The Captive Queen of Scots

by Виктория Холт

  AUGUST CAME and it was stiflingly hot in the Queen’s apartments.

  She lay listlessly dreaming of the past, and Seton came to sit beside her bed.

  “Would Your Majesty not like to work at your tapestry?”

  “No, Seton. I have no interest in it.”

  “You know how it soothes you.”

  “I do not think I could be easily soothed now, Seton.”

  “Your Majesty should rouse yourself. This sorrow will pass like all others.”

  “That may be, Seton. But what is at the end of it? How long have I been in England? What is the day?”

  “It is the 24th day of August, Your Majesty, in the year 1572.”

  “The 24th day of August, Seton. Is that not St. Bartholomew’s Eve?”

  “It is indeed.”

  “It was in June that they killed him . . . early June. It is nearly three months since he died.”

  “Too long to mourn. Tears will not bring him back.”

  “You are right, Seton, as you so often are. I believe now that in time I may begin to forget. Oh, Seton, if only some good would come to me! If only my French relations would do something to help me. Do you remember our days in France?”

  “It is not easy to forget the happiest days of one’s life.”

  “Those were the happy days, Seton. I will write to the King . . . reminding him.”

  “Try to sleep now.”

  “I will, Seton, and in the morning I will write to dear friends in France . . . to my uncles, to my grandmother, to the King my brother-in-law . . . even to the Queen-Mother.”

  “I shall remember,” replied Seton, and there was a note of happiness in her voice, “that you began to throw off your grief on the Eve of St. Bartholomew.”

  THE NEWS CAME to Sheffield Castle and Mary listened to it aghast. Terrible tragedy had struck the city of Paris, and it seemed that this tragedy was being repeated in the main cities of France. On the Eve of St. Bartholomew the Catholics had risen against the Huguenots and there had been slaughter in the streets such as had never been known before. The Admiral de Coligny had been brutally murdered and vile sport had been made with his body; he was but one of thousands of brave men who were dying in the streets of France on account of their Faith.

  The Queen of England and her Protestant minister expressed their horror of such butchery; all over England there were cries of “Down with the Papists!” And it was said that one of the leaders and instigators of this most terrible massacre was the Duke of Guise, kinsman of the Queen of Scots.

  In the streets of London and many cities in England men and women gathered to talk of what was happening across the Channel.

  “It must never happen here,” they cried. “This is a good Protestant country. We’ll have no popery here.”

  Then they remembered the revolt of the Northern Catholics, and many recalled the days of the Queen’s half-sister who was known as Bloody Mary because of the fires of Smithfield which, in her day, had consumed the bodies of good Protestant men and women.

  There was another Catholic Queen in their midst. She was a prisoner in Sheffield Castle, but since she had been in England she had caused trouble enough.

  “Down with popery!” shouted the people. “Down with the fair devil of Scotland!”

  IT WOULD BE WELL, said Elizabeth, to keep a strict watch on the Queen of Scotland, for her own safety, because when the people of England had heard of the conduct of her Catholic friends and relations in France they were ready to tear her apart.

  Now was the time, thought Elizabeth, to sever Mary’s head from her body, for never would she be as unpopular as she was now.

  But Elizabeth remembered the Catholics in the land who were perhaps at this moment waiting to rise, as their fellow Catholics had risen in Paris.

  No, she would restrain herself. The Queen of Scots should remain her prisoner. It should not be said that she had agreed to her execution because she feared her greater right to the throne.

  Let her rest in prison strictly guarded. That was the best place for her.

  The right moment will come, Elizabeth told herself. Then the deed can be performed with a good conscience and none will be able to say that Elizabeth of England slew her rival because she went in fear of her. Nay, at a time when it would have been so easy to bring her to the block, she, Elizabeth, had cherished her, protected her from the infuriated Protestants of England, remembering the respect due to royalty, desiring to show the world that she feared no one and would not consent to Mary’s execution merely because she could enjoy greater peace of mind in a world where Mary was not.

