Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  “But she is a murderess!” said Norfolk. “I have no wish to live with a murderess!”

  “How do you know she is a murderess?”

  “Because of those letters! They were foul, disgusting things! And in your indictment of her, the one prepared by Buchanan, you describe her abusing her body with Bothwell. No, I could never touch such a woman!”

  “Ah, those letters…” Maitland laughed. “Lord Morton swears they were found as he described, but the truth is we have no way of knowing what exactly he found. He has had more than a year to prepare the contents of the casket. They are only as reliable as Morton is honest.”

  The Duke began to bite the inside of his lip. “Which is not very.”

  “An understatement. I know the casket contained other letters as well, ones that Morton did not see fit to show us at the time, but which were most likely love letters from that Throndsen woman.”

  “What Throndsen woman?”

  Did Norfolk know nothing? thought Maitland.

  “Bothwell’s Norwegian mistress who, after being cast away, had what every discarded mistress in the world can only dream of: complete revenge,” he explained.

  “How? Did she give him syphilis?”

  God, Norfolk was stupid! “Of course not,” said Maitland carefully. “In that case her happiness would be blighted by the fact that she herself had the disease. No, the fates acted as her avenger. First the west wind blew Bothwell onto the coast of Norway, and then events so arranged themselves that Bothwell had to submit to an investigation by the Viceroy of Norway, Erik Rosenkrantz, in Bergen, before being permitted to proceed on his journey. And that official happened to be Anna Throndsen’s cousin, and when the court asked anyone with a grievance or debt against Bothwell to come forward, why, just as Bothwell was thinking himself safe, in came Anna! In came Anna and out went his chance of freedom.”

  “My God!” Norfolk looked stunned.

  “For the hearing with Anna delayed his departure long enough that other questions could be raised before he could slip away. He was sent to Denmark for further questioning. And now he’s languishing in prison in Malmö, awaiting the Danish king’s pleasure.”

  “So that’s why Bothwell is in gaol! That’s how they got him!”

  “Fate, Norfolk, fate. His deeds pursued him and there was no escape. And thus Anna has injured him in Scandinavia and then again in Scotland. For Bothwell kept her letters against just such an occasion, doubtless as evidence to show how temperamental and demanding she was, in case there was ever any question of his treatment of her. Then they fell into the hands of his enemies, Morton and the rest. Make of that what you will.”

  “Ah.”

  “Just remember, all the casket letters have been copied several times over. The ones you saw are not the originals. Easy enough to weave in some phrases from the Throndsen woman, along with a few of Morton’s ideas.”

  He paused for breath. He was not absolutely sure that was what had happened, but all evidence pointed that way. The phrasing in the letters the Lords chose to exhibit was too variable, the style blatantly changed from one paragraph to the next, and some expressions and feelings were incompatible with what Maitland knew of the Queen’s temperament. She was passionate, she was impulsive, God knew she could become stormy and angry, but she never whined or whimpered, and she never debased herself.

  Norfolk was looking confused. “But—”

  “And even if the Queen was a murderess, it was with just cause,” continued Maitland. “She had loved the Lord Darnley and heaped honours upon him, but he repaid her by unfaithfulness and public drunkenness. No woman of spirit should be expected meekly to endure that! Think you Queen Elizabeth would tolerate that for a moment?”

  The Duke laughed. “No, indeed!”

  “Think of it, Norfolk! Think of the duty you would render the two realms, and the peace of mind you would confer on your own Queen—and give longed-for freedom to the other one! And she would have a husband worthy of her noble self at last.”

  * * *

  After her usual spare dinner, Elizabeth spent some time reading Roman history before summoning Cecil. She always found history soothing, reminding her that the best way to master present history was to be aware of what was happening, and always think carefully before acting.

  She stretched her legs out before the aromatic fire, which was burning hot and silently, and lost herself in her reading. Only reluctantly did she finally put the book aside and call for Cecil.

  Cecil came straightway and, smiling wanly at her, proffered a gift. “For New Year’s, Your Majesty,” he said.

