Leonard Dacre would have been a handsome man but for the fact that one of his shoulders was higher than the other. He was very conscious of this as he was that he was the second son of Lord Dacre of Gilsland, and therefore not his heir. His elder brother had died leaving a son George, and George’s mother, Lady Dacre, had become the wife of Thomas, Duke of Norfolk. On her death Norfolk had, in Leonard Dacre’s opinion, concerned himself overmuch with the affairs of the Dacre family and, as there was a great deal of money involved, had arranged marriages between his three stepdaughters and his sons. As these girls were co-heiresses with their young brother George, Norfolk thus made sure that a large part of the Dacre wealth did not pass out of the Howard family.

This was a source of great annoyance to Leonard Dacre and he did not feel too kindly toward Norfolk in consequence.

Now he bowed low over Bess’s hand and expressed his hope that he found her in good health.

“My health is excellent,” answered Bess.

“And my lord Earl?”

“Oh, he does not take enough exercise. It is my continual complaint.”

“I have, it is true, been less well of late,” explained the Earl.

“He did not like Tutbury. He will be happier now that we are here at Wingfield Manor.”

“And you look less happy than when we last met,” said the Earl.

“I have had bad news,” Dacre replied. “My young nephew has died. I received the news this day.”

“Young George!” cried Bess. “But he can’t be more than seven! We are truly sorry. My poor Leonard! You must come to my private chamber and I will have wine brought. This is indeed sad news.”

The Earl slipped his arm through that of Dacre, and the Countess summoned a servant and gave orders.

“How did it happen?”

“While he was practicing vaulting at Thetford. A bad fall on his head. He died soon afterward.”

“What tragedy! First the father . . . then the son . . . . So you are now the heir.”

“It is of this matter that I come to talk to you and the Countess.”

When they were all seated in the Countess’s private chamber, Dacre explained why he was angry.

“The barony is one which descends to the female members of the family,” he said. “So that not only do his young sisters inherit the Dacre fortune, but the title also.”

“Norfolk was wise,” commented the Countess, “in betrothing his sons to the three Dacre girls.”

“Very wise, very sly,” added Leonard. “I intend to contest the case.”

Bess nodded. She doubted whether he would stand much chance of winning.

They talked for some time of family affairs and eventually Bess said: “I must present you to the Queen of Scots. She would take it ill if she knew you had been here and not called to pay your respects.”

“I should be pleased to speak with Her Majesty.”

Thus it was that Mary made the acquaintance of Leonard Dacre.

THE YOUNG MAN, Cavendish, had brought Mary a letter from the Duke of Norfolk.

Mary seized on it delightedly. The intrigue with which she seemed to be surrounded since coming to Wingfield Manor had brought new liveliness and she welcomed it.

Taking the letter to her bedchamber, Mary sat at the window and opened it.

The Duke wrote that he was deeply disturbed because he had heard rumors that the Papal spies in London, together with the Spanish ambassador, were planning to marry her to Don Jon of Austria. He needed reassurance. He must have it by return. He was sending her a diamond which was intended to pledge his troth to her and he was asking that a contract be drawn up between them without delay.

Why not? thought Mary. The sooner marriage with Norfolk became a fact, the sooner she would be free of her prison. She had come to see marriage with him as the only way out for her. Moreover she wanted marriage; she was weary of living without a man. She assured herself that she had forgotten Bothwell and that he no longer meant anything to her.

She took up a miniature of herself and a tablet of gold. She would write, sending these to Norfolk as her pledge, and she would ask Lesley to draw up the contract of marriage without delay.

She answered Norfolk’s letter in most affectionate terms and, enclosing the letter with the tablet and miniature, dispatched Cavendish back to the Duke.

Shortly afterward the contract was drawn up between Mary and Norfolk, although those English peers who had given their support to the marriage were not made aware of this.

Norfolk was unsure who was his friend, who his enemy, and was therefore uncertain whom to trust. As he saw it, all that mattered was that the contract had been signed.

He was sure—and so was Mary—that before long she would be his wife.

THE EARL AND COUNTESS were discussing the ill luck of Leonard Dacre.

“It seems to me that he has little love for my lord Norfolk,” said Bess.

“That is easily understood.”

Bess nodded. Both she and her husband agreed on that point. To see title and fortune, to which one felt one had a right, taken by others was intolerable!

“I believe Leonard plans to contest the matter,” said the Earl, “but he’ll not have a chance.”

He walked to the window to look out over the country, and as he did so he reeled slightly.