  Orders were sent to Sheffield Castle. “Keep the Queen under even stricter surveillance. Double the guard. It is imperative that she should not escape . . . for her own sake.”

  SO THAT SUMMER PASSED into winter. Another birthday came and went—her thirtieth.

  “I am growing old,” she told Seton. “See how my life is passing by while I go from one prison to another.”

  Christmas came, but there were no revelries in Sheffield Castle.

  The winter was long and cold, but Mary scarcely noticed it, and in the spring the Earl and Countess came to her apartments to tell her that since the castle needed sweetening they proposed to move her to the Lodge in the Park.

  Mary was glad of the move. Anything was welcome to relieve the monotony; but the Earl and Countess were less happy with their captive in the manor, for they believed escape would have been easier there than from the castle.

  She was never allowed out of her apartment and whenever she looked out of her window she saw guards who stood beneath it all through the day and night.

  “She will never escape from here,” joked the guards, “unless she has some magic which will turn her into a mouse or a flea.”

  THE EARL BROUGHT THE NEWS to Mary, and as he told her he realized that she understood its importance. She turned pale and put her hand to her side where lately she had begun to feel much pain.

  “The Castle of Edinburgh has surrendered, Your Majesty.”

  She did not speak for a moment. She pictured the castle, high on the hill, seeming impregnable. It was the last and the most important fortress held in her name.

  “English forces under Sir William Drury captured it,” Shrewsbury told her. “Kirkcaldy should have surrendered long ago. There was no hope of holding out against the Queen’s forces.”

  She knew what had been happening in Edinburgh; she had heard stories of the bravery of those who had loved her, how the soldiers’ wives had allowed themselves to be let down the steep rock by ropes in order that they might go into the town to buy bread for the starving defenders of the castle; how when they had been caught, which was frequently the case, Morton had ordered that they should be immediately hanged. She had heard how the soldiers had been let down to the well by means of ropes that they might fill their buckets with the precious water.

  “They had to give in,” Shrewsbury was telling her now, “when the well was poisoned.”

  “Kirkcaldy would never have surrendered otherwise,” said Mary. And she thought of Kirkcaldy who was now her firm ally yet who had stood remorselessly against her and, more than any, had helped to win the day for Moray at Carberry Hill.

  “Kirkcaldy will never be on any side again,” replied Shrewsbury grimly. “He was hanged with his brother in Market Cross when the castle was taken.”

  “Oh, my lord,” cried Mary, “why are you always the bringer of evil tidings?”

  “If there were aught good to bring you, I would bring it,” Shrewsbury answered gruffly.

  “Then as you can bring me no good, I pray you leave me alone with my grief.”

  Shrewsbury bowed and left her. He was thinking that in some respects this might not be such bad news for her.

  With Edinburgh Castle lost she was no longer a formidable enemy. Her importance to Elizabeth had waned with its capture. Might it be that now the watch on her would be relaxed a little? Her supporters in Scotland were
defeated; the English were still talking in horror of the St. Bartholomew massacre. Elizabeth would have little to fear now from Mary Queen of Scots. Surely she would relent a little.

  “HOW DID SHE TAKE the news?” Bess demanded of her husband.

  “She has heard so much bad news that even this leaves her numb.”

  “Poor creature! I pity her. It is sad that she should be so confined as she has been these last months. I am sick unto death of Sheffield. How I long for the beauty of my beloved Chatsworth!”

  “What have you in mind?”

  “She has become almost an invalid in these last months. She is in need of a change. I shall ask the Queen if we may not visit Chatsworth; and who knows, if we do I might take the Queen of Scots to the Buxton baths. They did you good. I’m sure they would be equally beneficial to her.”

  “You think the Queen would listen to your request?”

  “Are you a fool, Shrewsbury? Now is the time for her to show her leniency. Never have the fortunes of your romantic Queen been so low. I will write to Elizabeth. I’ll swear that very soon we shall be leaving Sheffield for Chatsworth . . . and it may well be Buxton too.”