  “Ah, yes. The Year of Our Lord fifteen hundred and sixty-nine,” she said. “Am I allowed to open it now? I am in need of something to lift my spirits. I fear they are sagging mightily.”

  “Oh, indeed you may. This is not the formal gift I shall present at the court ceremony, but something for your personal use.” Cecil patted it. “I would be most pleased if you would open it.”

  “Thank you, then.” She unwrapped it and found a long box with an envelope attached. “You have written verses,” she said, with delighted surprise.

  “Indeed, as everyone else at court does, I thought I would try.”

  Elizabeth skimmed them. “Well done. I believe you are becoming younger and younger. Only the young understand poetry. Now”—she opened the long box—“what’s this? Ah—” She extracted a fan of exquisite workmanship. Its blades were carved in arabesque patterns, and the silk covering was painted with roses and lilies; about half the fan was pure lace. “Why, Cecil!” She was genuinely touched.

  “I know you are fond of fans, and suffer in the heat.”

  She laughed outright. “But, Cecil—it is only December.!”

  “Well, we like to plan ahead.”

  “Indeed we do,” said Elizabeth, and her smile faded. “I have heard rumours,” she suddenly said. “Rumours about the earls of Westmoreland and Northumberland. That is why I added them to the commission, to see if they would betray themselves.”

  “What rumours?”

  “That they are plotting with the Queen of Scots … for what, I am not sure. For more than just her escape, I fear. I believe it may be another Pilgrimage of Grace sort of venture. You know, the north has always clung to the old ways … it is very secretive and inward. The families of Northumberland and Westmoreland have been almost like monarchs safe in their domains. I pray it will not lead to treason. So the Queen of Scots is enticing them!”

  “Your Majesty, I warned you, and Knollys warned you, that she is a danger. Knollys even said it would be impossible to hold her, and that she herself told him that if she were not set free, she would consider herself at liberty to take any means to free herself. She believed that after this commission you would restore her to her throne, and so she has waited patiently and made no overt moves. But you will not do that, will you? Let us speak honestly.”

  “Thump on the arras, Cecil, and check the windowsill,” said Elizabeth. When he started to rise, she put out her arm and stopped him. “Nay, do not. Even if you found no one, I believe our words might still be overheard. I will not deliver my verdict in advance. But I can tell you that things have not gone as I had hoped. Things are not resolved by this conference. Lennox is still clamouring for vengeance, like a tiresome parrot. Knollys begs to be released from his duty, and so does Lord Scrope. There are rumours that the Duke of Norfolk is toying with whatever the two northern earls are planning. The Lord James fears to lose control of Scotland by his long absence.”

  “Well?”

  “I have come to the reluctant conclusion that we must find a more … permanent situation for Mary. She must be placed out of danger.”

  “Her danger, or yours?”

  “Both.” Elizabeth smiled sweetly. “She must be moved away from the north. Bolton is too close to the earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland. And these makeshift arrangements must be improved upon. I will find someone who is willing to be her … long-te
rm host. Someone who is rich enough to have many dwellings to choose from, and can house her in royal comfort. Someone who lives a fair distance from both London and the north. Someone who is married, and proof against her … charms. I almost said ‘wiles’! Someone who is Protestant, and has no wistful leanings toward the old religion. Ah, where shall I find such a lord?”

  “You impose many conditions. But doubtless one will suggest himself.” He looked at her in consternation. “But, please, Your Majesty, can you not tell me—as your chief minister, as the one who must know your thinking in order to execute it—what are your true feelings about the Queen of Scots?”

  Elizabeth thought for so long that Cecil assumed she meant not to reply. Finally she said, “I do not know.” Her voice was soft. “Truly it depends on her behaviour from now on. I cannot pass judgement on what went before. It is too confused and contradictory, and most of it is compiled by her enemies. But now she has a clean slate. She can choose to live circumspectly and loyally, and in time … well, time brings in many revenges. Time can be her friend. Time, in this case, is probably the best friend she now has. But if she turns to false friends like Philip, and English traitors, then … that is her choice.”