“You have drunk too much wine,” said the Countess with a laugh.

The Earl turned, feeling a sudden wave of anger against her. He was about to utter a protest when he felt very faint; he stretched out to catch the hanging; that was the last he remembered for some time.

WHEN HE WAS AGAIN CONSCIOUS, he was lying in his bed, and Bess was in the room, with the doctors, Caldwell and Francis.

The Earl tried to call out but he appeared to have lost his voice; he tried to lift his arm but could not move it.

Bess was beside his bed. “Do not try to move, my dear,” she said gently.

His mouth formed words which he could not utter and she went on: “You have been ill; but you will be all right now. I am going to see to that. The doctors are here. They are very hopeful of your recovery.”

She laid her hand on his brow; it was very cool and it seemed to him as though some of that tremendous vitality of hers flowed into him.

“B . . . Bess . . . ” His lips formed the word and his eyes filled with tears. He felt so weak that he rejoiced in her strength.

“You must rest for some time,” she told him. “Close your eyes now and try to sleep. All will be well in time. I have told the doctors that they are not to leave Wingfield until I am satisfied with your condition.”

He obeyed her, and it seemed that he slept awhile.

IT WAS A WEEK OR SO after his attack before the power of speech returned to the Earl, and although he could move his limbs he was still slightly paralyzed.

Bess rarely left the sickroom; she herself prepared gruels and potions for her husband; she guarded the sickroom and would allow him no visitors except the doctors. With them she was in constant conference, and all agreed that the Earl owed his life to the indefatigable Bess of Hardwick.

When she judged him to be well enough to listen to her plans she sat beside his bed and talked to him.

“My dear,” she said, “you have suffered from inflammation of the brain. The doctors think it is a condition which has been brought on by your anxiety. Your dear captive, by the way, has sent affectionate messages to you every day and insists on hearing of your progress. I am sure that will help you to get well.”

“Why Bess,” he said, “nothing could help me get well more than your loving care.”

Bess laughed. “You do not think I would allow a husband of mine to become an invalid, do you? You are going to get better, I tell you.”

“I feel better.”

“Of course you do. All the time you have been lying on that bed you have not been worrying about the messages which are going to and from your precious captive. You have ceased to think of the charming creature. Let me tell you, George Talbot, that is why your health has improved. There is one thing you need above all others now. That is to leave all this behind and pay a visit to the baths of Buxton. I know that will cure you completely. And I propose to take you there.”

“But what of the Queen . . . .”

“Which? Your Queen or . . . the other? But I forgot they are both your Queens, are they not? Do not fret about the Queen of Scots. She is still here even though you have not been able to guard her. You see, there are others who can carry out the task of jailor as well as the Earl of Shrewsbury. No, my love, you are going to Buxton. I have quite made up my mind to take you there.”

“Do you not remember that, when Knollys’ wife was dying, the Queen would not allow him to visit her?”

“I am not Knollys. I say you are in need of Buxton baths and you are going to have them. I have already written to the Queen, telling her of your state of health and asking for permission to take you to Buxton.”

“And you have had no word?”

“I have had no word . . . although I expected it ere now.”

“Bess, even you will not get consent. She will give the same answer to you as she gave to Knollys.”

Bess’s face hardened suddenly. “You are my husband,” she said, “and it is my duty to cure you. I know that this can be done by a visit to Buxton, and Queen or no Queen, you are going to Buxton.”

He smiled up at her. She seemed invulnerable. But he did not believe they would go to Buxton.

LEONARD DACRE had been a constant caller at Wingfield during the Earl’s illness and, since the Countess was continually occupied with the sickroom, it was not difficult for Dacre to visit the Queen whenever he wished.

Dacre was a very bitter man. He had received no satisfaction regarding his claim to the family fortune, and he was furious contemplating how wily Norfolk had been in marrying his brother’s widow and arranging matches with his nieces, so that he had maneuvered the vast Dacre estate into his greedy hands. Norfolk was—without the Dacre fortune—the richest peer in England. He hated Norfolk.

With the Earl sick and the Countess occupied in nursing him, it had been easy to discover something of the intrigues of the household—a little friendship here, a little bribery there—and he knew that Norfolk was not only anxious to marry the Queen of Scots but that he had already a secret contract with her.

Dacre was going to do his best to stop that marriage.

