Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  Still, the Queen took it hard. She read and reread the letter, silently. She put it down and paced.

  “Dearest sovereign,” Walsingham finally said, “do we have your permission to arrest her?”

  “No!” Elizabeth snapped.

  “We must have access to her papers,” insisted Walsingham. “She has stacks of them in her quarters at Chartley, zealously guarded. Now it is necessary, for your own safety, that we take them, so we know the extent of the plots.”

  Elizabeth kept scratching her neck, leaving red welts. “This letter…” she finally said, faintly. It had clearly disturbed her greatly. Her face looked as if it had been slapped: it showed shock and profound disillusionment. “This letter … I would she had never written it.”

  “She will soon feel the same way. But what was it Pilate said? ‘What I have written, I have written.’ It must stand as it is. And she must be arrested.”

  Elizabeth laughed, a thin little laugh. “How can a prisoner be arrested?”

  “And formally charged with her crime,” Walsingham insisted.

  “‘At last,’ she would say. ‘After eighteen years, I am formally charged with something.’ Perhaps that is why she did it. Perhaps—”

  “There can be no excuses. Treason is treason. The law is the law.”

  “What I have written, I have written. Very well. Do it.” Her voice was gruff.

  After Walsingham had left, she sat for a long time, unmoving, hoping the pain would subside.

  The extent of the pain was astounding. A ruler must come to accept walking with death every day, accept the hatred that would always come from a disgruntled few.

  But my own flesh and blood, a woman like myself, also an anointed queen, to plan my murder! The words kept repeating themselves in her mind, marching proudly in succession like a parade of knights: … then shall it be time to set the six gentlemen to work, taking order, upon the accomplishment of the said design.… She shuddered, feeling the knife. Who were these courtiers? Who were these people who served, unsuspected, in her very presence?

  And lest she misconstrue the reference, Walsingham had supplied the letter to which this was an answer, which was more explicit: … who for the zeal they bear unto the Catholic cause and Your Majesty’s service will undertake that tragic execution.…

  Thank you, Walsingham, she thought.

  Yet at the same time she was deeply grateful for such a clever and faithful servant. What if he were working for the other side?

  It has ever been my blessing that the Queen of Scots has never had a competent and loyal servant. Those that are competent have proved disloyal, and those that are loyal have proved incompetent.

  She dreaded what was now to come, what must now come.

  * * *

  On July twentieth, Gilbert Gifford crossed over to Europe, to avoid any questioning. Two weeks later, Ballard was arrested; at the news, Babington fled from his home into the depths of St. John’s Wood. Hiding by day, he cut his hair, stained his face with walnut juice, and moved only by night in the forest. He had never obtained the precious passport, and had no hopes of leaving England. At length, hunger drove him to the house of another of the conspirators, Jerome Bellamy.

  Walsingham’s agents were waiting, and arrested him on the spot. The wild-eyed young man was dragged away, his face gaunt and gypsylike in its darkness.

  “No! No!” he screamed. “Mercy!”

  * * *

  While Babington’s wife waited in the gardens of their great house in the Barbicon, the rest of the little band of conspirators were rounded up and herded into captivity.

  The plot was over, easily dismantled and quickly ended, gone like a sigh.

  XXVI

  With the dispatching of the letter, Mary felt a panic overtake her that quickly replaced her calmness. How could she have done it? She remembered all the reasons clearly, but now they receded before the one great fact: she had yielded to the temptation. And while it was true that if this came to light and she was punished, it would be less a punishment than a release from an afflicted existence, she was ashamed. Her only consolation came in the fact that undoubtedly the plot would come to nothing, as all the others had. Ironically, her body had responded stirringly to the prospect of battle: the swelling of her knees subsided; her spine straightened and her fingers tingled with newfound suppleness.

