I look at my stepgrandmother and I see the same twist in her mouth that I know I am showing. I am biting the inside of my lips so that I don’t cry over the death of the little pug, so that I don’t cry for the death of my sister, so that I don’t cry for the ruin of my house, and all for no reason, for no reason at all.
We are all silent for a moment and then Sir Owen speaks. “But I have the linnets coming behind in the wagon,” he says, suddenly cheerful.
“Not Janey Seymour’s linnets!”
“Their babies, or perhaps their babies’ babies,” he says. “She had them nesting and breeding and we had to give some away and keep some as she ordered. But I have a bonny cage of singing linnets for you, coming after me in the wagon.”
THE MINORIES, LONDON,
SPRING 1568
Bess St. Loe, our family friend and sometime ally, pulled off a triumph last year that makes me smile whenever I think of her. Aunt Bess buried her third husband and walked as a great heiress to the altar for the fourth time—but this time she surpassed herself—she netted George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, and is now the richest woman in England second only to the queen, owning almost all of the Midlands of England.
It would take a sadder little woman than I not to laugh aloud at the tremendous progress that Aunt Bess has made. Once she was a friend and a hanger-on at Bradgate, now she is a countess. Aunt Bess, born a poor girl and widowed young, glad of my mother’s favor, is now a great woman by her extraordinary business sense, and by marriage. Of course, I think that her good luck might serve me. A landowner such as Aunt Bess with thousands of houses at her command and acres of farms and villages could very easily house me in one of them. She is trusted by the queen; she could guarantee that I would not run away or plot with the Spanish, nor anything else that the queen pretends to fear, in order to keep me in captivity. If Aunt Bess will say one word for me (though I don’t forget that she never said anything for my sister Katherine), then I might yet be a free tenant near Wingfield Manor, Tutbury Castle, or Chatsworth House, or any of the other half dozen houses that she owns. If she were to be my landlord, I would need no guardian, I would liberate my stepgrandmother from her duties and Elizabeth’s irritable disfavor, I would be far from London and quite forgotten, and I could be free.
I tell my stepgrandmother that I am thinking that Bess might speak for me to the queen and might offer to house me, and she encourages me to write to the new countess and ask her to use her influence with the queen—for she is still a lady-in-waiting, though now considerably higher up the ranks. I think that a little house, a very small house in a mean village, might be a source of great happiness to me. I might have Thomas Keyes’s children to live with me, even if I could never see him. And Mr. Nozzle would like a little orchard, I am sure.
GRIMSTHORPE CASTLE,
LINCOLNSHIRE, SUMMER 1568
Elizabeth our cousin bears her grief for the loss of my sister Katherine so well that the court comes out of mourning in a month, and the May Day revels are among the merriest that have ever been. She recovers so well from her anxiety for her cousin Mary Queen of Scots, still held in prison, that she exchanges letters with Mary’s captor and the guardian of her little boy, Lord Moray—the Queen of Scots’ treacherous half brother. When Elizabeth hears that he has opened the royal treasury and is selling off Mary’s famous jewels to the highest bidder, she overcomes her much-praised anxiety for her cousin and makes an offer. His shocking betrayal and theft from his own half sister and ordained queen ceases to trouble Elizabeth, who outbids everyone to win the auction for a six-string necklace of pearls beyond price. I think of Mary held in Lochleven Castle as I am held at my stepgrandmother’s house at Grimsthorpe, and think how bitter it must be to her to learn that the cousin that she thought would rescue her has struck a deal with her captor and is wearing her pearls.
But my cousin Mary wastes no time counting her losses and mourning for her miscarried babies. Later in the month of May we learn that she has broken out from captivity, broken out like a woman of desperate courage, and I think—I wish I had the bravery and the money and the friends to do the same. Mary rows herself over the lake, disguised as a page, raises an army, and challenges her false half brother to meet her on the field of battle. Elizabeth should send an army in support—she has loudly promised one—but instead she sends her best wishes, and they are of little effect. The Queen of Scots is defeated. This was her last throw, and now she is on the run and nobody knows where she is.
