Текст книги "The Captive Queen of Scots "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
Mary was startled when the Earls of Huntingdon and Shrewsbury came to her.
She listened in dismay.
Leave Tutbury! It was what she had been praying for. But in very different circumstances from these.
IX
Coventry
THE FIRST HALT ON THE FLIGHT from Tutbury was at Huntingdon’s castle at Ashby-de-la-Zouch.
This castle, set in wooded country, was a magnificent building which had been erected by Alan de la Zouch in the reign of Henry III, and in such contrast to dreary Tutbury that Mary might have welcomed the change had it not been that she was once more under the guardianship of Huntingdon.
“Only three days free of him,” he said to Bess, “and here he is again. Do you think he has brought me to Ashby to murder me?”
“He dare not. The Queen would never allow it.”
“There are some,” remarked Mary ruefully, “who are prepared to disobey not only the Queen of Scots but the Queen of England.”
“Not Huntingdon. He values his head too much. You need have no fear,” Bess went on. “While I am here no harm shall come to you.”
Such was the personality of the Countess that Mary took courage from her presence. Nevertheless she was relieved when that long night was over and they left Huntingdon’s mansion.
There was no time for delay. Ashby was too uncomfortably close to Tutbury for the party to be allowed to stay there, and Coventry was the next destination, some twenty-six miles on.
They halted at the Three Tuns Inn at Atherstone for refreshment on their way and then rode hard for Coventry, a town where a defense might be put up against the rebels, for a strong wall surrounded it on which were thirty well fortified towers.
But no preparation had been made in Coventry for the arrival of the party, and Huntingdon and Shrewsbury consulted together as to where they could find lodging for the Queen.
Bess said that as the Queen was very weary and far from well they should find a lodging for her and continue their conference later. She suggested the Black Bull Inn in Smithford Street not far from the Greyfriars gateway.
“There she can be well guarded,” she went on, “until a more seemly lodging can be found. It would be a sorry matter if we were forced to flee again, and the Queen too sick to travel.”
Mary was not displeased to find herself in a hostelry which, although infinitely smaller, had more comfort to offer her than gloomy Tutbury. There was excitement among her friends because, with the Northern Catholics on the march and herself being hustled from place to place, rescue seemed more likely than it could be while she was incarcerated within the strong walls of a fortress. She had brought with her, in spite of the hasty flight, twenty-five of her friends on whom she could rely absolutely, led by such stalwarts as Mary Seton, Jane Kennedy, Willie Douglas, the Livingstones and Marie Courcelles. There were also two members of the Beaton family—Andrew and Archibald—the former her Master of the Household, the latter her usher; and she knew that they would readily give their lives for her. There were times when she believed she would never be able to express her gratitude to these people who, from choice, shared her captivity with her.
Bess, who had established herself in command of the whole company and even managed to subdue Huntingdon, advised her husband to write at once to Elizabeth telling her that Mary had been safely conveyed to Coventry and that she was now held at the Black Bull Inn.
The letter was written and, while Elizabeth’s reply was awaited, Huntingdon discussed the possibility of reducing the number of Mary’s servants, for if they must needs move on, it was no easy matter to convey such a large party.
“That,” said Bess, “is a matter of less import than some. The Queen will be desolate if she is parted from her friends. This is no time to concern ourselves with the reduction of her household. Furthermore if you turn these people adrift at such a time they will join the rebels with valuable information. Let well alone.”
Huntingdon was forced to accept the logic of this, and he did not broach the subject to Mary as he had intended. He satisfied himself, during their stay at the Black Bull, with making sure that the Queen was well guarded night and day.
Elizabeth’s reply was choleric, and she wrote individually to both Shrewsbury and Huntingdon. She was furious and a little frightened, as she always was when confronted by rebellion among her subjects. She was relying on the Earl of Sussex who was stationed at York, and Sir George Bowes who was at Barnard’s Castle, to subdue the rebels. In the meantime she berated the Earls for so demeaning royalty by taking a Queen to an Inn. They were to remove Mary at once and find some suitable house in Coventry—a good and loyal city—where she was to remain until commanded to do otherwise; and Elizabeth expected her prisoner to be guarded day and night.