  * * *

  On January tenth, 1569, Elizabeth gave her appraisal of the hearings. Cecil stood, and requested all the commissioners to stand while he read, “‘That forasmuch as there has been nothing deduced against the Regent and his government that might impair their honour and allegiances, so, on the other part, there had been nothing sufficient produced nor shown by them against their sovereign, whereby the Queen of England should conceive or take any evil opinion of the Queen her good sister, for anything she had yet seen.’”

  The Lord James was free to return to Scotland, and even given a five-thousand-pound loan. Queen Mary was to remain in custody.

  III

  Mary jounced and jolted along as her horse made its way painfully over the rutted roads—if they could be called that—in the icy landscape between Bolton and Tutbury. Just after the conference ended, she had received an abrupt order from Queen Elizabeth: she and her household—reduced immediately to half its size—were to be transferred to the custody of the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury, one hundred miles to the south. No promises, no explanations, no apologies. Just go.

  Mary had resisted; she had refused to travel during this dangerously cold and severe winter. But it was to no avail. Her Majesty the Queen of England decreed that she must go, and go she must.

  Now the journey was proving every bit as onerous as she had feared, and more so. The January winds were unrelenting, and they ripped across the landscape, already lying prostrate under heavy snowfalls. She had become ill after the first day’s journey, but had been able to keep going. Lady Livingston had become so sick that they had had to leave her behind on one of their stops, this one at Rotherham. All along the way, Mary’s heart was so heavy from the news about the conclusion of the conference that she had to force herself to look at the landscape.

  After all, I may never get another chance. This is England, the land I wanted to see so badly that I insisted on coming, despite all the advice of my best friends, she thought. This is Elizabeth, my sister sovereign, who promised to help me in distress. She has helped me so much that she got me to agree to a hearing to allow my subjects to justify themselves to me so I could be restored to the throne, and as a result my so-called sins were aired in public but I was not allowed to defend myself—even though she stipulates that I must “clear” myself before she can condescend to see me. I must clear myself, but I am not allowed to speak! Ah, it is all so obvious! And so I am to be kept a prisoner while my brother returns merrily to Scotland, with English money in his pocket!

  And why could she not free me as well? Because she means yet to help me, she says. O ye holy angels, have you ever heard such convoluted logic?

  They were passing down through Yorkshire, following the course of the River Ure. This was the area trampled by the Pilgrimage of Grace, when forty thousand peasants had risen up to protest the religious changes; she could see exactly what they had protested, in the ruined ribs of the great Cistercian monastery, Fountains Abbey. Her little party made its way past the remains of the Abbey just at sunset. They showed stark and white like a skeleton on the already white landscape; this ruin was the handiwork of Henry VIII, the great spoiler and reformer.

  The rebels had been in control here, briefly, before they were betrayed. Henry VIII had tricked them into laying down their arms and sending a leader to London. Then he killed him, thought Mary. Trusting a Tudor is most unwise—I know that now. Would I had known it earlier. I never thought to find Henry VIII in the bosom of a woman. The more fool I.

  They spent a night in Ripon, then the next night in Wetherby. The next day they were to make their way to Pontefract Castle, at the southernmost extremity of Yorkshire. Daylight came late, and so they were not mounted and ready to set out until well after ten o’clock. Even so, a dull purplish grey light suffused everything and made it hard to see the cracks and sleek stretches of ice on the path. There were few other travellers, and it made England look as bleak and empty as stretches of the Scottish moors. Mary was deep in thought when a party of beggars hobbled out of a hedge by the side of the road and began crying for alms. They scrambled round the horses, squeaking like mice, holding up their babies, crying, “Food, alms, if you have mercy!” Their feet were bound in rags rather than boots or even shoes, and their hands were bare, black with dirt. They looked like witches.

  I, too, am a beggar here, she thought with a shock. I had to borrow clothes; I was almost as naked as they when I arrived in England.