  XIII

  Chatsworth and Buxton

  AS SOON AS MARY WAS BACK in Chatsworth she felt happier. How delighted she was to go once more to her garden at the top of the tower and there, with Seton and Jane Kennedy, find pleasure in seeing that those plants, which she had tended with such care, were still flourishing.

  Shrewsbury had been right when he had believed that she would not be allowed more liberty. Attended by guards she would walk from her apartments to the lake, and cross the bridge. She could leave them surrounding the lake, for there was no possibility of her escape; and although, when she looked over the balustrade, she could always see some of them, at least she was free to enjoy the fresh air.

  Bess talked to her continually of what the Buxton Baths had done for Shrewsbury, and both Queen and Countess wrote to Elizabeth begging her to allow Mary to seek a like benefit.

  It was now August, and the season for taking the waters would be over with the end of the month. Mary despaired of ever being allowed to visit Buxton, and the desire to go there became a passion with her. She talked perpetually of going.

  “I know, if I can but take the baths, I shall be well again,” she declared.

  Seton encouraged her. Sometimes now a whole day would pass without her mentioning the death of Norfolk or the valor of the defenders of Edinburgh Castle. She still yearned for little James, but that was something she would do all her life; she still showed anxiety as to the fate of George and Willie Douglas and all those whom she called her poor wandering sheep. But her desire to visit Buxton was doing much to rouse her from her melancholy; and, thought Seton, if we could but go there, I am certain she would be well again through her very faith in the baths.

  It was the end of August when Elizabeth granted permission, maliciously commenting as she did so that, since the season was well nigh over, the visit would doubtless do the Queen of Scots more harm than good.

  But when Mary received word that she might go—late as it was—she was jubilant.

  She looked young again as preparations were made for her to be taken from Chatsworth to Buxton.

  THE JOURNEY FROM CHATSWORTH to Buxton was not a long one, being of some thirteen or fourteen miles; merely to be on that beautiful road which led over the hill made Mary feel almost happy.

  Already the color was returning to her cheeks and Seton was delighted to see this change in her. How ironical, she thought, that they, who had once had such lofty ideas of regaining the throne, could now be so uplifted by the prospect of a visit to Buxton.

  The climate seemed more benign than even at Chatsworth and especially so when compared with bleak Sheffield.

  Shrewsbury’s house in Buxton was called Low Buxton and it was here that Mary stayed. It was a charming house protected from winds by the hill at the foot of which it stood, while it benefited from the mountain air.

  Shrewsbury had given orders that all visitors must leave the Spa before Mary arrived, so there could be no opportunities for making plans for her escape; thus all the social activities of that gay little town ceased immediately; and the Queen was never allowed to go anywhere unless surrounded by her guards.

  She had not dared hope that it would be otherwise, but so great was her faith in the baths, so delighted was she to be in such congenial surroundings, that her health began to improve.

  She made Shrewsbury tell her about the remarkable cure he had enjoyed at Buxton; and nothing loath to talk of illness, he never tired of explaining how weak he had been before taking the baths, how strong afterward.

  “You owe your recovery to your Countess,” Mary reminded him. “If she had not been strong and risked Elizabeth’s displeasure, you would not be the man you are today.”

  Shrewsbury nodded somberly. It was true he owed a great deal to Bess, but he did not care to be reminded of this. It made his conduct with Eleanor seem more reprehensible than ever. What he needed was to make excuses for it. He had told himself that no man cared to have a woman behaving like his commanding officer, however efficient she was; a man wanted sympathy, particularly when he was engaged in such an exacting task as guarding the most dangerous state prisoner of all time. He was telling himself that any man in his position would have looked for relaxation elsewhere. A man would have to be a saint not to take the comfort and pleasure Eleanor offered.

