In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  It was not the first time that a match between England and France had been mooted; there had been protracted negotiations some time back aimed at marrying her to Charles. But no one had expected François to die so soon after taking the throne. What a disaster that should have been! Had she married Charles when everyone was clamoring for her to take a husband, she would now be Queen of France, but at the great expense of having Charles as King of England! But Charles had married Elisabeth of Austria instead. More fool she! But no sooner had he done so, than talk began of a marriage for her with Henri, yet another brother, and duc d’Anjou. That gentleman had proved unflatteringly reluctant, claiming as his reason his Catholic faith and his tender conscience when it came to marriage with a heretic. The talks had dragged on, then finally ceased. And no wonder, if King Charles and Queen Catherine were embroiled in a plot to place the former Queen of France on the throne of England! But that plot was now no more.

  Plot! Hah! she thought to herself. This so-called plot was a figment of Ridolfi’s imagination, proof only of her cousin of Scotland’s desperation and poor judgment, and Norfolk’s insipid mewlings and pretensions to royalty!

  So now they thought to placate her with renewed talk of marriage to Anjou. And why not? She had no more intention of marrying Henri of France than he had of marrying her. But whilst they parleyed, the two countries were at least ostensibly allied against their common enemy of Spain. And Philip had certainly proved his ill intent! She had been so incensed by his letter to Mary that Walsingham had shown her, that she had dashed it to the floor and ground it underfoot in her fury.

  And events of late had proven that she needed a reliable spy at the French court. Who better to send than that master of the game, Walsingham?

  Suddenly, she smiled and extended her hand, still elegant and beautiful with its long, white fingers.

  “Dear Fenelon,” she said sweetly. “I and my advisors desire nothing so much as friendship with France. And my heart sings at the prospect of a marriage with the handsome and gallant Anjou.”

  Fenelon breathed a sigh of relief and bowed low over the proffered hand of the queen, just brushing it with his lips.

  Elizabeth withdrew her hand, nodded to Fenelon, and then turned to de Espés, the Spanish ambassador.

  “You, Your Excellency,” said Elizabeth icily, “are dismissed forthwith from my court. I think me that you know upon what cause. You may return to your master. And tell him that despite his efforts, Mary Stuart does not reign here.”

  On silent feet, the halberdiers had approached, and now stood shoulder to shoulder with the Spanish ambassador. There was nothing for him to do save to bow and to allow himself to be led from the great room, with all eyes upon him.

  Chapter 17

  “Can I put to death the bird that, to escape the pursuit of the hawk, has fled to my feet for protection? Honor and conscience forbid!”

  -Elizabeth I

  Sheffield Castle, South Yorkshire, January 1572

  T he great keep of Sheffield Castle was as cold and damp as the grave, even on the sunniest winter’s day. And with its stone walls and floors, it was as dreary as a tomb. Perhaps this was what the grave truly felt like, thought Mary; endless cold and boredom, with no hope of relief.

  Beautiful arras covered the wind-eyes, which were not glazed; rich tapestries graced the walls, and silky Turkey carpets, ironically, gifts from Elizabeth, covered the stone floors. A fire blazed on the hearth. But the room was still cold, and despite its luxury, it was still a prison.

  Voices echoed outside in the distance; Mary walked to the window and lifted the arras aside. Her windows faced north and west, so no sun graced her rooms until the afternoon, which in winter, set in very early indeed. Her rooms were too far from the castle gates for her to see anyone arriving or departing, which was annoying to one who loved people and craved their company, even if only from afar. Bess’s fault, she thought; always the bleakest rooms for the Queen of Scotland, on the excuse that they must keep her close confined!

  The waters of the moat reflected the intense blue of the sky, but upon closer examination, one could see that the water itself was dark and dank under a thin layer of ice. In the summertime, the moat smelt badly; at least in the wintertime, she thought wryly, it only offended the eye.

  Beyond the moat was the River Sheaf which, along with the River Don, surrounded parts of the land on which the castle was situated, and fed its moat. Beyond the river lay the hills, which seemed blue in the strong afternoon sunlight.

