“What proof?” asked Seton.
“Go to the window and you will see.”
Seton went, and Mary heard the exclamation which escaped from her before, white and trembling, she came back to the bed.
THERE WAS NOT A CATHOLIC in Mary’s household who did not see in the fate of Rowland Kitchyn a grim warning to themselves.
Now an atmosphere of dread and suspicion existed throughout the castle. Looking back, Mary thought with longing of the early days when she had been in the charge of the Shrewsburys, before Bess had conceived her absurd lies.
Trouble was coming. Every day she expected to hear that she herself would meet the fate of Rowland Kitchyn. Young Bessie told her that he had strangled himself, but she did not believe that. He had been taken, she was certain, imprisoned in Tutbury and hanged as a warning to her of what she might expect.
She called Jacques Nau to her and asked him to repeat what Elizabeth had said to him on the subject of freedom of religion.
“Her Majesty assured me,” answered Jacques, “that it was never her wish that any of her subjects should suffer for the sake of conscience or religion.”
“But there are fanatics in this land,” she said. “I fear them, Jacques.”
“I am of the opinion that Queen Elizabeth is not one of them.”
“You comfort me,” Mary told him; and he wondered whether now was the moment to tell her of his desire to marry Bessie. No, he decided. At this time she was too anxious about other matters. They must wait, he and Bessie. There must be no betrayal of their secret until they were sure. The fact that Lord Percy had been selected for Bessie was going to raise great difficulties. There was too much at stake to risk their future happiness.
Mary dismissed Jacques and wrote to Elizabeth.
. . . If it should ever come to pass that an open attack were made on me for my religion, I am perfectly ready, with the Grace of God to bow my neck beneath the axe, that my blood may be shed before all Christendom; and I should esteem it the greatest happiness to be the first to do so. I do not say this out of vainglory while the danger is remote . . .
When she had finished writing this she resolutely took up a pen and wrote to her aunt Renée at Rheims.
She was not going to plead with Seton any more. She was going to order her to go to France. Seton was in danger even as she was; she could no longer bear to watch her dearest friend growing a little more haggard, a little more crippled every day, sacrificing life itself for her sake. When she had written those letters and dispatched them, she sent for Seton.
“My dear friend,” she said, “I have written to Rheims. You must prepare to leave.”
Seton was speechless, but Mary had become regal.
“It is an order, Seton—one I should have given long ago.”
“You are commanding me to leave you?”
Mary turned away, desperately afraid of weakness.
“There will be our letters, Seton. You must write to me regularly. I must know all that happens to you.”
Seton was staring out of that window where, not long ago, the lifeless body of a man had hung.
SURELY THE PARTING with Seton was the most bitter tragedy that had happened since her imprisonment. It had been useless for Seton to plead; Mary had been adamant. She had written to her aunt and asked her to care for Seton, to nurse her back to health for her dear sake; and she knew that Renée would do it.
“At last,” she whispered when she embraced her dearest and most faithful friend for the last time, “I shall know that you are enjoying some comfort, and that must give me pleasure. Oh, dearest Seton, you cannot guess how it has grieved me to see you growing more and more infirm.”
Seton’s mouth was set in pain. “You know that my place is with you.”
“No, Seton. You have lived my life too long. Do you realize that that is what you have done from the very moment when you were brought to my nursery—the dearest of my four Marys? If you wish to comfort me, write to me that you sleep in a warm and comfortable bed, that you take fresh air; that your pains grow less. That is what I ask of you now: and you have never denied me what I wanted—save that you refused to leave me long ago when I told you that you should.”
When the moment of parting had come they had clung together and Seton had cried out that she would never leave her mistress. Only Mary knew how near she had come to agreeing, for she could not conceive how dreary the days would be without this loving companion.
But she would not say it; and she restrained her tears until from her turret window she saw that Seton and the little party which accompanied her were too far off to notice how she wept when they turned to wave the last farewell.
NOW JANE KENNEDY and Elizabeth Curle had become her constant companions, trying to take the place of Seton. Mary turned to them, although she knew that there could never be another Seton. They would sit over their needlework and talk of what the future might hold; and this was a cheerless occupation, for tension still brooded over the castle.
“Yet,” said Mary, “I do not think we should despair. I am sure Sir Ralph would never allow me to be the victim of foul play while I am under his care.”
“He hanged the dead body of Rowland Kitchyn opposite Your Majesty’s window,” Jane reminded her.
“Because he hopes to make a Protestant of me,” answered Mary. “It is true he is a fanatic on matters of religion. But in all else I feel him to be a just man. That is why I am going to ask him if I may not have a friend to replace dear Seton. The Countess of Atholl has written to me asking me to take her into my service. I think I will speak to Sir Ralph now. Jane, go and ask him to come to me.”
Jane did as she was bid, and in a short time Sir Ralph entered the apartment.
“Sir Ralph,” said Mary, “the Countess of Atholl asks if she may come and stay with me. As you know, I have lost one of my closest friends. Do you think you might use your influence to bring this about?”
Sir Ralph was silent for a while, then he said: “I have to tell Your Majesty that I shall not be with you much longer. I have had orders from my Queen to retire from this post. She is sending another of her servants to take my place. This request of yours is therefore one which you must make to him.”
Mary was startled. She had not known that change was contemplated. She was alarmed. Sir Ralph had scarcely been a generous guardian but there could be many worse.
“May I know the name of the man who is to succeed you?”
“Your Majesty, it is Sir Amyas Paulet.”
Mary was stunned. She knew the man to be the fiercest of Puritans, a man who, because she was a Catholic, would believe her to be the wickedest of sinners.
She had not been mistaken. Harsher measures were going to be taken; her prison was to become more rigorous than ever.
Sadler, watching her, read her thoughts. Since he had been guarding her and had suffered so much himself from the lack of comfort and had been aware of the deterioration of his own health, he had softened toward her.
Her life with him had been cheerless; he knew, as she did, that it would be worse with Paulet.
He said gently: “Your Majesty, if you ask for the Countess of Atholl to be allowed to come here, your request will almost certainly be refused, for the Atholls are known to be your friends, and Catholics. If you were to ask for the company of a Protestant lady, I doubt not that your request would be granted; and I have heard that there are Protestants in Scotland who are your friends.”
Mary did not answer; she had sunk into a chair; rarely had she felt so deeply submerged in despair.
THE SPRING HAD COME and with the warmer weather Tutbury was always more bearable, even though Sir Amyas had arrived at the castle and he proved to be as stern and forbidding as Mary had feared. There were new rules to be observed; the guards received strict instructions that on no account was Mary to leave the castle; if any attempt at escape were made, Mary was to be killed rather than allowed to go free. Sir Amyas was shocked because she had tried to bring a little color to her dreary apartments with the bright tapestries she and her women had worked and hung on the walls. He told her that she would be well advised to pass her time in prayer rather than in sewing fancy silks and playing the lute. He offered to instruct her in the Protestant religion, and when she refused this invitation he muttered that she was heading for eternal damnation.