He knew also that there was another faction in England which was eager to prevent it. This was the Catholic party of the North who were determined that Mary should never marry with Protestant Norfolk. The fact that this party was headed by Dacre’s cousin, the Earl of Northumberland, made it easy for Leonard Dacre to become a member of it; and, since he was on visiting terms with the Queen of Scots, he was in a position to be very useful.

Dacre was determined that Mary should reject Norfolk and agree to the plans of the Northumberland faction, which were that she should make an alliance with Don Jon of Austria, who would come to England and fight for her cause—and not only her cause. There was another, very dear to the hearts of the Catholics of the North—the dethroning of the Protestant Queen whom they looked on as a bastard and no true Queen of England, and the setting up in her place of the Catholic Mary Queen of Scots.

It was while Countess Bess was with her sick husband and preparing to leave for Buxton—for although she had not yet received Elizabeth’s permission she had gone ahead with her preparations—that Dacre called at Wingfield Manor and asked for an audience with the Queen. Mary was working on her tapestry with Seton and Jane Kennedy, and when she received him these two remained with her.

Dacre knew that they were in her confidence and to be trusted, and that if he were alone with the Queen it would give rise to suspicion, so he decided to lay his plan before the three of them.

“I believe, Your Majesty,” he said, “that it would not be difficult for you to leave this prison.”

Mary, who had continued her work, held her needle poised while she looked at Dacre. He noticed the quick color in her cheeks. Talk of escape could always excite her.

“How so?” she asked.

Dacre went on: “I have a perfect plan to lay before you. Do you think that I have not given a great deal of thought to this, nor that I am the only one behind it. Your Majesty, not far from this place armed men are waiting to help you. You have only to escape from this manor, gallop a few miles, and you will be with them. They are ready to put hundreds of men in the field to fight for you.”

“You mean . . . Norfolk?”

Dacre could not help the note of anger creeping into his voice. “I mean my cousin Northumberland.”

“Ah yes,” said Mary quietly.

“You know that he is working for you. He has the Pope and the King of Spain behind him.”

“They are too ambitious,” said Mary. “They want to give me not only Scotland but England. I can be content with Scotland.”

“They will meet your wishes in every way. Westmorland is with Northumberland. They cannot fail. But first they wish for your release. Once you are free, every Catholic in England will demand that you be given your rights. Your throne will be yours once more.”

“And how do you propose to bring about my release?”

“Since the sickness of the Earl, rules have become a little lax at Wingfield Manor.”

“It’s true,” Mary agreed.

“I have not been idle. I have made friends among the guards and servants here. I do not think it would be a major task for you to walk out of this Manor in the dress of one of your women.”

Mary looked at Seton and Jane Kennedy who were sitting tense, their needles held above the canvas, and she knew they were as excited as she was.

“It would be Lochleven all over again,” Mary murmured.

“It was done there,” said Dacre. “It can be done here. Only here you have more friends to help you. I tell you, we cannot fail.”

He looked across at Seton. “The Queen could wear a headdress like yours. She could wear your gown and cloak. You could wear hers. You could be seen together in the great hall . . . and the Queen—in your gown, in your cloak—could walk out, leaving you in her clothes in the hall.” He turned to Jane Kennedy. “You could be there also, talking as you would talk to the Queen, addressing her as ‘Your Majesty’ . . . and so you two could walk back to these apartments while the Queen walked out of the Manor . . . out to the horses which would be waiting for her. The deception could be kept up for hours . . . perhaps a day or more. It would not be so difficult, particularly if the Earl and Countess should leave for Buxton.”

“But if they left,” said Seton, “someone would surely be sent to take their places. And a new jailor would most certainly be watchful.”

“It must happen before the new man arrives,” declared Dacre.

“In that case,” said Jane, “before the Shrewsburys leave.”

“If necessary. But they will be busy with their preparation. There could not be a better moment to put this plan into action. What does Your Majesty say?”

“I will think of it.”

“There must be no delay.”

“I shall give you my answer within a few days.”

Dacre was excited. She would agree. There was nothing she longed for so much as escape. This would be the end of Norfolk’s ambition to marry the Queen. He would learn what it cost to meddle in the affairs of the Dacres.

As for Northumberland and Westmorland, they chafed against delay. But he would be able to tell them that the Queen liked the plan.

In a short time the Catholics of the North would be in revolt against the Protestant Queen of England.

AS SOON AS DACRE had gone, Mary put aside her tapestry.

“What does Your Majesty think of the plan?” asked Seton.

“It is a good one. You know, Seton, you and I are of the same height. If you dressed my hair as yours is dressed, and I put on your clothes, I’ll warrant I could impersonate you so that many would be deceived.”