Bess, who had already been looking for a suitable residence—she herself considered it somewhat demeaning for a Countess to stay at an Inn—had discovered an old house known as St. Mary’s Hall, and her inspection of this had shown her that it contained adequate lodging for the Queen.
Immediately on receipt of Elizabeth’s letter Mary was taken to St. Mary’s Hall and there a large room, which was called the Mayoress’s Parlor, was given to her as her presence chamber; there were other rooms connected by a wooden gallery, which served as bedchamber and ante-chamber for Mary. Her ladies were housed in smaller rooms connected with those allotted to Mary; and in the circumstances Bess considered that they had housed the Queen satisfactorily.
Now that she was settled, Huntingdon again took up the matter of her servants, to which Mary was intensely hostile. She would not part with any one of her friends, she cried. “Is it not enough for you,” she demanded, “that I am kept a prisoner here, that I am not allowed to see my sister and cousin, Elizabeth, that I am treated as though I am a criminal? I will not allow you, my lord Huntingdon, to part me from one of my friends.”
Huntingdon tried to soothe her. “You must not regard me as your enemy,” he insisted:
“When you show yourself to me as my friend I will not,” was her answer.
“I will show you that I am your friend,” Huntingdon promised her, “and that soon.”
Mary did not take his words seriously and was as suspicious of him as ever.
IT WAS A LIFE of rigorous imprisonment that she was forced to live in Coventry. She was not allowed to walk out in the open air, and she pined for it. The time was passing and when she looked back she grew frantic to realize that she was more Elizabeth’s prisoner now than she had been when she had first come to England.
“I should never have come south,” she told Seton frequently. “I should never have put my trust in Elizabeth.”
During those days of late November news came of the rebels. They had acted rashly, for although they had enjoyed initial success, it was clear that they could not hold out for long against the English.
“How I wish they had never attempted this!” cried Mary. “They will bring nothing but misery to themselves and others.”
The fear that the rebels would march on Coventry and fight for the possession of the Queen’s person was each day growing more and more remote; but this did not mean a relaxation of the rigorous rules.
The Shrewsburys were as anxious that she should not escape as Huntingdon was, and although Bess remained friendly she was watchful, and it would not have been easy for any letter to have passed her scrutiny on its way to Mary.
It was a surprise one day when Huntingdon came to the Queen’s apartment and told her he wished to talk privately with her. Mary sent her friends away, and when they were alone he said: “I bring a message from my brother-in-law, the Earl of Leicester, who sends his greetings to you and wishes me to tell you how much he deplores the manner in which you are being treated.”
“I would he would speak to his mistress on my behalf. I understand that she has a special regard for him.”
“He has worked continually for your comfort.”
“Then I should have expected better results from one who enjoys such favor with his Queen.”
Huntingdon smiled almost slyly. “The Queen, having such regard for my brother-in-law, might not be pleased to hear of his devotion to Your Majesty.”
“Tell me more of this . . . devotion.”
“The Earl of Leicester bids me tell you that, if you will break your engagement to Norfolk and take him instead, he will use all his powers to bring about your release and restore to you that which is yours by right.”
“You cannot mean that the Earl of Leicester wishes to be my husband!”
“That is what I do mean. What is your answer?”
“I am affianced to Norfolk.”
“Who can do you little good, being in the Tower.”
“I was not speaking of what good could come to me, my lord, but of my engagement to His Grace.”
“Your Majesty should consider this matter.”
“I do not need to consider. Until my engagement to Norfolk is broken I could not contemplate entering into another.”
Huntingdon bowed and took his leave.
MARY CALLED SETON and Andrew Beaton to her and told them what Huntingdon had suggested.
“Why,” said Andrew, “it is clear what is happening. Elizabeth is going through a pretense of taking the Duke of Anjou for a husband. Leicester is piqued and wishes to show her that he can play the same game.”
“Then,” said Mary, “I was right to treat this offer with little seriousness.”
“Perhaps,” put in Seton quietly, “it would have been well not to have made a definite refusal. It may have been that Leicester could have done you some good.”
“Oh, Seton, nothing can come right when no one person trusts another. Let us be straightforward and act honorably. I am betrothed to Norfolk, and while that betrothal exists I cannot enter into the same state with another man.”
