by Jean Plaidy
Cavendish had been a satisfactory husband; he was the only one who had given her children, and for that she would be grateful. More lives to govern! More to scheme for. She had three sons and three daughters and she was determined that they should follow their mother’s example and succeed in life. Of her sons there was her eldest, Henry, then William and Charles; and her daughters were Frances, Elizabeth and Mary.
She had persuaded Cavendish to sell his estates in the south and acquire land in her native Derbyshire; this he had done, and the result had been the building of Chatsworth.
Alas, Cavendish had died, and she then took as her husband Sir William St. Loe, a knight of Gloucestershire, who showed himself as willing—and even eager—to be governed by his wife as her previous husbands had been. It was true that there had been some unpleasantness with his family, who called her a masterful woman set on having her own way. Bess snapped her fingers at them; little did she care for their gibes; all that mattered was that St. Loe was an obedient, affectionate and adoring husband.
When he died all his vast possessions were hers, and that was another matter which annoyed his family. But what did Bess care, since she was now one of the richest women in England; and as such naturally she looked to one of the leading peers of the realm and found George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, greatly to her liking.
George Talbot behaved exactly as Bess could have wished. He was so eager for the marriage that she could feign a certain aloofness; and thus, before their nuptials took place, she succeeded in arranging two excellent marriages for her children. Her eldest son Henry was married to Lady Grace Talbot, Shrewsbury’s youngest daughter—a good match for Henry. But Bess was never one to be satisfied when she saw further advancement for her family within reach; and as George Talbot had an unmarried son, she did not see why he should not be paired off with one of her daughters; thus Gilbert Talbot, Shrewsbury’s second son, was married to Bess’s youngest daughter, Mary. A very satisfactory linking of the families. These two marriages celebrated, Bess graciously gave her hand to Shrewsbury, so cementing the family alliance still further, and satisfying Bess’s passion for arranging the lives of others.
The union of Bess and Shrewsbury had been smiled on by Queen Elizabeth and, doubtless to show her approval, she was now appointing them guardians of the Queen of Scots. So Bess, determined to continue in the Queen’s favor, bustled about her castle giving orders.
The party must soon arrive, although the inclement weather was doubtless the reason for the delay. She climbed the stairs to those apartments which had been set aside for the use of the Queen.
“H’m!” she murmured with a grim smile, for they were two miserable rooms very sparsely furnished. There were patches of damp on the wall where the rain had seeped through the broken roof; and as there was no tapestry or hangings of any sort to cover the cracks in the walls the general effect was depressing.
Even Bess shivered slightly, although she prided herself on no coddling and was passionately devoted to fresh air.
Fresh air! The air in this chamber was far from fresh. That unmistakable odor came from the privy, immediately below the window, which was emptied every Saturday; then, of course, the stench was unbearable. There was always an unpleasant smell in these apartments; it was merely increased when the process of emptying was carried out.
But she will soon become accustomed to it, Bess decided.
The point was that Queen Elizabeth knew what Tutbury was like and she had expressly ordered that Mary was to be taken there.
But she will have the view, Bess told herself. The view? Well, the Queen, looking from her window, would see the marshes; they were not considered very healthy and doubtless the dampness of Tutbury was in some measure due to them, but the River Dove was charming enough, and Bess thought it pleasant because she could look across it to her beloved Derbyshire and felt when doing so that she was not far from home.
Bess went to the window. The smell of the privy made her draw back slightly, but as she did so she caught sight of a party of riders in the distance. Yes, and surely that was a litter she saw. The Queen would be traveling in a litter. At last they were approaching Tutbury.
Bess left the room and started on her way down to the hall. She saw one of the servants about to enter a room as she did so and called: “Come here, girl.”
The girl looked startled, but that did not displease Bess. It was how she expected her servants to look when she turned her attention to them.
“Come here!” she repeated.
The girl came shyly and, when she reached her mistress, she dropped an embarrassed curtsy. A flush stained her cheeks, giving them a soft, peach-like bloom. She was inclined to be plump and was rather more comely than Bess liked her maids to be.
“You are Eleanor Britton,” she said, for she made a point of knowing the names of even her humblest servants and would expect an account of their efficiency or lack of it from those whom she put in authority over them. This Eleanor Britton was a newcomer to the household and had been among the extra staff engaged for the coming of the Queen.
“Yes, my lady.”
“And why are you not in the kitchens?”
“My . . . lady,” stammered the girl, “I was sent to prepare one of the rooms for the Queen’s party.”
“I see. I believe my lord Earl to be in his bedchamber. Go to him now and tell him that the Queen will be arriving very soon. I have sighted her party less than half a mile away.”
Eleanor Britton bobbed another curtsy and made off with all speed, delighted to escape. One of the main occupations of the staff, both male and female, was to avoid claiming the attention of the lady of the house, and when they failed to do so, they rarely escaped without some reprimand.
