Seton was silent. She had no comfort to offer. Like her mistress she was beginning to understand that the Queen of England was extremely capable in the art of double-dealing.
At last she said: “Perhaps it will be less of a fortress than this one.”
“I doubt not we shall be well guarded. And I am to lose Knollys and Scrope.”
“For the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury, who may become your true friends. Your Majesty has a way of finding friends.”
“Let us hope I find a friend who will help me to regain my kingdom. But they say that Tutbury is one of the bleakest castles in England.”
“We will do our best to make you comfortable; we have not done so badly here.”
While they talked, messengers arrived with letters from London.
Willie’s whereabouts remained a mystery. There was one, however, she was told, who might have more opportunity of discovering what had happened to him than Scotsmen who were treated with some suspicion in London, and that was the French ambassador, Bertrand de Salignac de la Mothe Fénelon. Mary’s friends in London had mentioned the matter to him, but if she herself wrote he might be inclined to double his efforts.
Mary said: “I will write at once. I cannot rest easily until I know what has become of Willie.”
IT WAS LATE FEBRUARY when Mary was preparing to leave Bolton Castle. The weather was bitterly cold and the roads only just negotiable. Progress would be very slow and uncomfortable, but Elizabeth was growing impatient and neither Scrope nor Knollys dared delay longer.
While the last preparations were being made, a note from the French ambassador was brought to Mary, and when she read it she grew pale and called to Seton.
“Is it Willie?” asked Seton.
Mary nodded.
“They have not . . . ”
Mary smiled. “Oh no . . . He is alive. But he is in prison in the North of England. He must have been arrested as soon as he acquired his passport.”
“And all this time he has been a prisoner. What will become of poor Willie?”
“He will be freed. I shall insist on it. I shall not rest until he is free. What has he done but be a loyal subject to his Queen!”
“You think that something can be arranged?”
“Yes, through Fénelon. Elizabeth will not wish the French to know that she is clapping my supporters into jail simply because they are my supporters. I shall not rest, I tell you, until Willie is free.”
“And then?”
“And then,” said Mary firmly, “he shall remain with me until it is safe for him to join George in France. I shall write at once to Fénelon. He must do this for me.”
Mary sat down at her table and wrote an impassioned appeal which she knew would not fail to move the heart of the King of France. She reminded him of those long ago days and how happy they had all been together. Now she asked his help because his ambassador could more easily than any other friend of hers obtain the release of one of her most faithful servants. She implored Charles to help in this instance. The release of Willie Douglas—her savior of Lochleven—was the greatest boon she could ask of him; and she knew he would instruct his ambassador that this was a task in which he must not fail.
She sealed the letter and dispatched it; then she wrote another to de la Mothe Fénelon.
There was nothing more she could do but continue with her preparations for departure.
THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND was pleased with the outcome of the Conference. Nothing had been clearly defined—which was what she had hoped for—but Mary’s character had been completely blackened; Elizabeth herself had declared that she could not, without manifest blemish of her own honor, receive her into her presence. The ruling had been that nothing had been proved against Moray and his supporters that might impair their allegiance and honor; and nothing had been sufficiently proved against the Queen of Scots.
The affair had ended in a stalemate. But Elizabeth had a satisfactory excuse for not receiving her cousin at her Court. Moray could return to Scotland and still hold the Regency, while Mary remained in England at the mercy of Elizabeth.
It had all been a splendid example of procrastination such as Elizabeth desired.
Now Mary should remain in captivity; for Elizabeth could never feel entirely at peace while one so close a claimant to the English throne, and of undoubted legitimate birth, was free. The picture of Mary Queen of Scots being hailed as the Queen of England—as she had once dared to be in France—still haunted Elizabeth’s dreams. It was pleasant therefore to visualize her on the weary journeys from one bleak castle to another.
SO, ON A BITTERLY COLD DAY in the middle of winter, the cavalcade left Bolton Castle. Mary was carried in her litter over the rough roads which were often icy and dangerous. She had insisted on a litter for Lady Livingstone who was indisposed and unfit for travel. But it was no use pleading that excuse. It had clearly been commanded that there were to be no more excuses.
The snow began to fall and settle on the litter and the hoods of the ladies who rode on horseback.
Mary closed her eyes and longed to reach Tutbury. And when she did, she asked herself, what then? To what would this new journey along the road of her misfortunes bring her?
VI
Tutbury
ELIZABETH, COUNTESS OF SHREWSBURY, had been delighted when she had heard that her husband was to be the new keeper of the Queen of Scots. A sign of Elizabeth’s favor, she believed; and to the strong-minded Countess that was very important.
She bustled about Tutbury Castle, giving orders which she herself made sure were carried out. There was not one person in the castle—even the Earl—who was not in awe of her. The Countess—Bess of Hardwick, as she was often called, for she was the daughter of John Hardwick of Hardwick in Derbyshire—although in her fifties was as handsome as she was energetic. She had been married to the Earl only about a year but he already knew who was master. Not that he minded. Bess had had three husbands before him and they had found her a stimulating partner. She was completely happy as long as she could have her way; and as her great desire was to promote the fortunes of all her family—sons, daughters and husbands—and as she was extremely efficient in this endeavor, they were all prepared to place the management of their affairs in her capable hands.
Her father had often said “Our Bessie should have been a man.” Bess herself did not agree. She did not believe that her sex should be a handicap. She might have the mind of a man but she was determined that her woman’s body should not hinder, but further her ambitions.
Tutbury! she was thinking as she awaited the arrival of the Queen of Scots on that bleak February day, not the most delightful of our homes.
But she was shrewd enough to know why the Queen had chosen this for Mary; it was doubtless because she believed her rival had been too luxuriously housed at Bolton.
This was certainty a chilly place. Not that energetic Bess noticed that; but she could not prevent herself from concocting schemes for improving the place; building houses was a passion with her. It was far more interesting though, to build a fresh one than attempt to improve an old place. Her most ambitious endeavor to date was the mansion of Chatsworth and the thought of her achievements there made her glow with pride—and long to repeat them. Bess never believed in standing still. She was determined to add several such mansions to her possessions before she died. Not that she ever thought of dying. Had she not been so practical, so bursting with common sense, she would have said that she was immortal. That being absurd, since after all even Bess was only human, she contented herself with acting as though she were.