Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles by Margaret George
For her, the moors would always be that ride with Bothwell.
* * *
They descended into the sheltered valley of the river Don, which made a big, lazy loop, like a U. At the bottom of the U rose a hill, surmounted by the castle to which they were going; also on the bottom of the U, the much smaller River Sheaf joined the Don. The ground beside them flattened out, and Shrewsbury, trotting up beside Mary, pointed to one side.
“’Tis the Assembly Green,” he said. “Every Easter Tuesday I review the town militia here. And across the road is the archery field.” A great flat brown ground lay torpid in the dead time of year.
“So archery is still practised here?” Mary asked. How outmoded, she thought, when it is guns and knives now that do all the damage. Guns from windows, and knives in the back. And poison in cups, of course. Archery: noble and old-fashioned.
“Of course!” Shrewsbury said with a laugh. “Are we not near Sherwood Forest? If all the rest of the world gives up the bow and arrow, we are duty-bound to preserve it here—or Robin Hood’s ghost will haunt us.”
“I fear it will become just a game for children, or a sport for young men.”
“Never!” said Shrewsbury stoutly.
They went across a stone bridge with an old chapel on it; Mary saw that the chapel was now used to store wool. By the banks of the river she could see the ducking stool for gossips. Two signs of the Protestant religion: the minding of everyone’s business, and the use of holy buildings for secular gain.
The party wound its way up the wagon road that led beside the castle’s tournament grounds and the ramparts. At the top of the hill they turned and crossed the castle’s drawbridge over the moat, entering the forbidding area between two bastion towers. The mist curled around them.
Mary felt her heart sinking. This was the most fortresslike of the places where she had been kept. Perhaps it was the combination of its location deep within England, its moat and hilltop site, its high walls and inner and outer baileys, but this place seemed like the iron fist of a fully armoured knight. The idea that she was anything but a prisoner could not be sustained; only a prisoner would be lodged in such a strongbox.
“Why, what a … fair residence,” said Mary, faintly.
* * *
Her apartments were on the northeast side, which looked down on the wide loop of the Don and out over the castle orchards and the archery field, across to the hunting park where the manor was. Huge oaks dotted the hunting park, their trunks looking like barrels from this distance. The leaves were all off, and so Mary could glimpse the red brick of the manor house through the limbs of the trees.
The number of rooms was generous, and she could not complain of being cramped. Her own privy chamber was large, with two fireplaces and ceilings that were high enough that they allowed ample headroom even for tall people. She tried to personalize her surroundings with her tapestries and embroideries, and with miniatures of her relatives: her mother, François, Darnley, baby James, Catherine de Médicis, the Countess of Lennox, and Elizabeth. She set them up on a little table of sandalwood that had been sent down from Scotland.
There was no miniature of Bothwell; the only one in existence had been painted during his honeymoon with Lady Jean, and she retained it. Mary assumed it was flung in the bottom of an old box, if not destroyed, and her heart ached for it. Yet, much as she would have loved to have it, she could picture him so perfectly in her mind that she consoled herself with the thought that in some ways a painted image would only damage and dull the one in her imagination.
She had a little portable altar, and that she set up in an alcove in the privy chamber, grateful that she could do so openly.
She also had a globe and maps that had been sent down from Edinburgh, and she spent many hours studying them, flying away in her imagination to the lands that were just painted curves and lines. Paris was only a name and a spot of brown, no different on the map from Lyons or Calais; the magic did not lie on paper. She and her attendants played games naming cities and rivers, as if to torture themselves. Rome and the Tiber and Athens and Jerusalem … all the places they could never go. Or rather, that Mary could not: all the rest were free to leave; their imprisonment was voluntary.
Voluntary suffering was altogether different from involuntary, thought Mary. In one sense it was nobler, in that it need not be borne; but in another it was gentler, because the power of ending it lay within a person’s will, not God’s. It was an exercise in will, not in humility.
No one showed any inclination to leave her. She wished those who had other callings would pursue them before it was too late. Dear Mary Seton—was she to remain unmarried only because she had chosen this exile?
It is different with me, Mary thought. I have had marriage, and a child, and if I now must live celibate, it cannot be altered. But Mary Seton—who will there be for her? She is not likely to want an English Protestant, and there are no eligible men in my party of exiles. I do not want to be responsible for her loneliness—or is that part of my punishment, too?
December 5, 1570. Anniversary of the death of François. My punishment. Why does it go on and on? Soon I will be twenty-eight; I will have been in captivity almost four years. I will have spent half as long in bondage and punishment as my entire time in Scotland. And there is no end in sight. The days stretch out, in a long road of sameness, as far ahead as human eye can see. Who can rescue me?
I try to endure the suffering—the bodily, with the strange visitations of pain in my joints; the mental, with the responsibility for what has happened in Scotland and to my followers; the spiritual, with the guilt for my personal sins. I know, in my inmost being, that suffering is to purify the soul. Mine was very blemished and faulty. Bur for how long, O Lord? “And his lord was wroth, and delivered him to the tormentors, till he should pay all that was due unto him.” I have paid, and I am paying, and I will pay. But for how long? Or is my punishment to last until I stop crying “How long?”, counting the days, and beating my wings against the cage?