“I am sure you could.”

“And you could impersonate me, Seton. Who could know me better than you? When I have gone you could take to my bed for a day or so—and nothing would be discovered.”

Jane Kennedy said, “We could rehearse it. It is so simple. I know it would succeed.”

“I wonder,” put in Seton, “why Your Majesty did not at once agree to the plan.”

“You have forgotten, Seton, that I am affianced to the Duke of Norfolk. I could not agree to do this until I had consulted him.”

There was silence. Then Seton asked: “You think it is wise to commit this plan to paper?”

“As you know, I write to him in code. As my affianced husband I could not dream of acting without his approval. But I will write to him now and my letter shall be taken to him with all speed. Seton, bring my writing materials, and we will not have a moment’s delay.”

BESS FUMED about the Manor. She was ready to leave for Buxton, but there was no answer to the request she had made to the Queen.

Bess believed it imperative that the Earl should be removed from Wingfield, for as he grew better his worries were returning and she was not going to risk another attack which, she was well aware, could be fatal.

She had explained the details of her husband’s illness to Elizabeth, but it seemed that the Queen believed that the task she had assigned to Shrewsbury was more important than his life.

She is wrong there! Bess told herself. Queen or no Queen, I shall not stand by and see poor Shrewsbury suffer such another attack which will doubtless kill him or leave him an invalid for the rest of his life. We are going to Buxton.

Bess went to the window, as she did every few minutes, to see if there were any signs of the Queen’s messenger. She clenched her fist in anger. No sign of a rider!

She summoned certain of her servants.

“We are leaving for Buxton this day,” she told them. “Have all made ready for our departure.”

She then made her way to the Earl’s bedchamber where he was lying on his bed, still very weak.

“All is well,” she told him. “We are leaving for Buxton.”

“So . . . she has given her consent? Oh, Bess, you are indeed a wonderful woman. When I think of the way she behaved toward Knollys.”

Bess smiled complacently. To tell him the truth would very likely bring on another attack. The thing she must do was get Shrewsbury well and then consider how they would meet the Queen’s anger.

“I told you you had only to leave matters to me,” she said. “Now your servants are coming to prepare you for the journey. We could leave within the hour.” She laughed. “You will want to say farewell to your dear Queen, so the preparations should start without delay. I will leave you now because there is so much to do.”

THE EARL AND COUNTESS had taken their leave of Mary who stood at her window watching their departure. She could hear the Countess’s authoritative voice giving orders. The guards had been put on their mettle. On pain of death they were to guard the Queen of Scots until her new keeper arrived, which would be ere long. In the meantime all was to go on at the Manor as if the Earl and Countess were in residence.

The Earl was placed in a litter because he was too weak to ride, and as he was being carried away from the Manor he looked back and, from the group of servants watching, he picked out one desolate figure. Little Eleanor Britton was sadly watching his departure.

So the Shrewsburys left for Buxton, the strong-minded Bess alone being aware that they did so without Elizabeth’s consent.

THERE WAS ALERTNESS in Mary’s apartments. No guardian had been sent to take the place of the Shrewsburys and it was inevitable that rules were relaxed with the absence of the sharp-eyed Bess. Never had there been such ideal conditions for escape. Dacre called. The time was now, he insisted. Why delay? With each passing hour their plans could become more difficult to carry out.

“I will give you my answer very soon,” Mary told him.

This she was able to do, for Norfolk had answered her letter as soon as he received it and had commanded his messenger to take his reply to the Queen without delay.

Certainly she must not fall in with this scheme which Dacre was proposing, he wrote. It would be the utmost folly, for Dacre’s one idea was to take her out of England to Flanders or Spain—either to the Duke of Alva or King Philip—and the plan was to marry her to Don Jon of Austria.

Norfolk explained that Dacre was no friend of his on account of a dispute between them concerning the rights of the late Lord Dacre’s daughter to inherit the family wealth, and that Dacre’s aim was not so much to aid her as to foil the plans for that marriage to which both he, Norfolk, and she, the Queen of Scots, were pledged in secret.

When Dacre next called at the manor, Mary told him that she had been in touch with Norfolk to whom she was affianced and that he advised her not to attempt to escape.

Dacre found it difficult to hide his chagrin; and his hatred for Norfolk intensified.

