The Queen's Almoner

by Tonya Ulynn Brown

  Mary reached down and touched the top of my head, running her fingers gently through my hair. I could feel the shaking of her body as she too wept for the cost of her actions. She sank to her knees and cupped my face with both of her hands. “Thomas, please don’t. I cannot bear it. You are making this so difficult for me. Please.”

  “Do you love him?” I grabbed her wrists then slid my hands over hers to pull them from my face. Pushing her away from me, I said, “First, he stole your heart, then he stole your virtue. And now you are his prisoner. What you once would have shunned, you now have found a reason to acquiesce. A marriage, by principle, you would have eschewed, you now have an excuse to relent.”

  The injury I saw upon her face would cast a dark shadow upon my heart for all the days of my life. I had not meant to speak so brusquely, but I was desperate to make her see reason. For many years after, I would find myself pondering the man for whom she so willingly threw away her life. And for what cause? What did she feel for the Earl of Bothwell, that she had not felt for me? Had she ever considered leaving it all behind to be with Thomas Broune? If I had, God forbid, placed her in a compromising position, would she’d been given reason enough to give herself to me completely?

  If there had been more time, perhaps I could have posed all those questions to her. But instead, only one came to my mind in those final moments together. “Why not me?”

  An uncomfortable silence hung in the air, and for a moment I thought she didn’t hear me. When she finally spoke, her answer speared my heart. “You never asked,” she whispered, the hurt still apparent on her face. “Would that you had been brave enough to ask that question of me sooner. I waited a long time to hear those words from your lips.”

  I wanted to speak, but no words came.

  She kissed the palm of my hand and stepped away from me. “Now a decision has been made. It is a decision that cannot be undone.”

  Just then there was a rough pounding on her chamber door. The guards had finally come.

  “Mary…” I tried.

  “Good-bye, Thomas. Please don’t forget me,” She clasped the gold crucifix that she wore about her neck and jerked it free. Grabbing my hand once more, she shoved the cross into my palm, closing my hand around it. She then moved to the door to open it.

  I was whisked away, and given a clear warning once more, that I was to attempt no further contact with the queen.

  It would be twenty years before I would see her again.

  Part III

  The gods, the heavens, death, envy and hate rail on;

  They are deaf, angry, cruel, marshalled against me.

  To pray, weep, suffer, be a friend to everyone

  Are the only cures for the many woes I see.

  ~Mary Queen of Scots~

  ~34~

  July 1568

  My Dearest Thomas,

  Please forgive the presumption that I could write to you as an old friend. I am forever reminded of our final moments together at Dunbar Castle and have often wondered if you also have forsaken me altogether.

  As I have been forced to abdicate my throne to my infant son, I am no longer your queen. I lean heavily upon our old chords of friendship now and pray that those are enough to persuade you to not abandon me.

  It still amazes me that so many intelligent men, who strongly persuaded me to take the Earl of Bothwell as a husband, would suddenly turn their backs on their queen and the man whom they had chosen to make their king. It is these same men, who pursued Bothwell and I, culminating in a standoff on Carberry Hill. I do not have time to share with you the details of that disaster at this time but rest assured that I will never stop fighting for my beloved Scotland, whether she recognizes me as her queen or not.

  And now to the point of this letter. After Carberry Hill, Bothwell was apprehended and exiled to Norway. I fled to England in hopes that my fair cousin, Elizabeth, would come to our aid. Alas! How wrong I was. She instead has placed me under house arrest for fear that I am a threat to her throne. I am desperate, Thomas. I have been told that I will soon be moved to another place of residence, further away from the Scottish border. With every step further from my homeland, I fear that it will be more difficult to gain the support I need.

  Please, if you are able, write appeals to the men you know, the men that you have worked with these many years. I wish to return to Scotland, but I cannot do it without my supporters backing me.

  I anxiously await your response.

