“But the journey! I have heard the roads are almost impassable.”
“Still, it must be, Your Majesty.”
“Then we must say goodbye, Margaret?”
“I fear so.”
“You know I am to go to Tutbury.”
“I do. And that means that you will pass into the care of the Shrewsburys. But we shall meet again . . . soon. My brother will not forget, and one day . . . ”
Mary did not answer. She was looking at Margaret’s swollen body, and her indignation was so great that she could not trust herself to speak. She thought of all the mistakes she had made as ruler of Scotland; and she thought of wily Elizabeth who was shrewd and, if ever she found herself in a delicate situation, managed to extricate herself with the genius of a born statesman.
They accuse me of murder and adultery, thought Mary. Yet I would not care to have her sins on my conscience.
HOW WRETCHED were those days before Christmas! Mary missed Margaret Scrope who had been moved to a lodging only two miles from the castle, but the bad weather and her condition made it impossible for her to visit the Queen. It was some comfort, though, that Lord Scrope had managed to find a lodging that was not too far away.
What was happening in Westminster she had no means of knowing, for the bad weather held up messengers and it might have been that those of her friends who knew were reluctant to tell her that the damning “casket” letters had been produced and that the case was going against her—since it was the will of Elizabeth that it should.
There was only one episode that lightened those dark days. That was when a messenger did get through to bring her letters from the Earl of Northumberland.
Northumberland had been converted to the Catholic faith and, having heard rumors that there was a plan to marry Mary to Norfolk who was Protestant, he had become busy trying to prevent this. Mary’s recent flirtation with the Protestant religion had alarmed him; but that had not been of long duration and he had said on more than one occasion that he believed every man should worship God according to his conscience, and when she returned to rule her country she would endeavor to see that this was the law.
Northumberland however yearned not only to free Mary but to bring England back to Papal rule; and he had believed the best way of doing this was to arrange a marriage between Mary and Philip II of Spain. This plan had been simmering in his mind for some time; and he had been in communication with Philip about it. Philip however had now remarried, and he suggested that a marriage be arranged between Mary and his illegitimate brother Don Jon of Austria, who was both personable and a popular hero.
So during those sad weeks Mary had letters from Northumberland about this project; and although she had made up her mind that her next husband would be the Duke of Norfolk—so eulogized by his adoring sister that Mary had begun to see him through Margaret’s eyes—she could realize the advantages of being married to the dashing hero, who would not rest until he had won back her kingdom for her.
But Margaret’s letters brought back to her so vividly the conversations they had shared together, and Mary wrote to Northumberland that he must tell the King of Spain that, as he was in the hands of Elizabeth, she was in no position to enter into a matrimonial engagement at this time; for before it became possible to do so she required help in order that she might regain the throne of Scotland.
To the anxiety for Margaret was added another; there was no news of Willie Douglas, and this was overdue.
Christmas was a melancholy season at Bolton Castle.
THE WEATHER WAS slightly warmer and some of the snow had thawed in the roads to and from the south.
Letters came from the Bishop of Ross. He told Mary how the Conference was progressing, and it did not make happy reading. But there was one fact which worried her more than any other: The Bishop did not mention Willie Douglas.
Deeply disturbed Mary wrote at once to the Bishop asking him to have inquiries made concerning Willie, and a week later she heard from him again. Willie had been seen in London; he had received a passport in the Queen’s name and from that day had been seen no more. Inquiries had been made at his lodgings; but he had not returned to them; his landlord was indignant because Willie had left owing money.
The Bishop wrote that Willie’s landlord had been paid and that further inquiries were being made.
Now Mary was really uneasy, feeling certain that some calamity had befallen Willie. It was known that he had been shrewd enough to make possible her escape from Lochleven; did this mean that someone believed he was too sharp a boy to be allowed to go about on the Queen’s business?
Elizabeth had written letters expressing her displeasure to Scrope and Knollys. She had given orders that the Queen of Scots was to be removed to Tutbury, and she could not understand why there should be this delay. Knollys wrote back that the delay had been due to the bad condition of the roads and the fact that there were no horses.
Elizabeth’s retort was that horses must be borrowed from neighbors and the journey made as soon as the roads were sufficiently cleared to make the journey possible. She added that she was well informed as to the state of the roads and was not pleased with dilatory servants.
“There can be no more delay,” said Knollys to Scrope. “We shall have to set out.”
Scrope was as unhappy as Knollys; he was hoping that his child would be born before they must leave for Tutbury; but both men agreed that preparations must go ahead. The two of them were so much out of favor that, if they offended their Queen further, they might be in serious trouble.
Scrope’s troubles lightened a little during the next days, for his wife was delivered safely of a son. Knollys was less fortunate.
When news came to the castle that his wife had died, asking for him, he shut himself in his own chamber and remained there for some days. He no longer cared what happened to him; temporarily he hated Elizabeth who had prevented his being at his wife’s bedside, and he was afraid that if he spoke to anyone he would give such utterance to his wrath that he would be in danger of being named as a traitor.
When he emerged he was subdued, but there was a terrible bitterness in his face which Mary noticed and understood. All her sympathy was for him; and she felt: He is that callous woman’s prisoner, even as I am.
“My dear Sir Francis,” Mary said, “I would there were something I could do to comfort you.”
“Your Majesty is good,” he answered listlessly.
“At least you know she suffers no more.”
He turned away, his sorrow, choking him, prevented speech.
“Have you written to the Queen asking permission to go to her?” she asked gently.
“Of what use now?” he murmured.
“You will wish to bury her,” Mary told him.
He nodded.
Mary laid a hand on his arm. “Then write to her. There are others who can take me to Tutbury. She cannot refuse you this.”
“I will write to her,” he said. “I thank Your Majesty for your sympathy.”
He looked into that lovely face and saw that the long eyes were wet with tears; and he was so moved that he could only turn and stumble away.
ELIZABETH’S RETORT was sharp. Knollys’ duty would not end until the Scottish Queen was safely delivered into the hands of her new keepers at Tutbury, that mission which, to her amazement, had not yet been carried out.
Knollys could not believe that she had refused him this. But there was no mistaking her meaning.
“Ah well,” he murmured, “What does it matter now? What does anything matter?”
SETON AND MARY were together looking out onto the snowy landscape.
“There will not be many more nights when we shall look from these windows at that scene,” Mary was saying. “We shall miss it. It is very beautiful. Oh Seton, we are going farther into the heart of England. Each mile we go south means a mile farther from Scotland.”