by Jean Plaidy
“God bless you,” Mary replied emotionally. “When do you propose to set out?”
“Immediately.”
Fleming said: “I have come to ask Your Majesty’s permission to go to France . . . if that is possible.”
“To France!” Mary’s eyes widened. “Ah, that is where I should have gone when I left Scotland. I see it all now. The King of France would have been a good friend to me. He is older now and, it may be, not so completely under the control of his mother. And you will go to him, my lord Fleming, and tell him of my plight.”
“Herries and I have talked of this matter,” Fleming went on. “I shall tell Your Majesty’s Uncles, the Duke of Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine, what is happening to you in England. I shall explain to His Majesty of France that we do not trust the English and I shall ask for their help and advice.”
“We can trust them, I know,” said Mary. “They are indeed my friends.”
“It will be necessary for the Queen of England to give me a safe conduct,” Fleming pointed out.
“Which she will not do if she believes you are going to ask for French help,” added Herries. “The last thing she wishes to do is to bring the French into Scotland. It would not be a difficult matter then for them to cross the Border.”
“My plan, Your Majesty,” went on Fleming, “is to tell the Queen of England that the King of France has offered help—which he has—but that as you are not yet in a position to receive it you wish, while thanking him to ask if you may call on it later if and when you should be in a position to make use of it.”
“You think she will believe that?” asked Mary.
“We must hope that she will,” answered Herries. “We must take some action. If we do nothing we may be here for months.”
“You are right,” Mary told them. “We must act—even if by so doing we merely discover the true nature of Elizabeth’s feelings toward me.”
Shortly afterward Herries and Fleming set out for the English Court.
SIR FRANCIS KNOLLYS was more pleased than he admitted to himself to see five small carts arriving in the courtyard accompanied by heavily laden packhorses. He went down to make a closer inspection, although he guessed whence these came.
“You come from Lord Moray?” he asked one of the drivers.
“Yes, my lord. With these goods which are for the use of the Queen-Mother of Scotland.”
“Then unload them with all speed,” ordered Sir Francis.
While this was being done, he made his way to Mary’s apartments and asked that he might see her.
She received him immediately, hoping that he brought news from his royal mistress; he was smiling and she began to believe that he would have been pleased to help her.
“I see that travelers are with us,” said Mary. “I trust they come from Queen Elizabeth.”
“No, Your Majesty, they come from Lord Moray in Scotland.”
Mary’s expression changed. “Then they can bring no good to me.”
“Yet I do not believe Your Majesty will be displeased when you see what has been brought.”
“I cannot conceive of any good coming to me from my bastard brother.”
“I have asked that these articles be sent to Your Majesty,” said Knollys. He smiled. “I have a wife, and I know how important such thing can be.”
“Do you mean that some of my possessions have been returned to me?”
“I sent word to Moray, asking him not to withhold your clothes but to send them to you here that you might have the pleasure of wearing them.”
“That was good of you, Sir Francis; but you remember that, the last time such a request was made, he sent me only things which I had long discarded . . . ruffs and coifs which were quite out of date, and dresses which were almost in rags. Indeed, what Moray sent me was only slightly better than those which your Queen sent . . . to my maids.”
Knollys looked uncomfortable for a few seconds, then he brightened. “I do not think you will be disappointed this time. May I have the articles brought to you?”
Mary’s smile was dazzling. “At least,” she said gently, “I rejoice that one of my jailors has a kind heart.”
“You must not think of me as such,” insisted Knollys.
“Nor shall I, when I receive my invitation to your Queen and we travel south,” was the answer. “When that will be, who shall say? So in the meantime let us content ourselves with seeing what my bastard brother has sent from my wardrobe.”
Mary summoned Seton, Jane Kennedy, Lady Livingstone and Marie Courcelles, and the packages were brought to the apartment.
This time they were not disappointed. Having received a request from an Englishman of such importance Moray had thought it wise not to ignore it.
The women cried out with pleasure as they unrolled eight ells of the finest black velvet, and thirty each of gray and black taffety. There were twelve pairs of shoes and four of slippers as well as stitching silk and jet buttons.
“Now,” cried Seton, “we shall be busy.”
IN SPITE OF the absence of Herries and Fleming, Mary had a larger retinue than she had had since leaving Scotland. Now and then some Scotsman would arrive at the castle with the request to be given a place in her household, in preparation for the day when he would return to Scotland to fight for her crown.
George Douglas, with Willie, was constantly on guard; she told them that she felt safe when they were near, and that constantly in her thoughts was the memory of what they had done for her at Lochleven. She now had her own two private secretaries, Gilbert Curle and Monsieur Claud Nau, as well as carvers, cupbearer, cook and scullions. A little Scottish Court was rapidly being formed in Carlisle Castle.
One day Sir Nicholas Elphinstone arrived at the castle with letters to Scrope and Knollys from Moray. This caused great consternation throughout Mary’s retinue, for Elphinstone was notoriously antagonistic to the Queen.
George Douglas swore that if he came face-to-face with Elphinstone he would challenge him and nothing but combat would satisfy him; Willie was brooding on a scheme for taking Elphinstone prisoner; and several of the lairds declared their intentions of challenging him to a duel.
