The Captive Queen of Scots

by Виктория Холт

  “Nay, nay,” cried Sir Thomas Gorges. “Those two men must not be allowed to speak to the Queen.”

  Jacques and Gilbert immediately attempted to bring their horses level with Mary’s, but as they did so they were intercepted by the guards and Gorges cried: “Arrest those two men. They are to be taken at once to London.”

  “You cannot do this!” she cried.

  “Madam, you are mistaken,” replied Paulet coldly.

  “Oh, Jacques,” murmured Mary, “what means this? And you, Gilbert . . . ” She looked with dismay at the two young men who for so long had been her friends. She thought with anguish of Barbara who was so soon to give birth to her first baby; how would Barbara take the news that Gilbert was the Queen’s prisoner?

  But it was useless to expect sympathy from these men. Already they had seized the two secretaries.

  “Gilbert,” she called, “I will take care of Barbara.”

  Sir Amyas had his hand on the bridle of her horse.

  “Come, Madam,” he said, “we are riding to Tixall, where you will remain during the Queen’s pleasure.”

  All the joy had gone out of that sunny morning, and there was terrible foreboding in her heart as Mary rode with her captors toward Tixall.

  A SUBDUED SIR WALTER ASTON received Mary at Tixall Park. There was no hunt, as had been promised her, and she was conducted to two small rooms which, she was told, were all that could be put at her disposal.

  Her servants were not allowed to visit her; she was to have no books, no pen nor paper; thus for days she was left alone in apprehensive solitude, Sir Amyas Paulet remaining at Tixall to guard her while he sent his officials back to Chartley to ransack her apartments for any shred of evidence which could be used against her.

  Jacques and Gilbert were taken before Walsingham who, after questioning them without being able to make them utter a word against their mistress, kept them confined in separate rooms in his own lodgings in Westminster Palace. He did not doubt that in time he would get from them what he wanted.

  He set his man, Aleyn, to watch over Jacques, and this man slept in the same chamber and was with Jacques night and day, engaging him in conversation, waiting for one word which would betray the Queen.

  Jacques was very melancholy, and it was not easy to make him talk.

  Aleyn tried to coax him. “Come,” he told him, “you cannot be blamed. My master is a very just man. He knows full well that as secretary to the Queen you must perforce do your duty. If she said to you, Write this, then you wrote. All my master wishes is to confirm what is already known was written.”

  Jacques remained silent for some time and then he said: “I wonder how she is taking this.”

  “She is fearful, my friend, doubt that not.”

  “She will be wondering what has become of me. She is so young; it is hard that she should suffer so.”

  “Young! She is no longer young and she will be too concerned with her own skin, friend, to think much of yours.”

  “I see you have misunderstood. I was speaking of another.”

  “Your mistress?”

  “We will marry when it can be arranged.”

  “Ah,” grunted Aleyn, disappointed.

  But now Jacques had begun to speak of Bessie he could not stop; he told Aleyn of the way her eyes sparkled and how soft her hair was; and how quickly she grew angry, how defiant she was, how determined when she had set her heart on something—as she had set her heart on marrying him.

  Aleyn listened halfheartedly. Strange, he thought, that when a man was in mortal danger he could think of nothing but a girl.

  When Aleyn stood before his master and Walsingham asked if he had anything to report, the man replied: “It is not easy with this one, my lord. He seems unaware of the danger he’s in. He talks of nothing but his Bessie.”

  “His Bessie?” mused Walsingham.

  “Bessie Pierpont, my lord.”

  “That would be Shrewsbury’s granddaughter—so there is love between these two.”

  “He’ll talk of nothing else, my lord.”

  Walsingham nodded. It was a pity. Still, no piece of information, however small, should be ignored. Long experience had taught him that one never knew when it might be useful.

  WHEN MARY WAS ALLOWED to return to Chartley Castle her first thought was of Barbara Curle who she believed might already have given birth to the child.