  On the other side of the river, Mary spied a party of horsemen; it was their voices she had heard carrying on the wind. They had been hunting, and now were flying their hawks. Such cruel torture, to have to watch others at their leisure, pursuing pleasant pastimes, whilst she was allowed none! Her eyes were still keen despite her endless sewing, the only amusement left to her now; amongst others, she spied Sir Ralph Sadler, who was keeping the castle whilst Lord George was in London. She sighed, let the arras fall back over the window, and went back to her needle.

  That Sir Ralph had eschewed her company since coming to the castle deeply wounded her. He had made her acquaintance briefly upon his arrival late in December, and then had not waited upon her since. She was especially hurt by what seemed to be this unnecessary snub, because Sir Ralph had known her mother. How she longed to share a meal with him, to sit by the fire of an evening, and to hear stories from him of his days at the Scottish court!

  Following the Battle of Solway Moss, Sir Ralph had been sent to Scotland to arrange a marriage between herself, barely three months old, and Edward, the Prince of Wales. Her mother had shown her to Sir Ralph, naked, if the stories be true! …to assure him that she was healthy and fair, and perfect in every way. It was rumored that her mother had said that her baby daughter grew apace, and soon she would be a woman, if she took after her mother at all. It was a pretty jest, for Marie de Guise was known to be a large woman, very tall and full of figure. Sir Ralph duly made his report to Henry of England, saying that the little Scottish queen was a right fair and goodly child, as good as any he had ever seen.

  And yet now, Sir Ralph was in the castle, but he would not come to see her. What did it mean?

  The fire was burning low; Willie appeared as if out of nowhere at just the right moment to mend it. Seton began lighting candles, for the light in the room was growing dim. Soon it would be full dark. Another deadly dull evening, with nothing to do after supper except play her lute and sing her songs alone, except for Seton. Was this how she was to end her days, then? Was this how she was to waste her youth and beauty?

  Supper arrived punctually, but it was a dismal meal; even Kinsey, usually so greedy, seemed to have little appetite.

  Voices in the corridor outside her rooms evinced no interest; nothing to do with her! But then the doors opened and there he was at last…Sir Ralph Sadler. Behind him stood Lord George and the countess. So Lord George had returned from London! Norfolk…! There must be news…

  Lord George, now that he had returned, was in charge of her once more; he came to the forefront of the group. He was still wearing his riding clothes; he twisted his felt cap in his hands. She sat waiting expectantly, saying nothing. The fire crackled. Just as the tension was about to become uncomfortable, he spoke.

  “The duke has been found guilty,” he said softly. All knew what that meant!

  Mary tried to speak, but her jaw jerked uncontrollably and no words came forth. She was sitting, but still her hands gripped the arms of her chair, as if she sought to steady herself. She closed her eyes and fought for control. “Th-then…h-he is…h-he h-has b-been...”

  Lord George held out a hand, as if he sought to comfort her, but he was too far away. “No, Your Grace,” he said. “The queen has not yet signed the death warrant.”

  “Thanks be to God for that!” she blurted out, and then burst into tears. Then perhaps there was still hope...Norfolk was Elizabeth’s cousin; mayhap she was using delay as a tactic to keep him alive
. Delay was one of her cousin’s favorite ploys, as all knew.

  Lord George wished with all his heart that he could have broken this news to the Queen of Scotland when they were alone; then he could have told her of the anguish, the distress that Elizabeth had shown at Norfolk’s guilty verdict. She had refused absolutely to sign the death warrant, thrust at her without deferral or compunction by vindictive, spiteful courtiers such as Burghley and Walsingham. These men, and others of their mind, longed for the day when Norfolk’s head would leave his shoulders. But the queen was adamant. That a guilty verdict for the duke was a foregone conclusion, all, including Elizabeth, had known from the outset; and so all had expected Norfolk’s execution to quickly follow his trial. But it seemed that it was not to be. The duke still languished in the Tower, much as he had done before his trial.

  Mary regarded Lord George silently; amongst the three standing before her, only he emanated sympathy and understanding. Bess and Sir Ralph’s eyes were narrowed; the malice that shone from them was almost palpable. Bess, she knew, hated her, for God only knew what reasons; but why did Sir Ralph gaze at her with such malevolence and loathing?