  From out of the windows she watched as the thick, dull green of July fields turned to hints of gold in early August. Sometimes she trembled as she laid her head against the window frame and looked down the road and across the fields. She had no idea from what direction Babington’s men would come, or whether she would even see them approach. It did not matter; that was the mysterious thing. Her part in it was over, just by sending the reply. There were no daydreams about crossing to France to live out her days, no fantasies about seeing James face-to-face at last and coming to an understanding, undoing all the damage that had been done between them. She did not imagine visiting her mother’s grave in Reims, or seeing her aunt Renée. The future was a blank, and did not concern her; for the first time in her life, she was free of both its menace and its promises. She had made her last decision.

  Paulet had taken to looking at her quizzically, observing her movements as if he were inspecting a racehorse. He himself had not been well, and was limping slightly. Mary’s servants reported that he had been seen walking in the fields, talking earnestly to someone from court, far out of earshot. Was she to be moved? Transferred to another keeper? It was all the same to her now.

  On August eighth, Mary had just finished her morning prayers when Paulet himself appeared on her threshold. He was leaning on his stick, and his smile looked painted on.

  “Madam,” he rasped, “an invitation has been received from one of our neighbours, Sir Walter Aston, to hunt the deer in his estate at Tixall. Would you care to try it? I notice your health has improved mightily in the last month.”

  “Hunt?” she said. It had been so long since she had been hunting, and Paulet had never allowed her out beyond the grounds. “But, my friend, what of you? You seem as uncomfortable in your legs as I was of late.”

  He allowed himself a slight smile. Was this her celebrated charm—to notice and care about the little things around her? Even though he knew it was false, it was strangely warming. “I can manage well enough. Would you like it?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Then make yourself ready. You may take a few attendants with you. Who knows whom you might meet? I understand Sir Walter may join us; if not on the hunt itself, he will certainly entertain us at his home afterward.”

  “Is not Tixall a new mansion?”

  “Indeed, yes. It is completed but recently, and is the most luxurious in the county, for comforts at least. Perhaps he will give us a tour, show us the new inventions he has installed. I have heard that there are some … sanitary arrangements … ahem…” His face grew red. “And he has had the house built facing south, most daring, what with the evil winds from that direction … nonetheless, he uses less wood and coal in winter for heating.”

  “I do look forward to seeing it, and thank him for the invitation,” said Mary.

  “Can you be ready to leave in an hour?” asked Paulet. “We can picnic in the fields for dinner.” He bowed stiffly, and took his leave.

  “Nau, Curie! Did you hear?” said Mary. “Would you care to join us? And Jane? Elizabeth?”

  “Nay, we have work to do,” said the women.

  “So do we, but we can lay it aside,” said the men.

  “Your main work is done,” said Mary to the secretaries. “Now you can take your ease. Come, let us make ready!”

  She threw open her trunk and pulled out a green riding habit. She had never had an opportunity to wear it, since old Balthazzar had made it for her with shaking hands two years earlier. There was even a little feathered bonnet go to with it. They had designed it based on sketches that had come from France just before her letters had ceased, so it was n
ot so terribly out of style.

  Jane dressed her hair, putting on her best wig. She never went without her wigs, as her real hair had been kept short the better to enable the preferred treatment for headaches—medicinal poultices—to be administered.

  “You look lovely,” said Jane, studying Mary’s face. The colour had come back into it, the lines softened, for no apparent reason. Nothing had happened, no easing of the conditions of confinement, and yet this noticeable change.

  “Thank you.” Mary wondered if they would be met by any of the neighbours, if not on the hunt itself, then at the reception at Tixall. It would be heaven, to see some new faces.

  * * *

  The day was hot and fair, and by ten o’clock they were riding out beyond the moat—Mary and her two secretaries and faithful physician. Not that she expected to be taken ill, but she was glad to be able to give him an outing, something pleasant in his long days of serving her.

  The guard contingent was heavier than usual, but it was of no moment. They descended from the hill, leaving Chartley behind. Mary turned to look at it, able to see it in its setting for the first time. Her own quarters looked so tiny.