On Mary’s birthday, December eighth, Shrewsbury and Bess sent the Earl’s new ward up to Mary’s apartments with a pastry castle to help her celebrate. One side of the castle was open, to show the rooms the pastry cook had constructed in painstaking detail. There were miniature chests holding little name tags, and inside there were gold coins for Mary’s attendants. Bess had even painted facsimiles of some of the embroidery panels they had done together, and hung them on the pastry walls. They had sent up Shrewsbury’s musicians to join the few that Mary had in her company, and soon lively dance tunes filled the dark December afternoon.
Mary was actually in a great deal of discomfort; her joints were especially swollen and red that day, and she was troubled with a recurring headache. But she had dressed in her best gown, and had Seton arrange her hair—grown back to shoulder length—with a wig.
“Alas, my lady,” Seton had said, “your hair is not as thick and luxurious as it was before.”
Hanging in the air was the rest of the sentence: … and I fear it never will be, that that is another thing left behind in Scotland. A permanent sacrifice.
“Then put on my wig, the one with the reddest tints,” said Mary. “How fortunate I am to have you to help me! They say Elizabeth’s real hair is never seen, that she always wears wigs.”
Mary saw her own hair disappear underneath the wig, just as the diamond from Norfolk she always wore around her neck lay hidden beneath her clothing. Norfolk … her one chance of escape. She had not received word from him in some time; the castle was tightly guarded.
Shrewsbury and Bess had joined them briefly, offering gifts: an ivory box, a magnifying glass with an ebony handle. Shrewsbury had then introduced the boy who had brought up the pastry, and had stood, ever since, silently staring.
“This is my new ward, Anthony Babington,” said Shrewsbury. “He comes of an old neighbouring family, and his father was my good friend. I would like you to allow him to serve as your page, if you would
“And what say you?” asked Mary, looking at the boy. He was a slender boy, with very fair skin and black hair. He did not smile at all.
“It would please me,” he said quietly. Still no smile.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Eleven,” he answered.
Eleven. That strange, secretive age between childhood and manhood. His almond-shaped eyes were downcast.
“Eleven … do you know Latin? Have you studied history?”
“A little.” Now his lips were curving up in a slight smile.
“Very well, then. You will serve half the day and study the other half. We will try not to make the lessons too hard.”
Shrewsbury shook his head. “They cannot prove too hard for him. He is a brilliant lad—at least in book-studies. Try him.”
* * *
New Year’s Day, 1571. A new year … a blank page upon which, supposedly, I have the power to write my fate. Fate? Is Fate a woman in London? I continue to write to Queen Elizabeth, but it is a futile exercise. She blames me for the Northern Uprising and for the Bull of Excommunication. She has stopped writing to me in her own hand and uses a secretary.
Cecil was here in the autumn. I met the famous man himself, my adversary. He came to lay out certain proposals to me that might result in my being restored to my throne in Scotland. But they were so harsh it was obvious he had only come so that he could say he had tried, and I was unreasonable. One of them was that Prince James should come and be a hostage in England. The others were that I must at long last confirm the Treaty of Edinburgh, renounce my present title of succession to the English throne, and make no marriage without the permission of Elizabeth and the Scottish Lords.
He was a gentle man. I enjoyed meeting him. He seemed so thoughtful, so open-minded. I would even have been misled into believing that he liked me, except that I had been informed that he had tried to beg off the task of seeing me and had fallen into an opportune illness, and that he had referred to me as offering “sugared entertainments to draw men toward her.” I did not offer him anything with sugar in it when he came to Sheffield, but I tried to behave toward him as I would wish to be behaved toward. He was going on to Buxton after leaving here, a place nearby that has thermal baths of healing; it seems he is troubled with gout. I would like to go there sometime myself, if my painful joints do not subside. But of course I am not allowed to go without written permission from Queen Elizabeth.
Nothing more has been said about my “clearing myself” to her, evidently that ploy has been consigned to the dust heap, which proves that it was never anything but a ploy, an excuse not to see me.
Why will she not see me? I mean the true reason. There can be no true reason. Charity and statecraft both would require that she do so. She has met with my rebel lords, who were not even related to her by blood, nor were they anointed rulers. She has met with pirates and blackguards, with defrocked priests and renegades, with known murderers like Lennox—he who murdered the little children who were his hostages in the wars of 1547, before there was peace between England and Scotland. My own Lord Herries, when he was only seven, was the only one he spared. They say he has terrible dreams and cannot bear to be left alone at night. Yet Elizabeth meets with him! And made him Regent of Scotland, while she leaves me to languish here in captivity!
She hates me. She has always hated me. There can be no other explanation. Lennox cries daily for my extradition and execution.