She must be somewhere in the wild country of Scotland. The battle was outside Glasgow, in the west, not a country that she knows, nor one where she is likely to have friends. Her husband and greatest ally, Bothwell, is missing. Her cousin Elizabeth does nothing to help her. Mary is quite alone. We hear nothing for days, and then we hear that she rode thirty miles after defeat in battle, thirty miles by night over rough ground in darkness. She has found a safe hiding place, an abbey where they love their queen and her faith. If the English were to come to her aid now, it could still be all changed about in a moment. Mary could regain her throne; Elizabeth could have a beautiful cousin as a neighboring queen once again.
We know this, even my stepgrandmother and her family and I, exiles from the court, at my lady grandmother’s house at Grimsthorpe, in Lincolnshire, know this, because the whole country knows that Mary has called on Elizabeth and sent her a token. It is an object of such power that Elizabeth cannot refuse. It is the ring, the diamond ring that Elizabeth gave her five years ago when she swore eternal love and friendship and said that Mary should send to her in case of need, and that she would not fail her.
I follow this story—all the world follows this story—as if it were a breathless tale published in printed sheets and sold by balladeers. It is an irresistible story of one great queen swearing infallible aid to another, and now the promise is called in. I cannot wait to hear where Mary is. I cannot wait to know what she will do next.
I think Elizabeth must send her help. She should have sent an army to support Mary when she first broke from her prison. But now—our cousin is free and defenseless, now she sends the ring that will summon Elizabeth’s support without fail. Elizabeth has to be true to her public oath, has to rescue our cousin the queen.
There is no news of any special grant going to Scotland. But of course, Elizabeth could send secret funds and tell no one. There is certainly no army mustering, for we would know of that, even tucked away here in the country. I think that perhaps Elizabeth will meet with the Privy Council and persuade them that they must support the Queen of Scots, so that majesty itself is not threatened. I think that perhaps she will call parliament and name Mary as her heir—finally take herself to that sticking point of naming her—so that the Scots can see that they may not attack Elizabeth’s kinswoman and heiress, that it is in their interest to return her to her throne so that Mary can pass on her title to her son and finally the thrones of Scotland and England will be united.
There are rumors that the French will snatch her from the coast of Scotland. She is their kinswoman and she is desperate. And if they rescue her before we do, and the Queen of Scots is in French hands, how shall England be safe from attack? Will she not make another marriage to a great prince and win back her kingdom and remember her cousin Elizabeth as a disloyal breaker of a sacred oath, an unreliable ally, a false kinswoman? Will she not think of the English as false-faith enemies? Will she not take the throne by force that should have been offered her by right?
Everything points to Elizabeth saving our cousin and restoring her to her throne. There are compelling reasons that she must do so. There is no good argument for any other course of action. As a kinswoman, as a fellow queen, as one who has given her sacred word, Elizabeth must help Mary. She cannot refuse.
But still we hear nothing. I write to my aunt Bess on my own account, asking if, at a convenient moment, she will ask the queen if I might be set free to live in one of her houses. I ask it for the love I know that she bore my mother
and that she promised to my sister. And I ask her also for news. Does she know what is happening about my cousin Mary Queen of Scots, and is she to be rescued? Does she know any news at all?
Before I have any reply to my letter my stepgrandmother comes into my private room, where I am reading Latin with a lady-in-waiting, and says: “You’ll never ever guess what has happened now.”
I jump down from my chair, frightened at once. I have not lived a life where good news is expected. “What is it?”
“Mary Queen of Scots has crossed the Solway Firth, left Scotland, landed in England, and written a public letter to Elizabeth saying that she expects to be returned to Scotland at once, with an English army in her support.”
I think that I should be excited. It is another bold brilliant move. Mary is forcing Elizabeth’s hand. Elizabeth cannot prevaricate, as she always does, when our cousin is so bravely decisive. But I don’t feel excitement; I feel dread. “Has the queen replied?”