Seton spread her hands helplessly. “We are surrounded by people who play these double games. And we try to be honorable! Is that why we are hustled from one prison to another?”
Mary looked at her friend reproachfully. “Perhaps, Seton,” she said. “But I would not wish to betray those who have befriended me, even if by so doing I could win my freedom.”
“This is a desperate game and we are playing it with rogues,” insisted Seton.
Mary was firm. “I must find some means of writing to Norfolk,” she said; “he will be sad and lonely in his prison.”
IT WAS AGAIN HER BIRTHDAY, this time to be spent in St. Mary’s Hall at Coventry. It seemed incredible that it was only a year ago when she had celebrated her last birthday. So much had happened since, and yet so little. “I was a prisoner then,” mourned Mary; “I am a prisoner still.”
She would have no attempt made to celebrate the occasion.
“I have lived twenty-seven years,” she told Seton, “and I fear I grow old. Where shall I spend my twenty-eighth birthday, I wonder? Christmas will soon be with us and then another year will begin. I cannot believe that Elizabeth has kept me so long her prisoner.”
There came bad news of the Northern rebel. Sussex was in pursuit of them. Mary wept when she heard that Northumberland, who seemed like an old friend to her, had fled with Westmorland into Scotland. Elizabeth’s avenging army however, robbed of the leaders, did not hesitate to avenge themselves on their followers, and gibbets with their hideous burdens were now a feature of the northern roads—a grim warning to any who thought to follow the example of the rebels.
Now that the insurrection had been put down, there was no need for Mary to remain in Coventry. Elizabeth sent word that she was to be taken back to Tutbury and, as there would perhaps be attempts to rescue her on the way, if there were any danger of these being successful, Mary was to be executed rather than allowed to escape.
Elizabeth, deeply disturbed by the northern rebellion, believed now that there would be no peace in her realm while Mary lived: she longed for her death, yet she had no wish to be known as the one who had given the order for it.
If Mary died suddenly in an English castle there would be many to connect Elizabeth with the event. No matter what evidence was produced, suspicion would always attach itself to Elizabeth.
A letter from John Knox, written to Cecil—which that good and faithful servant immediately brought to his mistress—gave Elizabeth an idea which she determined to study.
John Knox raged against the Queen of Scots, while he congratulated Cecil on the suppression of the northern rebellion.
“But,” he wrote, “if you strike not at the root, the branches which seemed to be broken will bud again.”
That was clear enough. The root was Mary, Queen of Scots.
Elizabeth could trust Moray to know what to do with his half-sister if she were returned to Scotland, because he longed for her death as much as Elizabeth did; he had usurped her kingdom; would he greatly care if he were known throughout the world as her murderer?
First let her return to Tutbury; then a scheme could be devised for returning her to her unscrupulous brother.
In January Mary left Coventry for Tutbury.
X
Tutbury Again
MORAY RECEIVED THE NEWS from England with the calm which was second nature to him. Mary was an encumbrance of which he longed to be rid. He bore her no personal malice; had she not been a menace to his own power he could have been fond of her in so far as he was capable of affection. He wanted to see Scotland prosperous and at peace, and how could that be when rebel factions were continually springing up and making themselves felt, to the detriment of Scotland and his own dire danger?
Elizabeth was an uneasy ally. He believed he could trust Cecil, as much as a statesman could be trusted; for as both he and Cecil were stern Protestants therein lay the bond between them.
The time had come for the removal of Mary, and if she were returned to Scotland his first task would be to prove her worthy of death. Surely there was a good case against her. She had murdered her husband, and the just reward of murderesses—be they Queens or commoners—was surely death. True, many murders had been committed in Scotland and the victims had never been avenged. But, mused Moray, had their death been necessary for the good of the realm, and had those who would benefit been strong enough, those murderers would have gone the way he must now prepare for Mary.
Knowing Elizabeth, he realized that before long she would, with outward magnanimity, hand Mary over to her bastard brother—the understanding being that he should perform the deed with which Elizabeth had no wish to soil her hands.