Eleanor hurried to the Earl’s apartment. He called to her to enter when she tapped and she found him seated in his chair, dozing. He would have liked to stretch out on his bed, but Bess did not approve of sleeping during the day. It was a lazy habit and Bess, who was never lazy, deplored the fault in others.
The maid dropped a curtsy: “Begging your pardon, my lord,” she said, “but my lady says . . . you’re to . . . ”
She stopped, because it hardly seemed right to her that a noble Earl should receive commands from his wife.
George Talbot understood the girl’s feelings and he smiled faintly, and because she seemed an intelligent and perceptive girl, he looked at her with interest and noticed the color in her cheeks and how soft her skin was.
She was very young of course—little more than a child, younger than his own daughters. A pretty creature.
“What were my lady’s orders?” he asked gently.
“My lord . . . my lady has seen the Queen’s party. She says they’re not half a mile away.”
George Talbot rose. “Is that so then?” he said. And he went toward the girl, smiling.
She dropped a low curtsy and said in a frightened voice: “Is there aught your lordship wishes?”
“You must not be frightened, you know,” he told her. “There is nothing to fear.”
Then he wondered that he had bothered to say such a thing to a servant; it was most unusual. Why had he done it? he wondered. Was it because she seemed sorry to bring him one of Bess’s peremptory messages? Was it because he guessed that her recent encounter with Bess had terrified her? Was it because she looked so young and pretty in her embarrassment?
On impulse he said: “What is your name? I do not think I have seen you before.”
“It is Eleanor Britton, my lord.”
“Well, Eleanor, go on your way. I will tell the Countess that you gave me her message.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
She took one fleeting look at him as she hurried away.
The Earl went down to the hall, where his wife was already waiting to greet the Queen of Scots.
MARY FELT DESPONDENT as she rode nearer to Tutbury. It had been a tiresome and tedious journey, eight days having elapsed since she left Bolton. It
had not however been an uneventful journey. Lady Livingstone, who had been ill before they started, became worse as they traveled over those ice-bound roads; as for Mary herself, she found that her limbs were stiff with the cold, and when she tried to move them felt excruciating pain.
They had spent the first night at Ripon and, because Mary and Lady Livingstone were so ill, it was impossible to leave the next day. Knollys and Scrope, believing that if they delayed longer Elizabeth would accuse them of deliberately prolonging the journey they had obviously been reluctant to undertake, assured Mary that they could give her no more than a day in which to rest.
But there was a whole day’s respite and this Mary spent in the room which had been provided for her, writing letters; and during the second night she lay at Ripon she listened to the howling wind and dreaded the resumption of the journey on the next day.
As the cavalcade traveled from Ripon to Wetherby, Mary was startled by a beggar who thrust his way to her litter and began begging for alms.
Knollys and Scrope were frowning and the guards made to drag the man away, but Mary would not have this. She said: “Heaven knows how we suffer, yet we do enjoy a modicum of comfort. I pity those who are homeless on days such as this.”
She turned to the man. “My good man,” she said, “I have little to offer you, but I would it were more.” As she took a coin from her purse the beggar put his head close to hers and whispered in a voice which was so unlike that of the whining beggar that Mary almost showed how startled she was: “Your Majesty, I am here on the orders of my Lord of Northumberland. He bid you be of good cheer. He wishes me to tell you that he will be in touch with you at Tutbury. He has plans . . . and men of influence are ready to stand with him.”
Mary’s spirits could always be raised by incidents such as this; unostentatiously she took a gold enameled ring from her finger and pressed it into the man’s hand, with the words: “Take this to your master. Say that I look to him to keep his promise.”
Northumberland’s messenger moved away from the litter and for the rest of that day Mary was scarcely aware of her discomforts, telling herself that because she had noble and influential friends in England, as well as Scotland, she could not long remain a prisoner.
But later when they arrived at Pontefract Castle, where they were to spend the night, even the memory of Northumberland’s message could not prevent the depression which descended on Mary as she entered that place of tragedy; and as she looked at the tall walls flanked by the seven towers, at the deep moat, the barbican and drawbridge, she could not help shivering at the thought of Richard II.
“Oh, Seton,” she said, when they were lodged in the apartment which had been put at their disposal, “I would not wish to dwell long in this place. I would rather face those bitter winds than live within these walls.”
“Your Majesty should be careful not to betray your revulsion; otherwise . . . ”
Mary finished for her: “My good cousin and dear sister might seek to make me her prisoner here. Yes, you’re right, Seton. I will take care.”
It was a restless night that was spent within those walls. Mary dreamed that she was a prisoner in the terrible dungeons to which, she had heard, there was no entrance except through a trapdoor above them, and from which escape was impossible.
Escape! Her mind was forever occupied with the thought of it. And that night it was as though the ghost of Richard II, who had met his mysterious and bloody death within these walls, came to her and warned her to escape from this prison—and any prison in which it might please the English Queen to incarcerate her.