* * *
March 15, 1571. At last, after so many months of ciphers and messengers and negotiations, all the plans are set. Ridolfi has succeeded in obtaining the Duke of Norfolk’s signature on a letter consenting to become Catholic. This was necessary before either the Duke of Alva or Philip could be persuaded to lend their efforts to freeing me. They were, understandably, reluctant to be part of any plan to put a Protestant in line for the English throne, or for me to be married to a Protestant. Now Ridolfi will set sail and make for Brussels to present all this in person to Alva, before proceeding on to Rome and Spain. Bishop Leslie’s servant, Charles Bailley, will meet him on the Continent and serve to deliver letters back to England, to me and Leslie and Norfolk. Now, God go with him!
* * *
Mary was finishing a letter to Norfolk, written with the precious orange juice. “… On that condition I took the diamond you sent by my Lord Boyd, which I shall wear unseen about my neck till I give it again to the owner of it and me both. I am bold with you, because you put all to my choice. Let me hear some comfortable answer.…”
Suddenly she was aware that someone was standing in a corner of the room, barely breathing. But she could feel the human presence. She pulled a plain piece of paper over her secret one.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“Only me,” said the small, distinct voice of Anthony Babington. He stepped out of the shadows and walked over to her, his handsome, smooth face holding no expression at all. In all the weeks he had been a member of the household, she had never seen him smile. Stare, often; smile, never.
“Anthony, I did not know you were here. Have you duties just now?” The little boy was an odd presence; in some ways he seemed older than eleven, because he was so intense. So far he had no friends or playmates.
“Yes, I was to gather the green cloths from the tables, take them out and shake them.”
“Then you may do so.”
Anthony did not turn to his task, but instead came over to her desk and stood looking down at the paper.
I wish he would go away, Mary thought, so I can finish this letter. Soon the other members of the household will be back in this chamber; since they are not allowed to leave the castle, they never stay away long.
He persisted in looking at the desk, then finally said, “You are writing a secret letter.” He pointed at the little cup of orange juice and said, “The smell gives it away.”
Now he will tell Shrewsbury, thought Mary. How can I persuade him not to?
“I know something better than orange juice,” he said. “Something I could show you.”
“Why?” she asked, startled. “I do not need to write secret letters. I was only—practising. In case I did.”
“Then you must practise with my method.” He looked at her from underneath his hair, which made a dark awning across his forehead.
“No, because if Shrewsbury saw me doing such a thing, he would suspect me of something wicked. All secrets are considered wicked, you know.” She smiled at him, trying to make this moment only a game, so he would forget it later. He was now dangerous to her.
“Then we shall be wicked together,” he said, his lips curving upward in a hint of a smile. “The way is this—use alum. Orange juice and lemon juice have this disadvantage, that once they have been exposed to the heat, and read, the paper bearing them must be destroyed. Now alum will also be invisible, and only become readable when the paper or fabric is dampened and held up to the heat, but it will fade again when it dries. So you need not worry about destroying it. It allows more things to serve as message-carriers.”
She stared at this knowledgeable little boy, but somehow such knowledge seemed devilish. “How do you know this?”
“As the good Shrewsbury said, I have book-learning,” he replied. “But I have not told you all the recipe yet. There is more.”
“And what do you want in return?”
“I want a rosary blessed by the Pope,” he answered instantly. “I have heard you say that you have more than one. I would greatly desire one for myself.”
So he was a Catholic! “If you promise me that you will treasure it, for there is no means of any others coming into this country,” she said. Or he was posing as a Catholic, to gain her confidence. Or he was a heretic, who wanted to desecrate a holy object.
Or he dabbled in witchcraft, and wanted it for evil purposes.…
“You need have no fe
She made her way over to the coffer where she kept some of her personal goods and found a carved ivory rosary that the Holy Father had blessed. Drawing it out, she brought it over to him and placed it in his outstretched hand.
He studied it carefully, as if it were a rare jewel. Then he closed his fingers over it. “Very well, here’s the rest of the recipe,” he said quickly. “Dissolve the alum in a little clear water twenty-four hours before you wish to use it. You may write upon white paper, white linen, or white taffeta. The writing will be invisible until you wet the letter in a basin of water and hold it up to heat. Then the writing will appear white, and stay readable until the paper dries. You may make a little cut or nick to indicate which material or paper has such writing. This way you can reread the letter if necessary.”
“Have you tried this?”
“Many times,” he said.
“Where can I obtain alum? The request for lemons is easier to explain.”
“I can bring some. They let me out of the castle, as I am a native, and only a child.” He grinned, and looked very impish.
* * *
Charles Bailley stepped off the ship from Flanders and onto the dock at Dover. The spring winds were blowing his clothes, and he had to clutch hard at his chest, to secure the pouch he was carrying under his shirt. The docks were swarming with people, and high above he could see the castle and tiny people looking down at the ships coming into the port.
He hurried toward the staging area where he could set out on the road to London, when suddenly he felt arms grabbing him and pulling him off the path.
“That’s the one!” someone said.
“Search him!” Hands were thrust into his shirt, and the pouch wrested open. A fistful of letters was extracted.