In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  “That was a long time ago,” he replied. The queen said nothing; she stared into the flickering flames of the fireplace. Finally, he nodded his agreement.

  “Very well then,” said Elizabeth. “Make the arrangements and kindly inform my cousin of the change.”

  He was disappointed, but Sir Francis was practiced at keeping his face expressionless; he did so now. This move of the Queen of Scots into the custody of Sir Ralph was only a temporary setback. And he was certain in himself that any move would greatly discomfit Mary Stuart. That was a good thing; the more frustrated Her Grace became was sure to be the measure of her desire for vengeance against her royal cousin. And when she began to plot once more, which he believed to be inevitable, he would be ready.

  Buxton, Derbyshire, September 1584

  Seton sat with her back ramrod straight and her hands folded in her lap. She was dry-eyed and calm. It distressed her to see Mary weeping, but there was nothing for it. She had waited years beyond when she had meant to leave England, out of love for the queen. She was reluctant to leave Mary in her prison, but her heart had been in Andrew Beaton’s grave for many years. For a long time she had wished for nothing so much as to retire to the Convent of Saint-Pierre at Rheims in France, where she might pray for Andrew’s soul, and find solace for her own, in the quietude of the church. Renée de Guise, the sister of Marie de Guise, Mary’s mother, was abbess there; she was assured of welcome. She could wait no longer; it was time.

  “I am sorry,” said Mary. “I understand, my darling, truly, I do. I am being selfish. Oh, my sweet Seton, I shall miss you so!” She reached out a hand to her life-long friend. Seton hesitated for only an instant before clasping Mary’s cold hand in her own. She was afraid that if she succumbed to Mary’s despair at her pending departure, she might not go after all. Above all, she must not weep; if she wept now, they would mingle their tears and regrets and before she knew it, she would be promising to stay…just a while longer. It would always be just a while longer, and then she would never go.

  “I shall miss Your Grace sorely,” she said. “Most sorely.”

  “But of course,” said Mary through her tears, “you must go. I understand. Aunt Renée will look after you, Dearest, as you so richly deserve. You have been a good friend to me. I shan’t forget you, Seton.”

  It was still summer, but the evenings had turned chill; it looked to be an early fall. A fire crackled on the hearth. It was late in the season to still be at Buxton. The annual visit there was something that Mary looked forward to tremendously; she was always reluctant to go when the time for departure drew nigh, and the tears she was shedding were part of that distress.

  How had it come to this, she asked herself? For nigh on sixteen years she had been a captive queen in exile. If only she could have seen her way clear to form an alliance with Esme. But her ire rose at the very thought of it. Esme had offered to come with an army at his back to free her, if only she would recognize James as King of Scotland. She had refused utterly to even consider such a thing. Why should she, a sovereign queen, be reduced to placating a distant cousin of her son’s, who sought to be the power behind a throne that did not yet even belong to his protégé? James was Prince Regent, no more; calling him king did not make him so. In the end, Esme had been ousted by the resentful Scots and had died later in Paris, some believed of poison. And serve him right!

  She believed, as did many others, that Esme had been sent to James by the Queen Mother to convert him to Catholicism, and to render him dependent upon France politically. If that were true, Catherine had misjudged the situation, which was rare. James, much to her own distress, was a staunch Protestant, and not to be turned. He recognized the value of the Auld Alliance, but he had no intention of subjugating his own power to the French crown.

  And see how poorly he had been treated in his minority, by regent after regent, most of whom had come to bad ends. But James on his own had fared little better; he had been captured and made a prisoner in his own castles by ambitious Scottish lords. To allay the fears of the people, he had been taken to Edinburgh and paraded through the streets to reassure the Scots that their king, who was no more than heir to the throne! ...was alive and well. But she had heard through Archbishop Beaton that James had been very badly treated by his captors. What could they possibly be thinking, these men? That James would someday be their king was all but certain.