  The hazy August air, the thick smell of heated earth, enveloped her like a mantle.

  It is no wonder the pagans, always had an earth goddess, she thought. Today even I feel her presence—mellow, swollen, kindly. I see her in the weighted grapevines and branches of the pear trees, bent with heavy fruit. I feel her radiant touch in the sun on my cheek; I smell her perfume in the flanks of these healthy horses; I hear her voice in the cries and calls of the half-grown birds now leaving their nests and learning to fly. In France they understood that to honour the classic gods was not to be unfaithful to the true ones; in France …

  If I go to France … No, do not think of it.

  The hunters halted and gathered in one spot preparatory to blowing the horn and loosing the hounds. Many knew this was her last opportunity to refasten her bonnet and take a drink from her riding-bottle.

  Suddenly a company of horsemen appeared on the horizon, riding fast.

  They must be chasing someone, was Mary’s first thought. But I saw no one else on the road.

  Then at once she realized: It was Babington! He had come for her!

  But I am not ready, this is not the time, I wanted to hunt …

  Fool! How ungrateful can you be?

  She clutched her reins, preparing herself. Her heart was thudding. This was not supposed to happen, not really, it had all been a game of pretend.…

  The men were approaching, and their speed was not slackening. Did they mean to run Paulet and the guards down? There was a flash, the glint of metal in the sun. The swords were out. She flinched, and turned her head away.

  She heard the thunder of the hooves, then voices. She raised her eyes to see a thickset gentleman, dressed in an elaborate green-and-gold costume, dismounting. He saluted Paulet, who seemed unsurprised. Paulet then dismounted, and together they walked over to her.

  “Sir Thomas Gorges, special emissary from Queen Elizabeth,” announced Paulet in a high, nasal voice.

  “Madam!” cried the green-and-gold envoy in ringing tones. “The Queen my mistress finds it very strange that you, contrary to the pact and engagement made between you, should have conspired against her and her State, a thing which she could not have believed had she not seen proofs of it with her own eyes and known it for certain.” He glared at Mary.

  “Sir, I know not what you mean, I have not—”

  “A horrible conspiracy against the life of the Queen has been discovered, in which you have shared!” he cried. “As a result, I am to conduct you to Tixall. You are under arrest, Madam!”

  Nau and Curie had ridden over, taking their place on either side of her.

  “Away with them!” said Gorges. “They are under arrest, too! Take them to the Tower!”

  Soldiers immediately surrounded the secretaries and dragged them away.

  “Now, Madam, turn your horse toward Tixall!”

  He nodded to one of the soldiers, who positioned his spear at Mary’s horse.

  “Master Paulet, you knew of this!” Mary cried. “It was for this you brought me here!”

  The keeper just looked at her, and did not answer.

  “I refuse to go! I refuse to go!” she cried. “You want only to search my rooms, and steal my possessions, and plant false evidence against me in my absence! You have no right, you know it is illegal! You Judas!”

  “I am no Judas,” he said with an injured air. “I know whom I serve: my Queen Elizabeth. I never pretended to be your friend, nor to serve you. Indeed, it would be impossible to do so, as you are my own Queen’s enemy.”

  “No! It is not so!”

  “Be quiet! Obey the orders, or I shall bind you and put you in a carriage and transport you to Tixall. For, make no mistake, that is where you are going!”

  Gorges yanked on her horse’s bridle. “Come!”

  * * *

  Surrounded by soldiers with bristling spears, Mary rode in silence along the road to Tixall. Only her physician remained by her side; Nau and Curie had been taken away.

  Was she to be summarily executed? What was it this man had said? You are under arrest. But the Act for the Queen’s Safety—what had it specified? That anyone who had been involved in a conspiracy against the Queen could be executed? Or was that the Bond? Yes, that was the Bond. The Act had softened it to the extent of saying the guilty parties must at least be examined before being executed.

  But it did not say how official the “examination” must be. Perhaps just a few rough questions from Gorges, the “official emissary,” would suffice for form’s sake.