How relieved she was to set out on her journey again; but depression descended on her when, at Rotherham, Lady Livingstone’s malady increased and all agreed that she was unfit to proceed; but as both Knollys and Scrope agreed that they dared not delay longer, Lady Livingstone was left behind while the rest of the party went on.
Mary’s head was aching, her limbs stiff and painful; but she was able to travel, and that was enough.
Her thoughts were with her dear friend Lady Livingstone, as she traveled on and spent the following night at a mansion near Chesterfield. This was a pleasant experience following on the stay at Pontefract, for here was a comparatively simple country house, presided over by a kindly hostess, Lady Constance Foljambe, who was determined to make the Queen of Scots as comfortable as possible.
The next morning, when Mary said goodbye to Lady Foljambe, she thanked her warmly for her hospitality and said how she would have liked to linger as her guest.
“Our house is always at Your Majesty’s disposal,” Lady Constance told her; and there was compassion in her expression. She knew what the Queen would find at Tutbury.
MARY SAW THE CASTLE in the distance. Set on a ridge of red sandstone rock, it was impressive, and she could see that it would be almost impregnable, for surrounded by a broad and very deep ditch, it was a natural fortress. She was shivering, not only with the cold, as she drew nearer.
The party crossed the drawbridge; this was the only means of entering the castle and Mary noticed that the artillery in the gateway towers would make escape difficult.
That set her thoughts on Willie Douglas, and she wondered where he was now, and if he would ever be with her in Tutbury. If he were, she could be sure that he would begin to plan her escape.
The Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury were waiting to receive her. She noticed with relief that the Earl had a kindly face and that he was a little embarrassed to receive her as his prisoner. He was a man of some forty years. And there was his wife. Mary was not sure of the Countess whom she judged to be some ten years older than her husband, a woman who was undoubtedly handsome; but there was a severe aspect in her features which was faintly disturbing. As they came forward to make their bows and curtsies it occurred to Mary that the Countess was not quite the kind of woman to whom she would have looked for friendship.
“I trust Your Majesty will be comfortable at Tutbury,” said the Earl, almost apologetically.
“We shall see that Your Majesty is comfortable at Tutbury,” the Countess quickly affirmed.
“I thank you both. It has been a long and weary journey, and I am very tired.”
“Then allow me to conduct you to your apartments,” said the Countess. “There you may rest for a while, and I could have food sent to your chamber.”
“That is kind and would please me,” answered Mary.
The Countess went with Mary up the cold stone staircase.
There were two rooms allotted to Mary, one above the other, and these were connected by a short spiral staircase.
In the lower chamber Mary looked about her with distaste. She noticed the cracked, damp walls and she could already feel how very cold the place was.
“Perhaps Your Majesty would prefer the upper room,” said the Countess briskly; and they mounted the staircase.
Mary saw the vaulted ceiling with the damp patches and the moisture trickling down the walls; she could feel the icy wind blowing through the ill-fitting casement and door. She went to one of the two small windows cut out of the thick walls and looked out over the bleak and snowy countryside.
Suddenly she wrinkled her nose distastefully. “What is that I smell?” she asked.
Bess sniffed and looked blank. “I smell nothing unusual, Your Majesty.”
“It is most unpleasant. Seton, what is it?”
Seton who was looking out of the other window, turned and said: “It seems, Your Majesty, that the privies are situated immediately below this window.”
Mary looked sick, and indeed felt so.
“One soon becomes accustomed to the odor, Your Majesty,” Bess consoled her.
“I never shall.”
“But I assure Your Majesty that you will. It would be advisable on Saturdays, when the privies are emptied, to keep away from the windows. That is a day when the stench is really strong.”
Mary put her hands over her eyes in a gesture of horror, and Seton turned to the Countes
s. “Her Majesty is very tired. I am going to help her to her bed. Perhaps you would be good enough to have her food sent up.”
Bess bowed her head. “If that is Her Majesty’s wish, so shall it be. We wish to make her comfortable here.”
Then she left the apartment. Mary did not look at her; she was studying her new prison, and there was desolation in her heart.
IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE to keep warm during that first long night.
“Oh Seton, Seton,” Mary moaned. “This is the worst that has happened to us.”
Seton had covered her with all the clothes she could find, and lay beside her hoping to keep her warm. She had noticed Mary’s fits of shivering on the journey, and the fact that they had not abated on their arrival worried her.
“The weather is so bitterly cold,” soothed Seton. “It cannot last. Also I think that the Earl and his Countess were not prepared for your coming.”
“I think they were well prepared, Seton. Shall I tell you what else I think? Elizabeth no longer makes the pretense that I am her guest. I am nothing more than a state prisoner. You see, they did not have to make special preparations for my coming; I may be put in damp, cold and evil smelling rooms. It is of no importance because to them I am of no importance.”
“That is not so, Your Majesty. I am sure, if I speak to them and tell them that you must have some comfort, they will be ready to help.”
“The Earl looked kind,” Mary admitted.