  Yours still,

  Mary

  I tore up the letter. Years later, I wished that I hadn’t destroyed the very last letter that I ever received from her. But there was so much contained in that one missive, spoken and unspoken, that I couldn’t bear to read it again. Her thinking that I would abandon her, that I would just let our friendship die away, tore my heart out. And when she signed the letter as Mary, instead of M.R.—Maria Regina—Queen Mary, I could not look upon it again. She had truly been betrayed, in the worst way that a sovereign could, but it wasn’t at my hands. That, I could promise her, would never happen.

  However, my hands were tied. Oh, I wrote letters for her. I approached everyone I met, anyone who would listen, but unfortunately, my influence did not extend so far as to the queen’s redemption. And when my letters to Mary began to be returned to me, opened yet unanswered, I could only speculate as to what fate had befallen my beloved queen.

  ~35~

  February 1587

  William and I arrived at Fortheringhay Castle as the watery sun was sinking behind the foreboding edifice. I stuck my hand in the pocket of my overcoat, touching the letter that Sir James Melville had sent to me, assuring me that I would be permitted entrance at the castle, and an audience with Mary.

  “Would that Maitland were here. He could have been a great help,” I observed, stroking the leather strap of my mount’s reins.

  “Aye, Father. But remember, in the end, Maitland could not save himself.”

  “I remember. Still, he did all that he could to fight for the queen’s cause.”

  “And he lost his life for it. Which is why I’m glad your letters seemed to mysteriously never reach the queen.”

  I eyed my son speculatively. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought he had something to do with that. However, he had worked tirelessly the past two months to try to help me—to try to help Mary. Which is why I knew better than to question his actions.

  Three months earlier, word had reached me in St. Andrews that a trial had taken place, and Mary had been found guilty of conspiring to take Elizabeth’s throne. We attempted every possible recourse, writing letters and employing statesmen with a superior knowledge of English law, but to no avail. Many letters went unanswered, or returned with apologies, such as the one from Mary’s former brother by marriage, King Henry of France, who claimed his hands were tied.

  I looked over my shoulder before voicing my next complaint.

  “And would that King James could have found the fortitude and courage to do that which was right. I know he has been estranged from his mother these twenty years, yet still, it is most disappointing.”

  “Father,” William said quietly, drawing up beside me and dismounting his horse. “I have explained all this before. James is heavily influenced by his privy council, and the Lords of the Congregation. They had no tolerance for Queen Mary, nor her suspected treasonous activities since she abdicated the throne and was chased out of Scotland so many years ago. He now has no use for her either.”

  I turned and looked at him, annoyed at his answer.

  “I’m not saying it’s right. I’m just saying that’s the reason.”

  William had first-hand knowledge of the thoughts of King James. As his mother had wished, I sent him to court at the age of 10, and a year later our king himself, being only about the age of 10 years, began to rule with barely more freedom than what had previously been allowed by his regents. The boys became fast friends and had remained so, even when William set off for the Univ
ersity of Glasgow at the age of sixteen to study law. After he left the university, he returned to court and had been one of James’ closest advisors since.

  William’s words pulled me out of my reminiscing. “Father, are you well?” His brow was now creased with concern as he looked up at me, still mounted on my horse. I nodded wordlessly as I swung myself down and looked about for a servant or even a guard to either greet or apprehend us. The portcullis was unmanned, but it showed no signs of being penetrable from the outer court, as it was closed up tight against intruders.

  As if conjured by my thoughts, a guard appeared as we approached the gates. William stepped forward and spoke to him. He eyed us suspiciously; the large red plume of his helmet bobbing up and down over his left eye as he listened to William’s explanation as to who we were and why we had come.

  “We’ve received no notification as to the prisoner expecting visitors.”

  “She is not expecting us,” William explained. “There was no time to write as we learned only a few days ago that her death warrant has just been signed, and she awaits execution shortly.”

  “How have ye come about this information?” The guard challenged again. “Not even Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, knows that it is to be carried out so quickly.”