Moray had many enemies in Scotland. He was a hard man and had never hesitated to act ruthlessly if the occasion warranted it. There was one incident which was characteristic of the manner in which he had shown the people his determination to be obeyed. It had taken place in the autumn when plague had struck Edinburgh, and he had ordered that when any man or woman was infected with the sickness, his or her family were to remove the sufferer without delay out of Edinburgh. That they must leave all they possessed was a condition they must accept. The Regent ordered that the family should leave, and leave it must—or incur his displeasure. There had been a husband, recently married, who, when his wife had been stricken, had kept this fact hidden, secretly nursing her in the comfort of his house, rather than take her out to die wretchedly in one of the surrounding villages where there was no suitable accommodation.
On the Regent’s orders that young husband had been taken from his wife’s bedside and hanged outside his own door.
To rule, one must be strong, the Regent believed. Mary had failed through sentimental weakness.
He had determined to treat Mary’s followers with the same ruthlessness as he had shown to that young husband. He peremptorily ordered them to give up all their possessions, and sent his Justice-Clerk, Sir John Bellenden, to make sure that the order was carried out.
In a country like Scotland, where it was not always easy to know who were one’s friends, it was necessary to pay highly those who did the most unpleasant work which the Regent would rather not himself perform. Bellenden therefore looked for rewards and, as payment for his services, Moray bestowed on him the estate of Woodhouselee which belonged to one of Mary’s mot ardent supporters—a member of the Hamilton family, James Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh.
ALISON SINCLAIR, wife of James Hamilton, lay in her bed, her young child who had been born a few days before beside her. A great fire blazed in the fireplace, for it was difficult to keep the rooms warm during such weather. Outside the snow was falling.
Alison was thinking of long ago days when she and her sister had knelt at the windows of this house looking out on the snow-covered countryside. She was remembering how they had been kept prisoners in the house by the weather and had amused themselves by playing hide and seek because it was such a wonderful house in which to hide. No matter where she went, she always thought of Woodhouselee as her home.
She had inherited it and brought it to James Hamilton when they married; and she believed it was as well, because now that James was more or less an outlaw, since he was the Queen’s man, he had lost much of his own property; she was perpetually thankful that Woodhouselee, being her inheritance, was unassailable.
James was now in hiding with his kinsman, Archibald Hamilton. It was sad that the troubles of the time should mean so many separations; but she was sure that when he heard that their child had arrived he would find some means of coming to her.
While she lay thus musing she heard the sounds of arrival in the courtyard below, and called to her maid: “He is here! I knew he would come. Go and bring him to me at once and make certain that no one leaves the house while he is here. I expect all my servants to be loyal, but how can one be sure in times such as these. And if Moray’s men knew that he was here they would most certainly come to take him.”
Smiling down at her newly born child, she called for a mirror. It was some time since she had seen her husband and she was eager to look her best. She was delighted because child-bearing had not changed her appearance, and she looked if anything younger than before. Perhaps that was because she was so happy. She had her baby . . . and now James had come to see them.
The door was flung open and a man stood on the threshold of the room. She was surprised rather than alarmed in those first seconds.
“But . . . ” she stammered, “who are you?”
“Sir John Bellenden,” was the answer, “Justice-Clerk and owner of this house.”
“You are mistaken. This house belongs to me. My father left it to me.”
“You are wrong, Madam. It belongs to me. The estates of James Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh are confiscated by the Regent, and Woodhouselee is his gift to me for my services to Scotland.”
“This cannot be so. This house is not my husband’s property, but mine.”
“Madam, that which was your property became your husband’s on your marriage, and I tell you that all his possessions have passed out of his hands.”
“If my husband were here . . . ”
“Alas, he is not. We should know how to deal with a traitor.”
“He is no traitor.”
“Come, Madam, he has worked against the King and has sought to bring back Mary to the throne.”
“You see my state. My child is but a few days old. Leave me in peace and this matter will doubtless be settled in due course.”
“I have come to take possession, and I must ask you to leave my house without a moment’s delay.”
“You see how I am placed!”
“I see only that you trespass in my house.”
“Please leave me now. I am not strong yet . . . and I feel faint.”
“The fresh air will revive you. Come, Madam, rise from your bed. I shall give you five minutes in which to prepare to leave the house. If you have not gone in that time you will be forcibly evicted.”
With that he left her, and she lay listening to the sounds of heavy footsteps in other parts of the house. Her maid came to her bedside; she was weeping.
“What shall we do, Madam? What can we do?”
