The other queen

1572, JANUARY, SHEFFIELD CASTLE: MARY

My betrothed is fighting for his life in a courtroom, judged by men as fearful as he. My son is far from me. The only man who could save me now is far, far away, himself imprisoned, and I don’t expect ever to see him again. My worst enemy is my new keeper, and even Bess, the falsest friend a woman ever had, is repelled by his harshness towards me.

I am starting to feel afraid. I would not have believed that Elizabeth could put me in the charge of such a man. It is to dishonor me, to make such a man my custodian. She would know this: she has been a captive herself. She would know how a harsh jailer destroys a prisoner’s life. He will not let me walk in the park, not even in the frozen snow in the morning, he will not let me ride out, he will allow me no more than ten minutes’ walk in the cold yard, and he has been talking to Bess about reducing my household once more. He says I cannot have my luxuries from London, I may not have letters from Paris. He says I should not have so many dishes for dinner, nor fine wines. He wants to take down the cloth of estate which marks my royal status. He wants me to have an ordinary chair, not a throne, and he sits without invitation, in my presence.

I would not have believed that this could happen to me. But neither would I have believed that Elizabeth would put her own cousin, her closest kin, on trial for treason, especially as she must know that he is guilty of nothing but his ambition to marry me—which, though disagreeable to a woman of Elizabeth’s gross vanity, is hardly a crime. He rode out in no rebellion, he sent no money of his own to any rebellious army—why, he lost the French gold he was supposed to send. He obeyed her order to go to court though his followers hung on to the leathers of his stirrups and the tail of his horse and begged him not to go. He surrendered Kenninghall, his own great house, disinheriting his own children: just as she asked. He stayed obediently at his London house and then went, as ordered, to the Tower. He met Ridolfi, several times, it is true. But I know, as they must know, that he would not have laid a plot with him to murder Elizabeth and overthrow her country.

I am guilty of that—good God yes, I don’t deny it to myself though I will never confess it to them. I would see Elizabeth destroyed and the country free of her illegal, heretical rule. But Thomas Howard would never have done so. To be cruelly frank—he is not the man for it, he has not the stomach for it. There is only one man I know who would plan it and see it through, and he is in a well-guarded room with bars on the window, facing the sea in Denmark, thinking of me, and will never throw his life down on a gamble again.

“I have no prospects,” I say gloomily to Mary Seton as we sit over our own private dinner in my chamber. I will not dine with Ralph Sadler; I would rather starve.

Around us, about forty companions and servants sit down to dine, and the servers bring dish after dish for me to take a small helping and send them out around the hall. They still bring in more than thirty different dishes, a tribute to my importance as a queen. I would be insulted by less.

Mary Seton is not gloomy like me; her dark eyes are dancing with mischief. “You always have prospects,” she whispers in French. “And now you have another Sir Galahad ready to serve you.”

“Sir Galahad?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe he is more a Sir Lancelot. Certainly a nobleman ready to risk everything for you. One who has come in secret. One whose name you know. One that you don’t expect, and one who has a plan to get you out of here before the end of the trial. Before the shame of having your business discussed in open court.”

“Bothwell,” I breathe at once. I have an instant certainty that he has got away from Denmark. For what prison could hold him? Bothwell, free and coming to my side, will have me out of here and on a horse to Scotland in a moment. Bothwell will raise an army in the borders, turn the country upside down. Bothwell will take Scotland as if the country were a reluctant woman and make her know her master. I could laugh aloud at the thought of him free. What a fox among a hen coop he will be when he is on his horse with his sword drawn once more. What a nightmare for the English, what a revenge for me. “Bothwell.”

Thank God she does not hear me. I would not want Mary to think that his name ever comes to my mind. He was my undoing. I never speak of him.

“Sir Henry Percy,” she says. “God bless him. He sent this; it came to me from the hand of young Babington. Sir Ralph watches you so close we did not dare try to get it to you till now. I was going to hold it till bedtime if I had to.”

She hands me a little note. It is brief and to the point.

Be ready at midnight. Put a candle at your bedroom window from ten of the clock if you are ready to come tonight. At midnight tonight, blow out the candle and let yourself down from the window. I have horses and a guard and will have you away to France at once. Trust me. I would give my life for you.

Henry Percy

“Do you dare?” Mary asks me. “Your closet window faces outwards over the garden; that must be the one he means. It is a drop of forty feet. It is no worse than Bolton Castle and you would have got away then but for the rope breaking on that girl.”

“Of course I dare,” I say. At once the candles burn brighter and the smell of dinner is so appetizing that I feel my mouth water. My companions in the room are dear friends who will miss me when I am gone but who will delight in my triumph. At once, I am alive again, alive and with hopes. I think of Sir Ralph Sadler’s consternation and Bess’s destruction when I get away from their guardianship, and I cannot help but giggle at the thought of their faces when they find I am gone in the morning. I shall get to France and I shall persuade the king and his mother that they must send me home to Scotland with an army great enough to dominate the Scots lords. They will command that Bothwell be freed to lead my army. They will see the advantages of it, and if they do not, I shall apply to Philip of Spain for help. I could go to him, or to the Pope, or to any one of a dozen wealthy Papists who would help me if I were away from here and free from the wicked imprisonment of my cousin.

“Oh no! Did you not promise the Earl of Shrewsbury that you would not escape while he was away from home? He asked for your word of parole and you gave it.” Mary is suddenly aghast at the memory. “You cannot break your word to him.”

“A promise under duress is worth nothing,” I say cheerfully. “I will be free.”