Mary was however disturbed to learn of the discord between him and Norfolk and asked him for details. With much bitterness Dacre told her how he had, in his opinion, more right to the family fortune than his nieces who, through their betrothal to Norfolk’s sons, would allow the Dacre wealth to pass to Norfolk’s family.

Mary was sympathetic. “It certainly seems unjust,” she said. “Will you allow me to write to the Duke and give him my opinion? I am sure he would listen to me, and it would give me great pleasure to bring about some agreement between you.”

Dacre smiled ruefully. “Your Majesty must do as you wish. But I would warn you that Norfolk is a hard man where lands and wealth are concerned.”

“I believe that he will wish to do what is right,” replied Mary; and because she knew that she had deeply disappointed Dacre, she determined to persuade Norfolk to make some concessions to his benefit.

WHEN ELIZABETH HEARD that the Shrewsburys had left for Buxton without her consent she was very angry, and had they been on the spot would have committed them to the Tower without delay.

As they were out of reach she immediately commissioned Walter Devereux, Viscount Hereford, to go to Wingfield Manor to take charge of the Queen of Scots. She wrote to Buxton telling the Shrewsburys to return at once to Wingfield Manor where they would find Hereford installed; and at the same time sent orders to Hereford that he was to take charge of the Shrewsburys who were to be as much his prisoners as the Queen of Scots.

When Bess received the Queen’s instructions, she knew that she would have to tell her husband what she had done. But this did not perturb her as much as it would have done previously, for the baths and air of Buxton had done a great deal to restore the Earl to health; and, removed as he was from the anxieties of Wingfield, he had, as Bess had prognosticated, rapidly recovered.

She gently broke the news to him.

“Here are orders from the Queen,” he said. “I fancy she is somewhat displeased with us.”

“But why so?”

Bess laughed. “Because, my lord, we are at Buxton.”

“But she gave her permission.”

Bess shook her head.

“Bess! You mean that you . . . ”

“It was very necessary. Had I not done so, my dear George, you would not be alive today.”

“But . . . to desert Wingfield . . . without her permission!”

“If it is a matter of disobeying my Queen or losing my husband,” retorted Bess, “I choose the former. Now there is no need to become agitated. I know Elizabeth and she knows me. If we were on the spot she would be so furious with us that we might tremble for our heads. But we are not on the spot. And she knows that had she been in my place she would have done the same. We are alike in some ways and understand each other. Why, we even share the same name. This matter which angers her now will amuse her in a few days. We need time. You will write to her and so will I. We will tell her . . . in detail . . . how ill you have been, that your life was in danger, and that I considered it essential for you to leave Wingfield when you did. We left the Queen of Scots well guarded. No ill has come to her because of my decision; and great good has come to us. Now . . . write. And I will do the same.”

The Earl did as he was told. He marveled at the boldness of his wife, but he could not help admiring her; and he was touched that she had risked her life to save his—for that was what she had done.

He felt remorseful because of late he had been comparing her with other women—women such as the Queen of Scots and Eleanor Britton—and, it seemed, to her detriment. Now he was thinking of her as he had during the days before their marriage.

When he had finished his letter to the Queen, Bess read it through. She herself had written in more detail, telling of every symptom which had beset the Earl and how near he had come to death.

When Elizabeth received their letters she read them and smiled grimly.

This was the work of Bess of Hardwick. Deliberately flouting the Queen because she wished it! Elizabeth admitted to herself that had she been in Bess’s position she would have done exactly the same. She understood Bess and Bess understood her.

She sent for one of her own physicians and said to him: “Shrewsbury is very ill at Buxton. Go and see what you can do for him.”

Elizabeth had secretly forgiven Bess, but the Shrewsburys must believe that they were still in disgrace.

A FURTHER SHOCK awaited Elizabeth. News was brought to her that her favorite man, the Earl of Leicester, was grievously sick at his manor at Titchfield and was asking for her to visit him there. In view of all they had been to each other and the fact that at one time in their lives they had been on the point of marriage, Elizabeth lost no time in hurrying to Leicester’s bedside.

She found him in a sad state and was moved to pity by the sight of his handsome face on the pillows; but when he saw that she had indeed come, Leicester brightened and she quickly discovered the real reason why he had asked her to visit him.

Leicester was in a panic. He had placed himself on the side of those Protestant nobles who had tried to arrange a marriage between Norfolk and the Queen of Scots. He knew that the Queen’s spies were going back and forth between Wingfield Manor and the Court; he knew that Cavendish, who was a messenger for Mary, was also Elizabeth’s spy, and he believed that Elizabeth was aware of a great deal which was going on, and that if she knew he had been intriguing without her knowledge she would regard him as a traitor.