  Sir Ralph had had much the same reaction to the Queen of Scots upon making her acquaintance that Cecil had. Instantly, he had been affected by her, recognized what ailed him, and sought to resist it by henceforth avoiding her company. As long as the Scottish queen was close confined, safely guarded and her needs cared for, there was no need for him pay court to her during his temporary stay at Sheffield as her gaoler; indeed, there was every reason not to do so. And so Sir Ralph had whiled away his time at Sheffield as if he were on holiday; he hunted and hawked, availed himself of the countess’s obviously begrudged hospitality, and awaited Lord George’s return.

  Sir Ralph had apprised the Earl of Shrewsbury of the state of affairs at court after Norfolk’s trial. Norfolk had been contrite for his actions and indignantly declared himself to be no Catholic, just as he had claimed for years. But many suspected that His Grace was a crypto-Catholic, outwardly conforming to the Reformed faith as it was practiced in England, whilst secretly remaining a Catholic, and hearing Mass in private. This was a common practice, and one that the Reformers abhorred. But the queen was adamant that she would persecute no one for their beliefs, as long as they kept their transgressions of her religious laws private and made no trouble. But had not Norfolk made trouble in plenty, scheming the death of the queen with Mary of Scotland? All called loudly for Norfolk’s head, and Mary Stuart’s as well; but Elizabeth had so far turned a deaf ear to their importuning.

  Sir Ralph was no religious fanatic; but he cared very much what happened to queen and country. As far he was concerned, Mary Stuart was a risk to the peace and tranquility of the realm, and this was a risk that Queen Elizabeth could not afford to take.

  All things considered, he would be glad to see the back of Sheffield, the Countess of Shrewsbury, and the Queen of Scotland. Let Lord George take his stewardship back, and good riddance!

  Ever since receiving the queen’s summons to court to perform his duty as a peer of the realm, and to judge the Duke of Norfolk at his trial, Lord George had racked his brain for a reason as to why had he been called away from his duty as the Queen of Scotland’s gaoler for such a task? There were any number of others who could have fulfilled the obligation. He was a literal man with little imagination, but at last, he thought he knew why. As a judge at Norfolk’s trial, perhaps Mary would then blame him for the guilty verdict of her fiancé, and for the duke’s inevitable demise, thus causing a rift between them. For the Queen of England might refuse to sign her cousin’s death warrant, but the carrying out of his sentence could not be postponed indefinitely. The duke would lose his head; it was only a matter of time.

  All these thoughts occurred to the men standing before the distraught Queen of Scotland in the few moments that it had taken for her to locate her little linen square and to dab at her streaming eyes.

  Bess shifted her stance impatiently, and finally she cried, “What ails Your Grace, after all? If the duke’s offenses had not been so great and so plainly proved against him, those noblemen who sat in judgment upon His Grace,” and at this she flicked her glance over to her husband, “would not have had occasion to condemn him withal.”

  Mary had indeed grown to resemble her buxom mother, and at this she leapt from her chair and stood before the shorter, slighter Bess. Looking down upon her, Mary cried, “Your Ladyship knows very well what ails me! Oh,” she cried on a plaintive sob, raising her hand once again to her streaming eyes, “how deeply I am grieved at the misfortunes visited upon my good friends, who fare the worse for my sake! The duke is unjustly condemned, I say! I can testify that he is a true subject of the Queen of England!”

  Sir Ralph had been silent up to this point, but at Mary’s words, he felt his ire rise. “You are a vile liar, Madam! And nothing can save the duke now,” he said. “Norfolk will die, and it may as well be Your Grace who wields the axe that will sever his unworthy head from his body! You lured the duke to his death with your uncanny wiles, Madam, and you, I do assure you, are next at the block! All of London, yea, all loyal Englishmen, clamor for your blood! Did you and the duke not devise a dastardly plan by which to deprive England of her rightful queen? Letters, Madam, your letters, were smuggled into the Tower to the duke, yea, and to the bishop! We know all. Letters scheming to bring foreign troops to our shores, and to murder our queen! Letters smuggled in using ale bottles, their corks signed with your papist cross! All those in the Tower who conspired to abet this clandestine correspondence have been duly charged, tried and hung at Tyburn, which was too good for them! They should all have died the traitor’s death. But our queen is merciful and kind, Madam, something which you most assuredly are not!” When Sir Ralph stopped speaking, it was as if the silence that followed rang in their ears.