  Bessie greeted her—a frightened Bessie, whose eyes were red with weeping.

  Mary embraced her affectionately, all rancor forgotten. It was sad that Bessie, at such an early age, had already come face-to-face with tragedy.

  “And how fares Barbara?” Mary asked.

  “Her child is born. She is in her bed now.”

  Mary went at once to Barbara’s chamber and the young mother gave a cry of pleasure as the Queen hurried to her bed and embraced her.

  “And the little one?”

  “A girl, Your Majesty. She is very like Gilbert. Your Majesty, what news?”

  “I know nothing, my dear. I have been a prisoner at Tixall Park all this time. But as my priest was with me, who has attended to the child’s baptism?”

  “She has not been baptized, Your Majesty. There was no one to perform the ceremony.”

  “Then this must be remedied without delay.” She lifted the baby from where it lay beside Barbara and, holding it in her arms, gently kissed its brow, and while she was doing this Sir Amyas Paulet burst unceremoniously into the chamber.

  “I hope you will call her Mary after me,” she said.

  “Your Majesty, that will be an honor she will remember all her life.”

  Mary turned to Paulet. “Will you allow your minister to baptize this child?”

  “Nay,” he answered. “This child’s baptism is no concern of mine.”

  “It is the concern of us all,” answered Mary sternly, and she turned to one of the women who was close by and said: “Bring me a basin of water.”

  “So you will baptize the child?” asked Paulet.

  “It is permissible for members of the laiety to administer baptism if no priest is available.”

  Paulet was glowering at her, wondering how he could prevent her from carrying out her intention, but he said nothing and very soon the woman returned with a basin. Taking the child on her knee, Mary sprinkled the little face with water, saying: “I baptize thee, Mary, in the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

  Paulet growled: “It is time you returned to your own apartments.”

  “I am ready,” answered Mary; and smiling she laid the child in its mother’s arms. “Have no fear, dearest Barbara,” she whispered. “All will be well. Gilbert will return to you. They cannot harm the innocent.”

  Then she stopped and kissed Barbara’s forehead, and turning to Paulet said: “I am ready.”

  The sight which confronted her in her own apartments caused her to cry out in alarm and protest. Drawers had been burst open, coffers had been emptied; and she saw that almost everything she possessed had been removed.

  Mary stood staring at the disorder in dismay while Paulet watched her, a smile of satisfaction on his lips.

  “At least,” said Mary, “there are two things of which I cannot be robbed—my English blood and my Catholic Faith, in which, by the grace of God I intend to die.”

  ALEYN CAME INTO THE ROOM and sat down beside his charge.

  “I have news for you,” he said. “Your young lady is a prisoner in the Tower.”

  Jacques lifted his eyes, weary with sleeplessness, to his jailor’s face. “This is true?”

  “True it is. They’ve taken her from the Queen’s side and put her there. They’ve ransacked the Queen’s rooms and have found enough to send her to the block.”

  “It cannot be so. She has never done anything to deserve such a fate.”

  “There’s some that thinks different.”

  “What are they doing to Bessie in the Tower?”

  “You’ve no need to conce
rn yourself for her safety. If she’s sensible and you’re sensible . . . why, I shouldn’t wonder if there wouldn’t be a nice little wedding, and all merry ever after.”

  “What do you know of these matters? Tell me truly.”

  “That the Queen of Scots is in mortal danger.”

  “She has committed no crime by trying to escape.”

  “You, who wrote all those letters for her, know there was more in it than that.”

  “I know that she is innocent of any crime.”

  “Conspiring against the life of our gracious Sovereign Elizabeth! Is that no crime then? You should have a care. Such talk smacks of treason.”

  “She did not conspire against Elizabeth’s life.”

  “If you were to tell all you know . . . you would be let out of here . . . your Bessie would be let out of the Tower. There would be no obstacles to your wedding, and who knows . . . I reckon you’d find yourself with a pleasant place at Court, for my master rewards those who please him and he is a man of great influence.”