Scrope, disconcerted, went to Knollys and was a little reproachful.
“You see what is happening. You have shown too much friendship toward the Queen of Scotland. You have allowed her to collect this entourage which is almost like a small court about her. Therefore, when a messenger from one with whom we have no quarrel arrives, they behave as though Carlisle Castle belonged to them and they had the right to say who should or should not be entertained here.”
Knollys saw the point of this and, as he was afraid that complaints might be made to Elizabeth, and as he knew that her chief feeling toward Mary was jealousy, he realized that he must in future act with more caution.
In the company of Scrope he went to her apartments; and Scrope opened the attack by protesting at the conduct of people like George Douglas, who had challenged a peaceful messenger who came to the castle.
“Your Majesty must remember that you are the guest of the Queen of England, and that you have no power to order who shall or shall not venture into the Castle of Carlisle.”
Mary haughtily replied: “This man is a Scotsman, and one of my subjects.”
“Your Majesty forgets,” went on Scrope, “that all Scotsmen do not call you their Queen.”
Mary flushed hotly. “This state of affairs shall not be allowed to last.”
Scrope looked doubtful, Knollys uncomfortable, and Mary went on in the impulsive way which was characteristic of her: “You do not think this so, my lords. I see from your expressions that you believe Lord Moray to be the ruler of Scotland in the name of my son. It will not long be so. Huntley, Argyle and others are with me. They assure me that very soon I shall be back in Edinburgh, the acknowledged Queen of Scotland. Ah, I see you do not believe me.” Determined to prove the truth of this statement she crossed the room and opened a drawer of her table. “Look
at these, my lords. Letters, you see, from my friends. Huntley has the whole of the North behind him. I can picture him now . . . planning my return. I’ll swear his Highlanders are already marching to the lilt of the bagpipes.”
She was thrusting papers into their hands, and Knollys would have liked to warn her, but Scrope was scrutinizing the letters.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “Very, very interesting.”
“So you see,” said Mary, “I am not so deserted as you . . . and perhaps your Queen . . . have thought me to be?”
“No, Madam,” answered Scrope grimly. “I see that you are not.”
SCROPE SAID TO KNOLLYS: “You see what intrigue goes on under our noses. Why, it would not be impossible for her to be carried back into Scotland before we could prevent it. Huntley and Argyle writing to her thus! Do we see the letters? We do not! Yet it is our Queen’s command that we see all letters which pass into the hands of the Queen of Scotland, and all those that she sends out.”
Knollys shook his head. “I would to God we had never been given this task.”
“I confess to certain misgivings. But perforce we have this task, and perform it we must . . . or be in trouble ourselves.”
“What new rules do you propose to put in force?”
“Firstly I shall write to Cecil and suggest that Carlisle Castle is too near the Border for my peace of mind. There is my castle of Bolton . . . ”
“Ha! A fortress if ever there was one.”
“I should feel happier there with this captive of ours than I do in Carlisle. Then I like not all these servants about her. I believe that none of the men of her court should be allowed to sleep in the castle but should find lodgings outside. The rooms leading to her bedchamber should be filled with our guards—and perhaps ourselves—rather than her friends. The castle gates must be kept locked through the night and not opened until ten of the clock in the forenoon and closed at dusk. Then it might be difficult for Huntley and Argyle to whisk her away without our Queen’s consent.”
“Ah,” sighed Knollys sadly, “little did she know when she escaped from Lochleven that she was changing one prison for another.”
THERE WAS NO NEWS of Herries, no news of Fleming. That boded ill, for Mary knew that if they had succeeded with their missions she would have heard from them. She was beginning to suspect the goodwill of Elizabeth, and was wondering whether the shadow of Elizabeth of England would darken her life now, as that of Catherine de’ Medici had her childhood.
One day a certain Henry Middlemore called at Carlisle on his way to Scotland with dispatches from Elizabeth to Moray and, hearing of his arrival, Mary asked that he be brought to her.
The demeanor of this man should have been enough to show Mary the hopelessness of her case with Elizabeth, for he treated her with a deliberate lack of respect.
“Have you brought me news of when your mistress will grant me an interview?” asked Mary passionately.
“Madam,” was the answer, “I can only tell you what you know already. The Queen of England cannot receive you until you have cleared yourself of suspicion of murder. And that you have not done, and facts are black against you.”
“How dare you say such things to me?” demanded Mary.
“Because they are the truth, Madam. Her Majesty, my mistress, asks you to prevent those Scotsmen in Dumbarton and other places in Scotland from accepting help from France should it be sent.”
“Why should I prevent others from helping my cause when your mistress refuses to do so?” asked Mary.
“You have put yourself in my mistress’s hands and if, when she has judged your case, she finds you guiltless, doubtless she will help you. I go to Scotland now to ask the Earl of Moray to suppress all signs of civil war in Scotland at the request of the Queen of England.”
Mary was slightly mollified at this and Middlemore went on: “Her Majesty believes you would find better air away from Carlisle and that it would be to your advantage to go to some other castle which shall be placed at your disposal.”