  At these cruel assertions, Mary began to weep in earnest. The thought that perhaps she, through her letters to the duke, might be responsible for his death, grieved her mightily.

  Mary stared at Sir Ralph, whose chest was heaving after his speech, and said very softly, “What the duke and others have done I cannot say; they must answer for themselves. As for the Bishop of Ross, I know full well that he must have been tortured; for who amongst us would not say whatsoever you will have us say, for fear of life and limb?”

  Sir Ralph snorted his derision. “Think you so?” he said, so quietly that all three of them leaned forward to hear him. “Think you so, then?” He shook his head. “No. The Bishop of Ross had but to be shown the rack to make him spew forth enough to condemn himself and all of you. And that which he had to say of you, Madam, is so vile that I fear me I cannot repeat it. Merciful Christ, what a people you Scots are! Were the Bishop not a prelate of the Roman Catholic Church, his days would also be numbered. But Norfolk will die, as will Your Grace. One can only hope that before the axe falls, God will grant you the grace to repent of and mend your wicked ways and your evil life, Madam, which hitherto has been very loose and dissolute, and steeped in blood.”

  “That is a vicious lie,” hissed Mary. “I have of my own free will placed myself in the hands of the queen, your mistress, relying upon her promises and assurances of friendship. Since then she has detained me, most unjustly. I am no subject of the Queen of England, sir! By what lawful authority, I challenge you to enlighten me, am I held here against my will? If Her Grace therefore suspects that I desire my liberty, I cannot help that. I am a free princess, and in that I am not responsible to her or to any other! It is a false, perfidious queen, whom you revere so much.”

  Sir Ralph shook his head. “So righteous,” he said softly. “So high and mighty! Your Grace has proved only that you will stop at nothing to gain your freedom, yea, even unto treason! Very well then, we shall add treason to the list of thy transgressions! Treachery! Lies and deceit! Licentiousness and lust! Murder and mayhem! Your life is a litany of sins, Madam. And who will then hearken to your wicked allure once
they behold thy immoral words to the Earl of Bothwell? Aye, Madam, at long last our virtuous queen has been persuaded to publish your letters to Bothwell for all to see, that they may know you for what you are! A sinful, corrupt, depraved enchantress, who ensnares all in her path!”

  At this, Bess snorted; she was certainly not taken in by the Scottish queen’s sorcery, even if her hapless husband was!

  A slow tear made its way down Mary’s cheek.

  Lord George stood, his cap in his hand, as if pole-axed; he dared say nothing, but his heart went out to Mary in her extremity.

  The fire crackled on the hearth, and Kinsey, who had slept through the entire exchange, twitched and moaned in his sleep.

  “The only thing standing between Your Grace and death is my perfidious queen, as you call her,” said Sir Ralph. “I do assure you that all, high and low, call for your blood, Madam. But you shall not escape punishment. The Parliament will soon convene, and then we shall see! In the meantime, the queen has recognized your son as King of Scotland. To the English, Madam, you are no longer the reigning Queen of Scotland, but merely its dowager.”

  Mary stood tall, her head held high, her back straight, her eyes flashing her anger. “Aye, well,” she said venomously, “we shall see what the French and my Guise relations have to say about that.”

  Sir Ralph shook his head. “King Charles and the Queen Mother have washed their hands of you,” he said. “Even now, they treat with Queen Elizabeth for her hand in marriage. And your Guise relations will not go against the French monarchy on your behalf, I do assure Your Grace.”

  Mary’s eyes shifted from one to the other of them. Only Lord George’s eyes answered her own. “Leave me,” she said softly. “Go.”

  When the door closed behind the trio, Mary sank down into a chair by the hearth. So this was the end. Bothwell was mad in his Danish prison, and would not be coming for her as he had once promised. King Charles of Spain had abandoned her to her fate. Her own Scots did not want her, and the Catholics who supported her were all but powerless. The French would parley with the English, and whilst they did so, her Guise relations could do nothing for her. The Earl of Westmoreland was stranded in exile on the Continent, and the Earl of Northumberland languished in the very same prison from which she had once escaped at Loch Leven. Ridolfi had failed her; Bishop Ross was in the Tower, and Norfolk was facing the block and the axe.