  Jacques’ tongue wetted his dry lips. What was being offered him? Freedom and Bessie. All that he wanted in life. For what? For betrayal of the Queen.

  He was torn in two. He yearned for Bessie . . . for peace . . . to forget this danger. Perhaps to return to France . . . .

  Aleyn was looking at him slyly.

  A pleasant enough fellow, he was thinking. The sort that didn’t betray easily. But look what was offered him. How would he be able to refuse . . . in time?

  “Give him time,” Walsingham had said. “Then when we have his evidence against her, that will be all we need to achieve our purpose.”

  BABINGTON KNEW that the end was near.

  Everything had turned out so differently from his dreams. The conspiracy was discovered; his guilt—and that of his fellow conspirators—was proved without doubt. They had been tried and found guilty of treason. He had no illusions about the fate which was being prepared for him; he and every man in England knew of the barbaric death which was accorded traitors.

  He and Ballard had been tried before a special commission with five others: John Savage, Chidiock Tichbourne, Robert Barnwell, Thomas Salisbury and Henry Donn. It had been useless to attempt to deny their guilt.

  Brought face-to-face with Ballard he had blamed him for all that had taken place. How brave and restrained the priest had been on that occasion! He had faced the court and declared: “The fault was mine, for I persuaded Anthony Babington to become a member of this conspiracy. Shed my blood if you will, but spare him.”

  This was noble, but had little effect on the court. All were condemned to the terrible traitors’ death.

  And now the hour was at hand.

  The prisoners were taken out of their cells and drawn on hurdles from Tower Hill through the city to St. Giles’s Fields where a scaffold had been erected.

  The crowds were waiting to see these men die perhaps the most horrible death which man could devise.

  Ballard, brave to the end, was the first to die.

  So those who were condemned to die under similar diabolical circumstances watched their fellow conspirator hanged, cut down before he was dead and disemboweled while still alive by the executioner’s knife.

  It was the turn of Babington. Determined not to falter he faced the crowd and told them that he had not joined the conspiracy for private gain but because he believed he was engaged in a deed both lawful and meritorious.

  The hands of the executioner were upon him.

  He was still alive when they cut the rope about his neck. He saw the executioner’s knife poised above his suffering body; he felt the sharp steel pierce his flesh.

  Gone were all the dreams of Earthly greatness.

  “Parce mihi, Domine Jesu,” he murmured.

  And thus he died.

  IN THE STREETS the people were talking of that scene of revolting cruelty. John Savage had broken the rope on which he was hanged; and the terrible mutilation had been endured while he still lived.

  When news of the execution was brought to Elizabeth, she asked for a truthful answer as to how the spectators had acted; and when she heard that they had witnessed the scene in silence, she gave orders that it was not to be repeated on the next day when other conspirators were to be executed.

  Those who had taken part in the Babington plot and were due for execution on the next day were more fortunate than those who had suffered before them. The Queen ordered that they were to be hanged by the neck until they died.

  ELIZABETH was pensive.

  The time had come, Burleigh assured her, to take action against the Queen of Scots. Walsingham was in complete agreement with him.

  In her hand the Queen held a letter from Leicester, who was in Holland. He was shocked beyond expression, he wrote, that the wicked woman of Scotland had schemed against the life of his beloved Queen. The easiest method of preventing such an occurrence being repeated was to administer a dose of poison. This, urged Leicester, was legal in the circumstances and would relieve his dear mistress of the anxiety he knew she would feel if obliged to sign the death warrant of one who was a Queen even as she was herself.

  No, Robert, thought Elizabeth. I will not be accused by my Catholic subjects of her murder.

  But what to do?

  “Bring her to the Tower,” suggested Walsingham.

  But the Queen shook her head. She did not forget that there was a strong Catholic party in London. It had shocked Elizabeth deeply, to learn that there were among her subjects those who could conspire against her. The number involved in the Babington plot was startling; and they were but a minority of the Catholics who were prepared to work against her.