  “A moment,” she said, reining in her horse. She dug in her purse for some coins. Lord Scrope would be annoyed; let him be. “Pray you, wait.” She turned and signaled to her guards. “Here.” She pressed a coin into one man’s rough hand. He kept hanging on to her saddle, and she attempted to detach him. “That is all I may spare,” she said.

  The man rubbed the coin and then bit on it. His teeth were surprisingly sound. He caught her eye and mouthed, “I am Hameling.”

  Hameling! One of the Earl of Northumberland’s men. Of course! Now she recognized him.

  “Move on here!” Lord Scrope was saying.

  Quickly, Mary pulled an enamelled gold ring off her finger and gave it to him. “Bid the Earl remember his promise to help me,” she said, pushing him away. “Get you gone now!” she said loudly.

  As they plodded away, he winked at her.

  Her heart was leaping with excitement as they made their way onward in the smudged winter day. She was not alone; she was not forgotten.

  * * *

  Pontefract Castle, with its gloomy associations of royal murder—it was there Richard II had been starved to death—reared up before them and then swallowed them up in the twilight. Within its walls dripping with cold, Mary tried to sleep. Her party, reduced now to only thirty persons, was huddled on makeshift beds.

  Northumberland. Northumberland was sympathetic to her cause. That meant that his friend, Westmoreland, probably stood with him. Both those earls had been present—representing Elizabeth—at the conference. That they were unswayed by the prejudicial hearings was a miracle. And West-moreland’s wife was Norfolk’s sister. A sturdy piece of cloth of family sympathies was being woven—a piece of cloth that might serve as her escape mantle. So thinking, she slept more soundly than she had in weeks.

  * * *

  They wound their way slowly down through Derbyshire, a small county that lay at the centre of England like the pit of a plum. Its hills were gentle and it appeared to have many streams and valleys; several forests covered faraway hills, making black patches against the white snow. It was reputed to be a very green, rich county, but of that Mary could see no evidence in this dead time of year. The Earl of Shrewsbury, her new “host,” had most of his holdings here, and they passed near two of them: Wingfield Manor and Chatsworth. But, although these were ne
w manors, the Queen had ordered them to take up residence at Tutbury Castle, farther south, at the very border of Derbyshire and Staffordshire.

  Mary had asked about Tutbury, and had been told that it had a magnificent view over the surrounding fields beyond the River Dove, and had abundant game in its nearby Needwood Forest, which was also associated with Robin Hood. John of Gaunt had held his Court of Minstrels here, making the place, Scrope had assured her, “the very essence of Merrie England.”

  “Ah, yes, Merrie England,” she had said. “Is that what I came to see? Indeed it is legendary—like the fashions of France and the wild country of Scotland.” As a child she had wondered about King Arthur, Robin Hood, Richard the Lionheart, the longbow archers, and the Yule log and Merlin the magician. So now she was to be lodged in quarters that called all of that to mind. She was also curious about the Earl of Shrewsbury, and had managed to obtain only bits of information from the close-mouthed Lord Scrope. The Earl was very wealthy. The Earl was newly married, but for the second time. His wife was almost as rich as he was, and eight years older. As part of the marriage negotiations, they had married their sons and daughters to one another, to keep the wealth in the family. The Earl was a Protestant, but was lax in prosecuting Catholics in his county. As a result, Derbyshire and neighbouring Lancastershire were well endowed with Catholic families.

  “But what is he like?” Mary had asked.

  “Colourless,” Lord Scrope had finally admitted.

  “What is his wife like?”

  “Colourful. Besides her own colours, she’s added the ones leeched from her three previous husbands.”

  * * *

  They saw Tutbury on the horizon long before they reached it, as they approached the confluence of the rivers Trent and Dove. It bristled with towers and walls on a redstone cliff overlooking the banks of the Dove, and with the setting sun behind it, it looked like jagged dog’s teeth. Mary shuddered the second she saw it. Merrie England? This was anything but merry; it was a prison.