“Does the Queen of England intend to have me taken there as a prisoner or for me to go of my own free will?” Mary asked.
“I am sure the Queen of England has no wish to make you her prisoner. She will be happy if you accept her plans for you without demur. It would please her if you were lodged nearer to herself. That is the main reason why she wishes you to move from Carlisle.”
“Then if that be so, let me go to her without delay. Let me have apartments next her own at Windsor or Hampton Court. She could not then complain of the distance which separates us.”
Middlemore ignored this. He said quietly: “Her Majesty had in mind the Castle of Tutbury in Staffordshire . . . a goodly place, Madam, and one which you would find convenient.”
Convenient, thought Mary hysterically. Conveniently far from the Border, conveniently far from Hampton Court! What was the Queen of England planning against her? And where were Fleming and Herries now?
Middlemore took his departure and Mary could only ease her disquiet by writing a long letter to Elizabeth in which she passionately demanded justice, an opportunity to see her, a chance to assure her good sister and cousin of her innocence. She asked that Lord Herries be sent back to her as she needed his good counsel, and she would like to have news of Lord Fleming.
When she had written the letter she sat at her table staring moodily before her. As each day passed hope seemed to fade farther and farther away.
Meanwhile Middlemore went on his way into Scotland, where the Regent Moray and Lord Morton were preparing translations from the original French of those letters which they alleged were found in a casket under Bothwell’s bed when he fled to the North.
These translation would prove to Elizabeth, and the world, that Bothwell and Mary were lovers before Darnley’s death, that Bothwell had raped the Queen, and that since then she had no desires for any man but him; that they had plotted together to murder Lord Darnley, the Queen’s husband, so that marriage between Mary and Bothwell might be possible.
IN SPITE OF the vigilance of Scrope and Knollys more men from Scotland arrived at the castle. Mary was walking in the grounds with Seton when she saw George Douglas coming toward her.
He bowed low and his earnest eyes were on her lovely face as she gave him her affectionate smile. She was thinking: Poor George, what life is this for a young man! If I am to remain a prisoner, what will become of him?
“Your Majesty,” he said, “I have a packet of letters which have been stolen from Moray’s secretary. I believe you would wish to see them. One of the new arrivals brought them and gave them to me that I might pass them to you at an opportune moment.”
“You have them with you, George?”
“Yes, Your Majesty, but I fear we may be watched.”
“You are right. They watch me here even as they did at Lochleven. We will go into the castle and, when Seton has taken me to my apartments, she shall come out to you again. Could you be at this spot and hand them to her? They do not watch her as they watch me.”
“I will do that, Your Majesty.”
With that the ladies turned and went back to the Queen’s apartments, and soon afterward Seton returned to the grounds where George was waiting for her.
When Seton went back to Mary’s chamber, the Queen eagerly seized what she had brought. It was a packet of letters from Moray’s secretary, John Wood, to Elizabeth’s ministers; and as she read them, Mary’s indignation was fierce for there was no doubt that Elizabeth’s advisers were in league with Moray against her, Mary; and that their main objects were to prevent her receiving help from France and to keep her a prisoner in England that Moray might rule in her stead.
Even now it did not occur to her that Elizabeth was a party to this scheme, and she believed that the reason she was being kept from the Queen of England was because her ministers, in collaboration with Moray, were preventing the meeting.
Without consulting her friends she sat down and penned an impulsive note to E
lizabeth.
She told her of the letters which had come into her possession and wrote:
They assure him that I shall be securely guarded, never to return to Scotland. Madam, if this be honorable treatment of her who came to throw herself into your arms for succor I leave other Princes to judge. I will send copies of these letters, if you permit it, to the Kings of France and Spain and to the Emperor, and will direct Lord Herries to show them to you, that you may judge whether it be right to have your council for judges, who have taken part against me . . . .
She paused and looked out of her window from which she could see the blue hills of Scotland. If only she could go back to Langside, if only she had listened to the advice of the good Herries and her friends, she would not be here now. She would be with her friends in France; and although Catherine de’ Medici might be her enemy, there would have been powerful uncles to help her, and the King of France who had been so desperately in love with her would surely not have failed her.
She turned to her letter and continued:
. . . I beseech you not to allow me to be betrayed here to your dishonor. Give me leave to withdraw . . . .
Yes, she thought, I will go back to Scotland. If I could take boat to Dumbarton, there would be faithful friends waiting for me. I could join with Huntley and Argyle. She could see them—those brave, bold Highlanders; she could hear the skirl of their pipes.
God grant that they lessen not your authority by such practices, as they have promised Moray to lead you as they will, to lose the friendship of other Sovereigns, and to gain those who loudly proclaim that you are unworthy to reign. If I could speak to you, you would repent of having so long delayed to my injury in the first place, and to your prejudice in the second . . . .
She went on writing rapidly and, sealing her letter, sent for a messenger and bade him begone with all speed.
LIFE AT THE CASTLE was changing. There was little pretense now of treating her as anything but a prisoner. No man of her suite was allowed to have his quarters in the castle; Lord Scrope slept in the room adjoining hers; with him were his hagbutters who occupied the rooms leading to her apartments.