  After some little time, James had escaped his captors, but she was hard pressed to rejoice for it; for he had repudiated utterly her proposal to share power…a great concession on her part. She was, after all, the rightful queen. That James had deserted his own mother for Elizabeth was doubly galling. But she must face facts; Elizabeth held the glittering prize of England in her gift. She could not reasonably expect James to say the Queen of England nay on behalf of a mother he did not know and whom he had never even met. But somehow, James must be made to understand that he would never be King of Scotland until the moment of her death.

  ###

  It was just coming on twilight; Seton had dozed off in her chair. Mary’s own eyelids were weighing heavily when suddenly the dull thud of footsteps and the metallic ring of spurs on stone brought her out of her reverie. A shadow appeared in the doorway, which was backlit by the glow of the torches that lined the walls of the corridor. The shadow separated itself from the others that played in the firelight and resolved into a very tall man.

  Mary’s eyes grew wide. It was Sir Francis Walsingham. Well did she recall the last time he had confronted her, all those years ago. A cold finger of fear crept up her spine; but ever optimistic, she entertained the fleeting thought that perhaps he was here for something other than a sinister purpose.

  Seton jerked awake; a cold stare from Walsingham dismissed her from the room, but still her eyes sought Mary’s. Mary nodded and Seton stole away as quietly as a ghost.

  Sir Francis took the Queen of Scotland’s measure at a glance; while it was true that her physical appearance was much diminished, that invisible aura was indeed still there, as strong as it had ever been. He understood immediately the toll that such had taken on Lord George over so many years. He was right; the Queen of Scots could not be left where she was. While the change of custody to Sir Ralph was not ideal, still, it was better than nothing. No wonder intrigues and plots had been rife and flourishing during the Earl of Shrewsbury’s tenure as the queen’s gaoler! That Mary Stuart held the hapless Lord George in her mysterious thrall was more than evidenced by the tawdry scandal precipitated by Bess’s salacious accusations.

  Without preamble, Sir Francis said, “I am come, Madam, to inform you that henceforth, Your Grace shall abide under the protection of Sir Ralph Sadler.”

  It was the last thing she had expected to hear. In fact, her disappointment was vast; she had thought, perhaps, to be informed that she would, at last, be allowed to stand trial in England for the alleged offenses for which she had been unjustly imprisoned all these years. And hard on that thought came a tugging at her heart strings at the thought of losing Lord George. All in the household knew Bess’s accusations concerning herself and the Earl of Shrewsbury to be groundless, indeed, ridiculous; but that Lord George was smitten with her she had no doubt. But Sadler! He had been most unpleasant to her the last time they had met.

  “That is very strange hearing, sir,” she said, with a regal tilt to her chin.

  Sir Francis’s eyes narrowed. “I fail to see why,” he replied, “when the lenient house arrest under which Your Grace has been kept these past years has been continually violated by yourself, to the detriment of England’s sovereign lady and queen, and to the danger of the safety of England.”

  There was a time when she would have protested loudly that the bastard who sat upon the throne of England had no right to it, indeed, that the throne was her own. But that time was passed. She had made her ignominious concessions, and on the word of a prince, must needs now stand by them.

  “Such merciful circumstances Your Grace has
enjoyed these sixteen years,” he said softly, in his snake’s hiss of a voice.

  “Mercy?” cried Mary. “What has mercy to do withal, sir? I am as much an absolute prince as my cousin! I am not, and never have been, Elizabeth’s inferior. Rather the opposite, I should say! I have been a queen from my cradle. I have been proclaimed Queen of France, the greatest realm in Christendom! Mercy!” she practically spat the word back at him. “Mercy, sir, is for subjects! I am no man’s subject, and certainly not Elizabeth’s! That boot is surely on the other foot!”

  She recalled her vast disappointment of moments before when she had dared to hope that Walsingham’s presence might mean that at last, she was to be heard before the English court. She had complained repeatedly over the years that she had never yet been permitted to face her accusers and defend herself. Instead she had been condemned by her cousin to this living death.