  She was not with him now; he could not insist that she accompany them to Buxton, for fear Bess should begin to suspect. It was enough that she moved with them back and forth between Sheffield and Chatsworth; he consoled himself that the visit to Buxton must necessarily be brief.

  So while he indulged in a morbid pleasure with Mary, dwelling on that illness which had brought him near to death, he was making excuses for himself: I was brought low because of the anxieties which weighed so heavily upon me. They are still with me. I need some form of relaxation; I need to forget my cares now and then; and how could I forget more easily than in the arms of Eleanor?

  Bess joined them and he saw the smile play about her lips.

  When they were alone she said to him: “I see you found a sympathetic listener in your Queen.”

  “She asked me to tell her of the benefit I had received from the baths.”

  “And you did so with relish. You will never be completely well, Shrewsbury, while you dwell so fondly on your ailments.”

  “It is necessary that I do not have a return of my illness,” he retorted coldly.

  “Then don’t beckon it back with such loving words. You talk too tenderly of your pains. What an unsympathetic wife I am! How different is your beautiful Queen; she listens and those lovely eyes are filled with compassion for poor Shrewsbury. Lovely eyes would not have nursed you back to health, George Talbot, nor would sympathetic sighs. Remember that.”

  He did remember. It was why he felt so remorseful now that he was away from Eleanor. Perhaps he should end the liaison. A noble Earl and a serving wench! Not the first time it had happened, it was true—but this was no passing fancy. Perhaps when he returned to Chatsworth he would break off the relationship. Yes, he would. Bess might joke about his passion for the Queen of Scots; what would she say if she knew of that for Eleanor Britton?

  He dared not think. He could almost feel the lash of her tongue now. And a woman like Bess would not stop at words. He warned himself that he must seriously consider ending the liaison.

  But he knew that he would not.

  THE DAYS SPENT AT BUXTON were the happiest Mary had known since her captivity had begun. She was now able to walk with her old springy step and the sounds of laughter came from her rooms in Low Buxton; she would play on her lute and sing songs with which she had once delighted the Court of France.

  It needed little, thought those who loved her, to restore her spirits and make her well again. She suffered from no serious malady. She was young still, but she had al
ways thrived on gaiety and she needed it now. The pains in her limbs would disappear if only she could enjoy a little comfort and did not have to pass her days and nights in big drafty apartments.

  One day there was an expedition to Poole’s Hole, and thither Mary rode surrounded by her friends and guards. The cavern at the foot of Grinlaw Hill was only half a mile or so from Buxton, and when Mary arrived there she insisted on dismounting and entering the cave. Surrounded by ladies, guards and torch bearers, and stooping almost double, she made her way along the slippery passage, crying out warnings to those who followed; some of the ladies looked down at the stream below and shuddered because it would have been so easy to falter and stumble on those slippery stones. But Mary went on until she came to a group of stalactites, and here she paused to admire and call to her friends to do the same.

  It was a weird scene there in the cave, lighted by the torches of those who had gone on ahead to show the way, the Queen’s animated face looking like an excited child’s in that light.

  “It would be dangerous to go farther,” said one of the guards, and Mary immediately agreed that they should turn back.

  It was Seton who said: “We will call that group of stalactites Queen Mary’s Pillar.”

  Mary laughed with all her old gaiety. “It was worthwhile coming so far to give it my name,” she added.

  Then with some torch bearers going on ahead and others bringing up the rear, the party made its way out of the cavern and back to Low Buxton.

  Those happy days at Buxton passed all too quickly, but with the coming of September it was necessary to return to Chatsworth.

  ALL THROUGH SEPTEMBER and October Mary’s health remained good. She would sit with her friends over her tapestry and they would recall the visit to Buxton.

  “Next year,” said Mary, “I shall hope to go for the whole of the season. How pleasant it would be if we could spend June, July and August there . . . .”

  She stopped suddenly and a grave expression crossed her face. Seton, watching, understood. Mary was thinking that she had become accustomed to being the prisoner of the Queen of England.