“They cannot mean that they will turn us out. They will take this house . . . my Woodhouselee . . . but not now. They must give me time . . . .”
She held her child tightly in her arms, and it was thus that Bellenden found her when he returned to the room.
“So you are obstinate,” he growled. “Come, rise from that bed at once.” He turned to the maid. “Find a cloak for her. She will need it . . . it is cold outside.”
For Alison what followed was as unreal as a nightmare, and as terrifying. Fainting, scarcely able to stand, she was forced to rise from her bed; a cloak was wrapped about her and, clasping her baby in her arms, she was turned out of doors.
The cold winds tore at her garments; the snow was falling so thickly that she could not see. The baby began to cry but she could not comfort him.
She tried to grope her way to the woods, where she believed she might find some shelter. She plunged through the snow, weeping and calling for her husband to come and help her.
There was no one abroad on such a night and, although Alison knew the surrounding country well, the heavy snowdrifts had changed its contours, and soon she was lost.
She stumbled on; she believed she had reached the woods but was not sure as, clutching the baby tightly to her, she fell into a deep drift.
WHEN NEWS of the fate of his wife and child was brought to James Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh, who was at that time living secretly at Linlithgow in the house of his kinsman, Archibald Hamilton, his grief was uncontrollable. But it was soon replaced by a rage that was even greater, and the only way in which he could bear to go on living at that time was to plan revenge.
Bellenden was in residence at Woodhouselee, and it was certain that there would be a strong guard about him, for it was believed that Bothwellhaugh would not be able to resist taking his revenge on the man who had sent his wife and child so callously to their death.
But, reasoned Bothwellhaugh, and the whole Hamilton clan were with him in this, there was one who was more to blame than Bellenden. That was the man who set a ruthless example to his lieutenants; it was the man who would shrug callous shoulders when he heard of the tragedy at Woodhouselee, and wish everyone to know that such a fate was to be expected by all those who disobeyed the Regent’s orders.
Bothwellhaugh would assuage his grief, not by the assassination of the insignificant Bellenden, but by that of the Regent Moray.
ON THE 23RD DAY of January Moray would pass through Linlithgow on his way to Edinburgh, and Bothwellhaugh was ready for him. He had concealed himself in a house where the High Street was at its most narrow. At this point the cavalcade in which the Regent rode would be slowed down, and moreover it was impossible for more than two to ride abreast. The house backed onto fields; and in the fields a saddled horse was waiting.
Bothwellhaugh, spurred, ready for flight, watching behind latticed windows, was thinking of Alison—lying abed, the child in her arms, waiting for him, of her wandering blindly through the snow, of her terrible end. When he thought of this his fingers grew steady and he knew with cold certainty that when he took aim he would not miss.
At the lattice windows were hangings to conceal him; in these he had cut a hole only large enough to take the muzzle of his harquebuss. There were four bullets in that harquebuss. He intended to make no mistake.
Now the cavalcade was turning into the High Street, and Bothwellhaugh, concealed by the hangings, could peep through them and watch its progress. At its head he rode—the Regent Moray, the man who, as much as that other, was the murderer of his dear Alison. Bothwellhaugh only needed to remember that, and he could feel quite cool and calm.
The Regent was almost abreast of the window. Now was the moment.
Bothwellhaugh took careful aim; and when he saw Moray fall forward, saw the red blood staining his jacket, he knew that he had avenged Alison and their baby.
He heard the shouts as he ran from the room, down to the garden, leaped onto his horse and was a mile away before Moray’s men had succeeded in breaking into the barricaded house.
Bothwellhaugh had flown to Hamilton; and the Regent Moray’s turbulent life was ended.
JAMIE DEAD! Mary could not believe the news when it was brought to her.
She pictured him, riding at the head of his men—vigorously living one moment; and the next slipping away to death.
She wept for the Jamie she had known as a child when she had believed him to be her friend. She had loved him then, and she had found it difficult not to go on loving him. He was clever; he was meant to be a ruler; he was his father’s son; she had understood more than most, the terrible frustration he had suffered because he was not the King’s legitimate son. She, who was that King’s legitimate daughter and heir, could forgive Jamie more readily than most of her friends could do.
Seton came to her and found her weeping.