  She drew breath and said in a quiet voice, “The vilest criminals in your gaols are tried for their justification, sir. Why should not the same privilege be accorded to me, a sovereign queen, and Elizabeth’s nearest relation and heir? I beg you, my lord, to inform me as to when justice for myself shall at last be done.” But in her heart, she knew that it never would be. Even though the letters in François’ silver casket had proven nothing, her royal cousin had played a trump card; Elizabeth had neither condemned nor released her. Instead, she had held in in this infinite limbo these many years. If she gave up, if she gave in to despair, Elizabeth would win.

  Sir Francis regarded her with hooded lids. If all goes well, such justice shall be accorded you, Madam, he thought to himself, much sooner than you think! His cold eyes met her flashing ones.

  “We depart for Wingfield Manor two days hence.”

  At this, Mary’s brave façade crumbled and her eyes filled with tears.

  “But why?” she cried. She detested Bess, but she was very fond of Lord George and Britton, and she loved Arabella. To be torn away after so many years, to face an unknown situation alone! For Seton would no longer be there to smooth the way, as she was well aware her friend had always done on her behalf in times past. She felt positively cast adrift.

  “Why?” sneered Walsingham. “It is well known that Your Grace plans and plots with England’s enemies.”

  As they had traded barbs just moments before, Mary had been aware of a warning bell somewhere in the back of her mind; but now she was truly frightened. For Sir Francis was correct on one issue at least; her house arrest, while irksome in the extreme, had indeed been lenient. It could have been the Tower all this time. Is that what lay in store for her now? Was the story about Sir Ralph and going to Wingfield simply a trick to get her out on the road, where she would be helpless in Walsingham’s charge?

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” she cried. “May not one ask one’s friends for help, sir? And if in seeking to then assist me or ease my lot, they have done ought wrong, am I to be blamed for that?”

  Walsingham regarded Mary appraisingly for a long moment. So the serpent might have sounded to Eve in the Garden of Eden! Cloyingly reasonable; cajoling; pathetic, even. But he knew this she-devil for what she was. “Blamed?” he said blandly. He studied his fingers, one by one, as carefully as if he had never seen them before. “I do not deal in blame, Madam. Only in accountability.”

  Suddenly a great revelation made itself known to Mary. The idea sprang from her mind as clear and complete as the goddess Athena was said to have sprung from Zeus's head, full-grown and clad in armor. James did not love her; her son had no regard for her at all. He and Elizabeth were in league to see to it that she was kept obscure and in the background. Had James felt differently, surely he would have come years ago with an army to free her. All this time she had been deluding herself.

  “Alas!” she cried, from her heart. “Was ever a sight so detestable and impious before God or man, as a child despoiling his mother of her crown and royal estate?”

  Sir Francis could only marvel that it had taken the Queen of Scotland so many years to arrive at the truth.

  Westminster Palace, November 1584

  In the Great Hall at Westminster, the queen stood before the men of Parliament, a vision of the power and might of England in her glittering crown and ceremonial robes. The opening of Parliament was a royal duty that she always enjoyed. As she gazed out over the throng of men, she spared a moment to watch the dust motes dance in the beams of the pale wintry sun that stole in through the tall windows.

  Beneath the ermine-trimmed crimson robes she wore widow’s weeds. It was true that the black velvet of her gown was sewn with diamonds so tiny that the eye could catch only the reflections of their rainbow colors. A queen must still be a queen, even when she mourned. For early in the summer of that year had come the grievous news that her dear, sweet Alençon was dead of a fever in the marshes of the Netherlands. Her grief knew no bounds; for had circumstances been different, she would indeed have married him. He had, once upon a time, romantically declared her the gaoler of his heart and the mistress of his liberty. Even so, she had never been blind to the fact that François had craved a crown. But she knew, in the depths of her soul, that they had shared a certain passion. And now he was gone, never to return.

