Was there no end, Mary asked herself, to the tribulations she must endure? And now that she had new jailors in place of the Shrewsburys, Mary was learning how free she had been in the charge of the Earl.
Seton could not help feeling a certain satisfaction because Sir Ralph Sadler had suffered from the rigors of the Queen’s prison and had found Wingfield and Sheffield so bad for his health, that in a few months he had become almost crippled with rheumatism and was restive to be released from his duty.
“Poor Sir Ralph,” Seton whispered to the Queen, “he at least suffers with his limbs as we do.”
Mary turned to look at her friend and in the harsh light noticed how worn her face was . . . worn with pain, anxiety and frustration. Poor Seton, thought Mary. When I look at her it is as though I look into a mirror. My pain and anxieties are marked on my face even as hers are. If she could have married Andrew; if she could have been the mother of healthy children . . . But what was the use of entertaining such thoughts? They were two women, unlucky in love; doomed, it seemed, to be prisoners for the rest of their lives.
So must it be for her. But it need not be so for Seton.
Mary said: “Seton, I shudder to think of Tutbury. Of all my prisons that is the worst.”
“It will be better when the spring comes . . . .”
“And the smell grows stronger . . . .” murmured the Queen. She turned almost angrily to Seton. “I must endure this life, Seton. But why should you?”
Seton sighed. “Because, as I have told you before, my place is at your side.”
“Nay, Seton. You should go away while there is time.”
“And leave you!”
“I never had patience with those who suffered unnecessarily.”
“It is only if I were separated from you that I should suffer.”
“Look at your hands. Your knuckles are enlarged with rheumatism. Do you think I cannot see how painfully you walk? You are in a worse state than I am, Seton. Why do you not go to France?”
“Ah, if we could both go . . . ”
“Let us indulge ourselves, Seton. Let us think about it.”
They were silent, thinking of those early days when they had ridden lightheartedly in the chase, when they were young and their days were carefree.
“There is no reason why you should not go, Seton,” whispered the Queen. “I could arrange for you to go into a convent with my aunt Renée. She would receive you with pleasure, knowing you to be my dearest friend. Dear Seton, go, while you can still walk.”
Seton shook her head.
“How obstinate you are!” sighed Mary. “There will come a day when I shall have to nurse you. You suffer more than I.”
“Do not ask me to leave you,” pleaded Seton. “While I can still walk I wish to serve you.”
They were silent for a while; then Mary said: “I knew Jacques Nau would do well at Elizabeth’s Court.”
Seton nodded. “She has an affection for all handsome men.”
“And Jacques is very handsome. I could not have chosen a better advocate.”
“Let us be thankful that he has persuaded the Queen that you are innocent of the Shrewsbury scandal.”
Mary laughed. “It all seemed so ridiculous, did it not? Yet there were so many ready to believe. But now, thanks to the good work of my French Jacques, the Countess and her sons have been made to swear I have been slandered.”
Seton nodded, but she was less sure than the Queen. She was thinking that scandal, once sent on its rounds, could live on forever.
“It would seem,” said Mary, “that we are arriving at a house. What is it?”
Seton looked ahead to the gabled mansions. “It is Babington Hall, Your Majesty. We are to rest here for the night, I believe.”
“Babington . . . the name seems familiar.”
“That is very likely. Your Majesty will remember Anthony.”
“Anthony Babington . . . why yes. He is that earnest and handsome young man who called on me at Sheffield and was so eager to serve me.”
“A Catholic gentleman,” murmured Seton; “and Your Majesty is right, he is a handsome one.”
“A charming person,” replied the Queen, as the cortège rode up to Babington Hall.
SIR RALPH SADLER was not going to allow Mary to forget that she was a prisoner; he immediately set his guards about the house and, summoning the chief citizens of the town, told them that Queen Elizabeth would be ill pleased if they allowed her prisoner to escape while lodging in their district. So the citizens posted their own guards in the streets of the nearby town as well as about the house.
The housekeeper, an old widow named Mrs. Beaumont, came forward to greet the Queen on behalf of her master and mistress.
Mary graciously embraced her, kissing her on both withered cheeks, a gesture which enchanted the old lady.
“My master will be delighted that Your Majesty has honored his house,” she said.
“You must tell your master that I remember him well and think of him often,” Mary answered.
Sir Ralph, watching suspiciously, demanded that the Queen be taken to her apartments; and the widow nodded, saying she would lead the way.
It was not easy to have any communication with strangers while Sir Ralph was near; but Mrs. Beaumont did manage to speak to Mary. She told her that if there were any letters the Queen wished delivered to her friends she could safely leave them with her. Her master was the Queen’s most ardent servant and he would think ill of his housekeeper if she did not serve her in every way possible while she was under his roof. He would be sorry that he was absent from his home during the Queen’s visit; but he was at this time abroad. Mrs. Beaumont knew, though, that he lived to serve the Queen.
That night in Babington Hall, while the noise of her guards below her window prevented her from sleeping, Mary thought of handsome young Anthony Babington; and she felt young again because hope had come back to her.
TUTBURY was even more unpleasant than Mary remembered it. Robbers had entered it since she had last stayed there, and much of the furniture and bedding had been stolen.
The cold was intense; the foul odor more pronounced.
Mary went to her old apartments and saw at once that many of the hangings with which her servants had once covered those walls, were missing.
Seton came in looking doleful. “There are scarcely any blankets in the place; and there are only nine pairs of sheets. I’ve counted them myself.”
Mary shivered. “And how many of us are there?”
“Forty-eight. They have even stolen the feathers from many of the bolster cases. I fear we are going to be most uncomfortable until we can obtain supplies.”
Sir Ralph Sadler came into the Queen’s apartment looking worried. There was no need for him to say that he was heartily weary of his task. He longed to pass over the guardianship of the Queen to someone else. He had quickly realized that it was a dangerous and thankless task.
“I will write to Lord Burleigh at once,” she told Sadler. “If we are to stay here, either he or the Queen must send us some comforts.”
Sadler agreed with her. Every day he was revising his opinion of Mary, for previously he had believed her to be fractious and demanding; now he realized all that she must have been made to suffer over the years.
During the next weeks his attitude toward her changed still more. She was a Catholic—a fact which he, a stern Protestant, deplored; she was a danger to his Queen; but at the same time he had to admire the patience with which she bore hardship and her unfailing concern for those who served her.