My lady grandmother is bright. “My husband, Richard, is with the court at Greenwich, and he says that Elizabeth and Cecil are hammering out the terms. Elizabeth says that Mary must be restored to Scotland with a strong army. The Scots must know (everyone must know) that they cannot throw down a queen. William Cecil agrees, so the Privy Council will agree. Nobody will argue that a queen can be destroyed by such as John Knox, on our very doorstep. Parliament will have to vote funds, an army will have to be raised. Queen Mary will be sent home to Edinburgh and Elizabeth will have to send an army to fight for her.”
“She will do that?”
“She’s done it before. She sent an army to Scotland against the Catholic regent. She won that battle. She knows it can be done.” My lady stepgrandmother reflects. “And besides, it won’t come to that. The Scots lords don’t want a battle with England. Half of them are in our pay already. If Elizabeth and Cecil muster an army, the Scots will know that they have to take their queen back and make peace with her. It was Bothwell they couldn’t stomach; many of them truly love Queen Mary.”
“I like to think of her as free,” I say. “I know that she is a papist and perhaps a sinner, but I am glad she is out of Lochleven Castle and free, whatever happens next. I think of her often: as beautiful as Katherine, near to her in age, and I like to think that she, of all of us cousins, is free.”
There is one Tudor cousin who does not celebrate the freedom of Queen Mary. Our cousin Margaret Douglas, vengeful as a harpy, dashes with her husband, the Earl of Lennox, to court, both of them draped in deep perpetual mourning for their son the wastrel Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, to fling themselves at Elizabeth’s feet in tears: they must have justice for their son. Queen Mary is his killer, she must be sent back to Scotland in irons, she must be tried for murder. Elizabeth must arrest her, she must be burned as a husband killer.
The queen is impatient with her cousin. Darnley went to Scotland at his mother’s bidding and refused to come home to England when he was commanded by Elizabeth; she will never forget that. He took up arms against his wife; we have all heard that he held a primed pistol to her pregnant belly. He was certainly a victim of the Scots lords, who hated him; but there is no certain evidence that Queen Mary was involved in the plot. And anyway, Margaret my cousin should know by now that Elizabeth has a resilient conscience. How does she think Amy Dudley died?
Elizabeth explains, gently enough, that the Scots cannot try their queen, no people can put their ordained monarch on trial. Equally, Elizabeth has no authority over Mary. They are both queens and Elizabeth cannot arrest Mary or imprison her. Queens make the law, so they are above the law. She is certain that Mary will have a full explanation when she meets her mother-in-law. It is a private matter between them. In short, nobody cares very much what Margaret Douglas thinks. To be honest, nobody ever has.
But it makes me uneasy, as the days get warmer and I have no reply from Aunt Bess, Countess of Shrewsbury, as she is now, and no news from court that I am to be moved anywhere else. It makes me uneasy that I am still a prisoner, held by my stepgrandmother, and at the same time, my cousin Mary Queen of Scots is in the safekeeping of Sir Francis Knollys at Carlisle Castle. It seems that Elizabeth has no accusation to bring against either of us, her cousins; but both of us are still imprisoned. Does she think she can hold us both till we die of despair like Katherine?
Elizabeth sends Mary some clothes; she has nothing but the riding dress she escaped in. But when they come to unpack the parcel it is little more than rags: two torn shifts, two pieces of black velvet, two pairs of shoes, nothing else.
“Why would she insult her cousin the Queen of Scots?” my stepgrandmother asks me. “Why would she treat her with such contempt?”
Both of us look at the tattered footstool and the two ragged tapestries that have been my household goods for so long, at the battered cup that Elizabeth sent from the servery for my use.
“To warn her,” I say slowly. “Like she warned Katherine, like she warns me. That we are poor without her favor, that we are prisoners without her favor. She may say that she cannot arrest another queen, but if Queen Mary is the guest of Francis Knollys and cannot leave, then what is she if not Elizabeth’s prisoner? Do you think Cousin Mary understands the message? That she is a prisoner like me?”