  You have conspired … a horrible conspiracy … those were his words.

  What was he talking about? Was it the Babington Plot, or something else entirely? Was it even a real plot, or merely a manufactured one for the government’s purposes?

  Her heart now seemed to have stopped beating, where just a few moments earlier it had raced so fast she had felt faint. Her hands were chilled, and all the warmth was gone from the summer afternoon.

  You must be ready to die. It has come to this. Today is the day.

  * * *

  They reached the gatehouse of Tixall, a grey, three-storey decorated box on the edge of the hunting park. Four octagonal towers, capped by rounded roofs and stiff bronze pennants, guarded each corner of the building. Beneath its arched Italianate entrance they trotted, Mary still as cold as death as she passed into the shadow.

  “Courage!” said Bourgoing, the physician. “Queen Elizabeth is dead. This is all only for our own protection, in case there are other assassins about.”

  “No,” said Mary. “It is this Queen who is dead.”

  * * *

  They pushed her into a room of the older portion of the manor house, and dragged Bourgoing away. The door slammed shut, and she was utterly alone. There was no attendant, no servant, not even a guard. One little room opened off the larger one, and there was no paper, no pen, no books. And for once she did not have her cross or rosary with her.

  When darkness fell, a maidservant brought in one candle and placed it silently on a table. Then she left and locked the door behind her.

  Mary sank down on a small chair, so drained she could hardly move.

  Here it is, she thought. It has come to this at last.

  I knew it would, she answered herself. And it is all right; it is acceptable. I can bear it. Elizabeth still lives, and the plot came to nothing. God has been merciful; He has spared me from being a murderess. Now I will not have her death on my conscience. I failed in the test He had set me, but He held me back from calamity.

  She crawled onto the bed and fell asleep, deeply relieved.

  * * *

  For seventeen days she remained at Tixall. In a few days they allowed two attendants to bring her a change of clothing. She asked to be allowed to write to Queen Elizabeth, but Paulet—who had stayed on at Tixall to
guard her—refused.

  During those seventeen days, she reviewed all her past life. There was nothing to read, no distractions, no conversation, and the long hours must be passed in thinking. When events were actually happening, there seemed to be no pattern to them. But seen in retrospect, a pattern emerged. Only at the end of a life could the pattern be discerned; only then was there a completed weaving to be seen. And hers was this: since the moment of her birth, she had been an inconvenient person, a person who did not fit in, who ruined other people’s tidy patterns.

  She had been born a girl when her father longed for a male heir, a princess when the realm longed for a prince.

  She had French blood and a French upbringing, making her a stranger in the land she was given to rule and hateful to her own people.

  She was a Catholic ruler in a Protestant land, the only one such in the world.

  By sex, by upbringing, by religion, she was out of step with her own people. Yet those three things could not be repudiated; they were her very self.

  She had tried to compensate for these shortcomings by marriage, but her marriages rendered her even more obnoxious to her own people. They would not tolerate a foreign prince, a Catholic, but the native sons she married instead were unacceptable. One was too weak, the other too strong.

  She was peace-loving in a country where only ruthlessness and power were respected. She had pardoned rebels instead of executing them; after each plot she had allowed the traitors to creep back into Scotland and into favour. She thought it was Christian kindness; they saw it as weakness, and scorned her.

  Lord James, Knox, Morton, Erskine, Darnley, Lennox … the list was endless. Those she had treated kindly had betrayed her.

  What were the duties of the Messiah, and therefore of all Christian rulers? To preach good news to the poor, to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed. Yet it was I who was blind, it was I who ended up imprisoned.

  After the final upheaval, it had become clear there was no place on earth that even wanted her. There was no rest for her, no haven. Her beloved France—the country for which she had suffered so in her own!—would not lift a finger for her. Elizabeth of England, her kinswoman, had found her too close in blood to dispose of, but too alien to welcome.