  “I shall not have her brought to London,” she said. “She shall go to Fotheringay Castle and there be tried. If she should be found guilty, there shall she meet her fate.”

  XVIII

  Fotheringay

  FOTHERINGAY!

  Mary was filled with foreboding as she came to her new prison. She had been separated from many of her friends before she left Chartley, and among these was Barbara Curle who wept bitterly at the parting; but Elizabeth Curle, whom Mary dearly loved, was allowed to accompany the Queen to Fotheringay, as was Jane Kennedy. Andrew Melville, her Master of the Household, was also with her.

  The castle was a grim fortress standing on the north bank of the River Nen in Northamptonshire. Mary did not think of escape as she had on entering other prisons, for a sense of inevitable doom had possession of her and she believed that she would never leave this place alive.

  When her party had crossed the drawbridge they entered a court which led to a large hall. Mary stood for a few moments looking at this hall before Paulet said harshly that she was to be conducted to her apartments.

  They passed a chapel and he led the way to the rooms which had been set aside for her use. They were large, and pictures graced the walls.

  As holding her little Skye terrier in her arms, she followed Paulet, she felt the little creature’s heart beating wildly.

  “Be still, little one,” she murmured. “At least they have not parted us . . . and never shall they . . . while I live.”

  * * *

  IN THE GREAT HALL of Fotheringay the dais was emblazoned with the arms of England, and on this dais was a chair covered in red velvet.

  In this hall were gathered the lords of England, come to try Mary for her part in the plot to assassinate their Queen, and among them were Lord Burleigh and Sir Francis Walsingham. Elizabeth was represented by the Attorney-General, the Solicitor-General and the Queen’s Sergeant. Mary was to defend herself.

  She was pleased to have with her at this perilous time Sir Andrew Melville who, as the Master of her Household, was entitled to accompany her; on his devotion and affection she placed great reliance; but she knew that it could avail her little, for all those men who had come from London to Fotheringay had determined to find her guilty.

  The Queen’s Sergeant, Sir Thomas Gawdy, colorful in his b
lue robe with the red hood falling on his shoulders, stood up to open the case. He spoke of the information obtained from Babington and his fellow conspirators; he explained that six of them had planned to murder Queen Elizabeth. There were letters, he said, which would prove Queen Mary guilty of partaking in this plot.

  Depositions had been taken from her secretaries, Jacques Nau and Gilbert Curle, which would prove the case against her.

  Mary stared blankly before her, wondering what torture those two had suffered before they had betrayed her. She did not know that they had refused to betray her, that they had been trapped into making certain admissions and that Jacques had written to Queen Elizabeth assuring her of Mary’s innocence in any plot to assassinate her. Jacques and Gilbert were still in prison because of their persistent loyalty to their mistress.

  But how could she learn that in this sad hall of doom?

  She was thinking back to that day when Babington’s letters had arrived, trying to remember exactly what he had written, exactly what he had said.

  She demanded to see the letters and triumphantly pointed out that they were in the handwriting of one who had deciphered them; and could not, she asked, the decipherer have written what he wished? How could they prove that they were letters written by her when they were not in her handwriting?

  In a moment of folly she denied knowing Babington; but she added: “It is true that I have heard of him.”

  She was reminded that Babington had confessed that correspondence had passed between them, and that the assassination of Elizabeth had been part of the Babington plot.

  “Gentlemen,” cried Mary, “you must understand that I am no longer ambitious. I wish for nothing but to pass my days in tranquillity. I am too old now, too infirm to wish to rule.”

  “You have continually asserted your pretensions to the throne of England,” Burleigh accused her.

  “I have never given up asserting my rights,” answered Mary cryptically, and Burleigh was somewhat nonplussed because there were many who doubted the legitimacy of Elizabeth, and it was impossible to know whether some of them were present.