GRIMSTHORPE CASTLE,
LINCOLNSHIRE, SUMMER 1568
The Privy Council meets at Greenwich Palace and announces that Mary Queen of Scots will have to face a trial. She cannot be returned to Scotland by an English army without her innocence proved. She must be accused of killing her husband and the penalty for killing a husband—a crime of petty treason since it is a rebellion against the natural order as well as a murder—is death by burning. Amazingly, Elizabeth does not reprimand the council for disagreeing with her—which tells us all that they are her mouthpiece—saying what she does not dare. But Elizabeth does rule that Mary may not come to court to explain her actions, as one queen to another. She says that she and Mary cannot meet, that the Scots queen’s reputation is sullied by the rumors. The idea that a woman guilty of adultery cannot attend Elizabeth’s court would be funny if it were not so terrible when applied to our kinswoman Mary. How will she ever get a fair hearing if she is not allowed to speak? And if the Privy Council, that chorus inspired by Elizabeth and Cecil, are saying that she must be tried for murder without being able to speak in her own defense, then those two have surely decided that she is guilty and must die.
But Mary is too clever for them. She rejects the scraps of velvets and the old shoes, she calls it “a cold calling,” and Sir Francis, embarrassed with rags in his hands, says there has been some stupid mistake from the groom of the wardrobe. Mary says that she is a queen: she wears ermine, she is royal. Nobody should send her clothes for any rank less than royalty. And—equally—no one can try her, she is an ordained monarch: only God can judge her.
Elizabeth backs down, swiftly and speedily, as only Elizabeth can. She writes to her cousin that it is not to be a trial, for—of course!—a queen cannot be put on trial. It is an inquiry into the behavior of the Scots queen’s half brother Lord Moray. She is not accused: he is. They will inquire if he has been treasonous, and then restore her. They will clear her name and return her to her throne. She will be freed of scandal and able to take her son into her keeping again.
“She will be free,” I say. “Thank God that at least she will be free.”
In July I finally receive a reply from my aunt Bess. She writes to me under her new seal, a lion rampant. I smile as I look at it and break the seal. I like to think of my aunt Bess with a rampant lion as her crest, it’s very apt.
Dearest Mary, I am sorry that I cannot give you a better answer for I should be glad to have you at my home (at any one of my many homes!) for the love that I bear your mother and yourself, dear Mary. But before I could ask the queen if I might house you, she has asked me to undertake a greater task than keeping you. My husband, the earl, and I are to take a house guest—perhaps you can guess who? And we are
to keep her safe, and keep her from our enemies, and watch over her letters, and report on all that she does. She is to be a guest but she is not to leave until we return her to Scotland. She is to be a guest but we are to inquire into every letter that she has in her casket, and discover everything that we can, and then judge as we see fit.
You will guess by now who is coming into my keeping, and why I cannot invite you! The queen is trusting my husband, the earl, and me to keep Mary Queen of Scots safe in our keeping until such time as the queen is ready to return her to Scotland. We will do this without error, and imagine what honor and profit it will be for us to house the Queen of Scots and to return her to her throne. When she has gone back to Scotland, I will ask the queen if you may be freed to live in one of our little houses with great pleasure.
I drop the letter to the floor. I feel as sick as the day that Katherine was taken to the Tower and Elizabeth had me hand her her gloves. “She will never get away,” I predict. “Mary Queen of Scots will never get away. Elizabeth has her in her web, as she has me. Both of us will die in our prisons.”
GRIMSTHORPE CASTLE,
LINCOLNSHIRE, CHRISTMAS 1568
It is a bright cold Christmas at Grimsthorpe and my stepgrandmother is with the court so her household and I celebrate the season quietly in her absence. I am allowed to walk in the gardens, down to the stables and all around the courtyard of the beautiful castle, but when the snow falls and the drifts lie thick in the lanes, I cannot go farther. I don’t mind being imprisoned by snowdrifts, I know that a thaw will come.
The Last Tudor Page 49