  At this I dashed forward. “What mean ye, the queen has no knowledge? Was it not her hand that put ink to parchment and forever sealed the fate of our beloved queen?” I spoke so vehemently, that the evidence of my words was left in the spittle that flew from my mouth. William handed me a piece of cloth to wipe my face as he laid a hand upon my shoulder.

  “Father, please. Do not put an end to our purpose before we are able to see it come to fruition,” he whispered. I knew he was right, but it took all my strength not to reach through the slats of the portcullis and wring the guard’s neck.

  “Good sir,” William continued. “Your queen may not have been made aware of these proceedings, but the news is all over Scotland. My father has a letter from Sir James Melville, stating that he would be granted entrance at Fotheringhay and given an audience with our former queen.”

  “Who is this Melville?” the guard sneered. “I do not know this man.”

  “Nay, but Sir Amyas Paulet knows him. Please, sir, speak to Sir Amyas, and see whether what I speak to you be of a truth.”

  At the mention of Mary’s jailer, Amyas Paulet, the guard’s countenance changed. He did not immediately lift the portcullis for us to enter, but he agreed to seek out Paulet and see what was to be done with the two of us. He left us standing without, so that he might verify our story.

  By this time, the rain that had fallen steadily the whole of our journey had begun to turn to a light snow. Yet the freezing temperatures and precipitation were nothing compared to the ice I felt in my soul. Upon hearing of the signing of Mary’s death warrant, a darkness so black had enveloped me. It practically paralyzed by body. A vice gripped my mind. It was only by the hand of Providence that William had been visiting me from Edinburgh when Melville’s letter first arrived. I couldn’t breathe. My vision went black and I was arrested by a feeling of complete and utter despair. William immediately wrote a letter to Melville, knowing that he had connections, and asking that he find a way for us to get to her. That had been four days ago, and it had taken the news of her death warrant two days to reach us. With almost a week having passed already, we weren’t sure if we would even reach her in time.

  William turned to me. “Father, if she had already been executed, the guard would have said so. I believe we have made it in time.”

  I looked into my son’s eyes and for the first time realized how much it meant to him to get me to Mary before it was too late. He had never met her, not since he was a baby at least, but he knew how much she meant to me, and it moved me unspeakably to know that he had went through so much trouble to get me here before it was too late.

  “You look tired,” I said to him. “If we get inside Fotheringhay, I want you to get some rest. You have worked tirelessly to see this old man have peace.”

  He chortled quietly, but before he could say anything, the guard appeared again.

  “Ye are to follow me through the gate into the inner courtyard. There ye will be searched and anything on your person that is found to be offensive will be confiscated, and ye will be arrested. Ye are a guest of her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. Do not take her generosity, nor her hospitality for granted. Ye are consorting with a traitor and any action deemed to be putting her Majesty at risk will be dealt with swiftly and with finality.”

  William and I glanced at each other before nodding in consent. Once past the gate, we could see that the castle was more heavily guarded than what it appeared to be from the outside. We followed the brusque guard into the inner court where we submitted to a thorough search of our persons. They read the contents of the letter that I had received from Melville as well as a couple of others that I had received from Thomas Randolph, who had once served as Elizabeth’s ambassador to Scotland. We had almost passed inspection, when a guard found the chunk of metal that I had tucked into my coat pocket. Upon pulling it out, he found a crucifix that I had brought for Mary. She had pulled it from around her neck the night the guards had come to force me from Dunbar. Shoving it into my hand, she begged me not to forget her. Now I stood here with two guards jeering at me and questioning my possession of the idolatrous ornament. Sir Amyas was in turned called, and we spent another hour explaining how I had come to have the crucifix in my possession, who it belonged to, and what the significance was. In the end, I was allowed to keep the crucifix, with the promise that, as a man of the cloth, should I be planning anything sinister for its uses, the Almighty would strike me dead.