When he considered all these points he did not have to feign illness; the prospect of her wrath, if she ever discovered that he, of all men, had worked against her, was enough to make him want to take to his bed.

But here she was, all solicitous concern for her Gay Lord Robert, as she sometimes called him.

He took her hands as she sat by his bed. “My Queen, my love,” he said, “you know that I would die for you.”

“Now, Robert,” replied the Queen gently, “do not speak to me of dying. You and I are too close to think happily of a world which does not contain the other.”

There were tears in Leicester’s eyes. “I want to assure you of my love and devotion. It is as firm now as it was in the days when we were in the Tower together and I loved you so madly . . . so hopelessly.”

“You were never without hope, Robert,” she told him.

“I hoped then . . . and I hope now, my Queen. I hope for your forgiveness.”

“There is only one thing for which I should never forgive you, Robert,” she told him. “That is—if you die and leave me in this world without you.”

Leicester then knew the answer to the question which had tormented him for the past week: Dare he confess? Yes, he might.

“My dearest,” he said, “there is a plot to marry the Queen of Scots to Norfolk. I am not guiltless. I have made myself a party to this. I felt it the lesser of two evils. The Catholics of the North have been restless since the Queen has been in England and are ready to rise. I thought it wiser for Mary to marry a Protestant and, as Norfolk was willing, I believed it the best way in which to protect Your Majesty.”

“So you entered into plots without my knowledge, Robert?”

“I confess my fault, sweetheart.”

“H’m. Here’s a pretty state of affairs when a queen’s ministers—and those whom she believes she has more reason to trust than most—begin to plot and scheme without her knowledge.”

“It has caused me great disquiet. It is the reason why I am brought to this sickbed. But I could no longer bear to keep this secret from you.” He reached for her hand and covered it with kisses. “I would give my life for you, as you know. It was for your good that I entered into this plot. But now I tell you, for I can no longer bear to have a secret which you do not share. You must punish me as you will. I shall insist always that all I do is out of love of your sweet self.”

“Who else was in this plot with you?”

“Pembroke and Arundel.”

Elizabeth rose from the bedside.

“My love . . . ” began Leicester anxiously.

She stooped over him and laid her hand on his forehead.

“I fear you are displeased with me . . . .” he went on.

“And what do you expect when you plot behind my back?”

“What can I do to win back your regard?”

“Get well. I like not to see you sick abed.”

She kissed him, and when he would have taken her in his arms she laughed and eluded him. “Remember you are a sick man, Robert. Remember too that the Queen commands you to be well. I expect you at Court ere long.”

Leicester was still smiling when she had left him. He felt limp with relief. He thanked his stars, his good looks, and his charm by which he had extricated himself from that dangerous situation.

ARRIVING BACK AT COURT Elizabeth was thoughtful.

Pembroke, Arundel, Norfolk, she was thinking. And so Norfolk fancies himself as her husband, does he? And doubtless she fancies Norfolk. She had been without a husband so long that she will be eager for one, I’ll swear. But she can go on panting for a man, for she’ll not get one!

When she was with her ministers, the Spanish ambassador found his way to her side.

He told her—as he did on every occasion they met—that His Most Catholic Majesty was deeply concerned about the imprisonment of the Queen of Scotland, and he requested Her Majesty to give the matter her attention.

“I give the matter attention,” retorted the Queen. “And I tell you this, that if the Queen of Scots does not bear her condition with a little more patience she may find some of her friends shorter by the head.”

A silence followed this remark. Those who were friends of the Duke of Norfolk sought the first opportunity of making their way to his apartments.

They warned him that he was in mortal danger. Someone had betrayed to Elizabeth his intentions toward the Queen of Scots, and Elizabeth’s remark was almost certainly directed toward him.

Norfolk, always on the alert for danger, was far from the Court before that day was over.

ELIZABETH SUMMONED the Earl of Huntingdon to her presence.

“I am sending armed guards to Wingfield Manor,” she told him. “I consider it an unsuitable residence for the Queen of Scots. You will go to Tutbury Castle whither the Queen is being removed. Shrewsbury and his Countess will be with you there. You will keep a watch on them also. There has been too much intrigue. See that there is no repetition of such happenings at Tutbury.”

Huntingdon assured her that he would leave without delay and that her orders should be carried out.

So Huntingdon set out for Tutbury, while the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury left Buxton for the same destination.