“Your Majesty should dry your eyes,” she said. “This should prove no hardship to you. He was never your friend, and of late years your most bitter enemy.”
“All that is over now, Seton,” Mary replied sorrowfully. “He is gone to his Maker, and I can only remember my big brother . . . whom once I thought to be my friend.”
“Then Your Majesty should remember his conduct to you since Carberry Hill. Most of your sufferings can be traced to him.”
“Perhaps I should, Seton, but I was never one to do what I should. My emotions will always command my actions; and I can only think of Jamie in the days when I loved him so dearly and thought I was the luckiest girl in Scotland to have him for my brother. So leave me now, and since you cannot share my grief, let me mourn in secret.”
So Seton left her with her memories of the young Jamie; and as the Queen wept for the past, which might have been so different, her faithful friends were asking each other what difference this would make to her future.
ELIZABETH WAS HORRIFIED by the assassination of the Regent, whom she had looked upon as an ally and who was ready to obey her wishes; it had been part of her plan to keep him ruler of Scotland; she had also of late wished him to rid her of the Queen of Scots.
It had been an obsession with Elizabeth—since the rising of Northern Catholics—that she must rid herself of Mary; and to find this plan—which had seemed to her the only safe one—foiled by Moray’s assassination, made her for the time being almost frantic.
Her first action was to seize the person of Mary’s ambassador to England, Lesley, Bishop of Ross, and send him to the Tower.
She saw at once that her fears had not been without grounds. Mary’s friends in Scotland, led by Huntley and Argyle, marched on Edinburgh. Kirkcaldy of Grange, who was keeper of the Castle and regretted his disloyalty to the Queen at Carberry Hill when he led Moray’s forces, had joined the lords of the Highlands. Fernyhirst, who had once offered Mary refuge in his castle if she could escape her English captors, marched across the border. And Leonard Dacre, on whose behalf Mary had pleaded effectively with Norfolk so that Dacre had not lost all his family possessions, gathered together three thousand men, and there was a new rising in the North.
If only Mary could escape, there was an army waiting to fall in behind her.
Huntingdon and the Shrewsburys, realizing the danger, doubled the guard at Tutbury; for they knew that fresh schemes for rescuing the Queen were being set in motion, and they believed that never had Mary’s chance of escape been so good.
Mary, however, thought constantly of Norfolk in the Tower. There was one thing she needed more than freedom; and that was affection. Generous as she was, she poured out her affection on any who were ready to receive it; and although she knew Norfolk only through his letters, she was prepared to give him the devotion she had always longed to give to a husband.
She wanted to be loyal; she wanted to make sacrifices; she was striving toward that perfect relationship which in her three previous marriages she had not attained.
“Mine own good Lord,” she wrote, “I would know your pleasure if I should seek to make some enterprise. If it please you I care not for my danger . . . ”
There was no answer from Norfolk, and she wrote again;
“If you think the danger too great, do as you think best, and let me know what you please that I do, for I will be for your sake perpetual prisoner, or put my life in peril for your weal and mine . . . .”
And she signed this letter “Your own faithful to death Queen of Scots, my Norfolk.”
When Norfolk received the letter he sweated with terror. Did she not know that, since the death of Moray, she was being watched more closely than ever before? He was not risking his head to write love letters.
MARY BELIEVED that she was now living through the most dangerous weeks of her life. Her enemy and father-in-law, the Earl of Lennox, was the new Regent; and all Scotland was aflame.
But Elizabeth had no intention of allowing Mary to be reinstated; she subdued the rebellion in England as she had that led by Northumberland; and she sent Sussex to Scotland with seven thousand troops to teach Mary’s supporters a lesson. Lord Scrope followed Sussex, and Sir William Drury laid waste many a Scottish community which had declared loyalty to the Queen.
Each day melancholy news was brought to Mary of the suffering of her supporters, who could not hold out against the military superiority of the English.
That winter and early spring were desperate days, and in addition to her sorrow and despair Mary suffered the return of the pains in her limbs and the sickness which seemed to her to grow out of the contaminated air of Tutbury.
She found small comfort in her tapestry and the companionship of her faithful friends. Bess and George Talbot were friendly, but she knew that they were—as they must be—spies for their Queen. They were not harsh jailors, but they were determined not to let her escape.