  Hard on that had come the dispatch informing her of the death by assassination of William of Orange. The news, terrible enough in itself, had caused a great surge of emotion as to her own situation in England. See how easily, cried many, the Dutch leader had been despatched by the assassin’s bullet! From there it was not far at all to a groundswell of fear for her own safety; from her Council, from the Parliament, and from the people, who loved her.

  And so the afternoon found her once again facing Parliament. This group of men so feared for her safety, and a Catholic succession, that they had drafted a Bond of Association, to which all had put their signature. Its harsh articles demanded death for any person who plotted against the Queen’s Grace, or God forfend, murdered her; and it mandated a Protestant succession. One could even be implicated solely by having ever been associated with anyone accused, and one clause barred from the throne the heirs of anyone found guilty of complicity in such a conspiracy.

  When the clock struck noon, three times the heavy staff rang metallic on the ancient stone floor. Immediately all was silence.

  In her high, clear voice, she said, “I am very sensible, my lords, of the care all of you wish to take of me. But I shall never consent to being a prisoner in my own realm, nor shall I isolate myself from my people. The people are England, sirs, and I am married to England.” Solemnly, she held up the hand on which her Coronation Ring had been placed so many years before. “You shall make the following changes to your bond,” she said. “Firstly, that before any man…or woman…” At the mention of women, she fixed them with a gimlet eye. “…is punished for any such crime, adequate proof of guilt must be obtained. And secondly, there shall be no barring of heirs in perpetuity.”

  The men shuffled their feet, coughed, cleared their throats; but they knew that the queen spoke sense. Had they not often enough clamored for the reluctant queen to name an heir? But name him or not, all knew that in the end, it must be the son of the Scottish queen. A Scot on the throne of England! It was a situation many abhorred, but there was nothing for it. After so many years, the men of Parliament finally realized what the queen had all along tried to make them understand. She must either marry a foreign prince who would lord it over them, as had her doomed sister; or stay a virgin queen, and the great-grandson of Henry VII would ascend the throne when she was no more. There was no other way; there was no one else.

  A murmur rumbled throughout the Great Hall; Sir John Puckering, the Speaker, took the measure of the mood and nodded his assent to the queen’s words. “We shall send a revised draft of the Bond to Your Grace without delay.” Elizabeth made to step down from the dais on which she had stood to address the august assembly, the arms of England glittering behind her on the wall. But just as she turned, Sir John said, “If i
t please Your Grace, there is another matter.”

  Elizabeth paused expectantly. “Say on, Sir John.”

  “The recent death of the Prince of Orange has resulted in the Dutch offering to Your Gracious Majesty the sovereignty of the Netherlands,” he said.

  The memory of the recent acrimonious exchanges in the Council chamber on that very subject flashed through her mind. She heaved a mental sigh. Was she now to be harangued by Parliament as well?

  “Such an offer is a tremendous opportunity, Your Grace,” said Sir John. “With respect, how is Your Grace minded upon the issue?”

  Elizabeth surveyed the men in the room, her eyes briefly making contact with each one. To a man, they all looked away when their eyes met her own. Many were engaged in trade with the Netherlands; she knew their minds, as she knew the minds of the warlike men on her Council. Her father had sought to regain the throne of France, more for his own glory than for England’s. The result of his wars had been only death and ruination for very little gain. And his conquests had cost more to garrison and maintain than they were worth. Above all things, she most feared war. Wars were costly; in men’s lives; in money. She had worked hard to avoid war throughout her reign, mostly engaging only covertly in wars in which England had a stake. But this was different.

  “Gentlemen,” she said. “Should England accept the sovereignty of the Netherlands, it would serve as an open declaration of war against Spain. That I cannot allow. We shall continue to assist the Dutch rebels in their struggle, but we must not become their overlord.”