  When we were finally permitted entrance into Fotheringhay, we were led to a small apartment where William and I were to share accommodations. A pretty, young maid was sent in to start a fire in the hearth. When her eyes caught William’s, she curtsied, her cheeks turning a subtle shade of pink. She then whisked from the room swiftly, only to return a few minutes later, carrying a tray of bread, cheese, and ale for our sustenance.

  “What is your name?” William inquired.

  “My name is Lizzy, my lord.”

  “Lizzy, do you think you can get us an audience with the queen?”

  “The queen?” she looked puzzled. “Oh, ye mean the Lady. The only queen we have in England is Elizabeth, my lord. Here, we call the woman ye are referring to, the Lady. She is very lovely and kind. She is quite queenly, but we call her the Lady,” she repeated.

  “Yes, the Lady,” William confirmed. “Can we see her?”

  Lizzy looked around uncomfortably, as if she had been asked to spy for us. “I don’t rightly know, my lord. I am just a maid, but I will see if I can find out for ye.” She curtsied again, and for the second time, she made a hurried exit.

  We were just finishing our ale when a light tapping was heard on the door. When William answered, Lizzy slipped in quickly and closed the door behind her. “My lord, the Lady is at prayer in the small chapel. That is where she spends most of her days.”

  “Will you show me to the chapel, miss?” I asked. She looked at me in surprise, as if seeing me for the first time.

  “I…I don’t know, sir. She usually does not wish to be disturbed when she is at prayer.”

  William spoke up again. “Miss, my father has known the Lady since they were children. We have come from very far to see her before she is…executed,” he finished emotionally.

  The color drained from the maid’s face indicating she had all but forgotten that Mary had a death sentence hanging over her. Her mouth made the form of an “O,” but she did not speak the exclamation. Instead she breathed, “I will take ye to her, sir.”

  I turned and looked at William. An insurmountable knot had formed in my throat, and I suddenly could not speak. “Would you like for me to accompany you, Father?” He sounded surprised, for he knew this was an encounter that I must make on my own.

  �
�No. I will go alone.” I motioned for the maid to proceed, and stepping out of the room with her, I took two huge breaths and tried to still my rapidly beating heart as we made our way down the isolated corridor. When we reached our destination, she motioned in the direction I should go, then curtsied once more and left me standing in front of the door of the chapel.

  ~36~

  February 1587

  I ran my hand through my hair and then took another deep breath, expanding my lungs to their fullest capacity. Nothing I did would calm the shaking that wracked my body as I stood at the threshold of the chapel. Realizing my dilemma had no other solution, I softly pushed open the door and stepped inside. The flickering glow of dozens of candles lined the tiny room, casting shadows on a small figure bent at the front of the altar. A wooden bench sat at the back of the room, and I took a seat, not wanting to disturb the angelic scene before me. A peacefulness permeated the chamber, as hushed prayers were sent heavenward from the mortal below. No other sound could be heard, except for an occasional sniffle or a shifting of her gown on the stone floor beneath her knees.

  I wondered how long she had been at penitent prayer, and after watching her for some time, I finally spoke.

  “Are you repenting of past actions, or of opportunities not taken?” My voice was low, but I knew she heard me, for I saw her head lift, and her body freeze in alarm. She did not speak, yet she did not continue in prayer either. She knelt on her knees, stiff as a branding rod and as still as a frightened mouse. I got up and moved closer to her, stepping slowly as not to frighten her. She still did not turn, but I noticed her shoulders rising and falling quickly as her breathing intensified. My own heart slammed within my chest, and I was sure she had to hear the euphoric pounding.

  I knelt on the cold floor behind her. I dared not touch her, for fear of shattering this ethereal trance we were in. I breathed in her familiar scent; lavender and that which was distinctly Mary. I watched as the tiny hairs that curled at the back of her slender neck wafted as my breath brushed against them. My skin reacted as well, turning to gooseflesh, and raising every hair on my body at the thought of her nearness.