“And leave you!”
“My dearest friend, I do not know how long I shall be here. Sometimes I think it will be for years.”
“Then if we must remain prisoners for years, so be it.”
Mary embraced her friend. “It seems meet and proper,” she said, “that I should have a Livingstone with me. In my youth it was your sister-in-law, Mary. She would be with me still, as Seton is, if she had not married. But if at any time this becomes too much for you, you must not hesitate to return to Scotland.”
“One day we shall go together,” was the answer.
IT WAS SHORTLY AFTERWARD when a young man was admitted to her apartments. In the first seconds she did not recognize him. Then she cried out in great joy. “Willie!”
Willie Douglas bowed and, as the light fell on his face, she saw how thin he was.
“Oh Willie, Willie!” She took him into her arms and held him tightly against her. “This is such joy to me.”
“And to me, Your Majesty.”
“You have suffered since I last saw you, Willie.”
“Oh ay.”
Releasing him she laid her hands on his shoulders and looked searchingly into his face.
“But you are back now, and I thank God.” She drew him to one of the stools which had been sent from the Tower of London and bade him sit.
There he told her that he had traveled jauntily to London, had received his passport and had been ready to make his way to the coast and France. But as he walked through an alley in the City of London, where he had his temporary lodging, he had been set upon.
“They came upon me from behind, Your Majesty, and I never saw their faces. There I was walking along that alley where the houses seemed to meet at the top, when I was attacked. I woke up in a dark cellar, trussed up and with my head bleeding. I’d lost all my papers. I knew I’d been robbed then. I lay there for what seemed days and nights, but I had no means of telling. But at last they came for me . . . rough men I’d never seen before. They put me in chains and set me on a mule, and I knew we were coming north. I thought I was being brought back to you, but I soon learned that was a mistake. I was taken into a place like a castle and put in a cell there. There were bars at the window, and now and then a crust of bread and pitcher of water were thrust in at me. Other than that the only companions I had were the rats and beetles.”
“My poor Willie! I had evil dreams of you. I knew something fearful had befallen you. That was why I asked the French King to command his ambassador to discover what had become of you. You must have spent many weeks in that prison.” She thought: But for my French friends it might have been for the rest of your life, and that, for Willie in those conditions would not have meant more than a year or so.
“I used to lie there thinking of how I could get out,” went on Willie. “There didn’t seem any way, but I went on trying to figure something out. Then it got so that I couldn’t walk very well and I could only think of when I was going to get my next portion of bread and water.”
“I fear you have suffered much for my sake, Willie.”
He gave her a return of the old grin. “Oh ay,” he murmured.
But she knew that he would never be the same jaunty urchin he had been before he set out for London. Willie had grown up considerably since they had last met.
LORD HERRIES ARRIVED at Tutbury from London with those who had been acting as her Commissioners at the Conference. They were very grave, realizing fully how Mary’s position had deteriorated since the Conference.
At the little council meeting held in those evil-smelling apartments, Herries said: “We cannot go on in this way. We should try to bring Your Majesty out of England. I do not think that any good purpose can be served by your remaining here.”
“But how can I leave?” Mary wanted to know.
“Only by a demand from your Scottish nobles that you should do so. I do not think Elizabeth would risk war. Moray is her ally; we must depose him and his party and, once that is done, there can no longer be an excuse for keeping you here.”
“What do you propose?”
“That I return to Scotland with my brother-in-law, Cockburn.”
“Then I shall lose two of my most faithful friends.”
“Not lose them, Your Majesty. But merely allow them to be of greater service to your cause. Livingstone and Boyd will be here to advise you; and the Bishop of Ross can act as your envoy at the Court of Elizabeth. I am of the opinion that we could not serve you better.”
“I am sure you are right,” she told him. “Oh, my dear good friend, one thing I ask you, help to bring me out of this noisome place, for I believe that I shall not stay here long. I must either leave it soon on my two feet or be carried out in my coffin.”
Herries begged her not to despair, but he himself was very anxious, for he could see how the place was affecting her; and she had not recovered yet from the long journey through the ice-bound country from Bolton.
Herries and Cockburn left within a few days. Mary watched them from her window until they were out of sight. Herries, who had been her trusted friend; and as for Cockburn, his mansion and his village of Skirling had been completely destroyed by Moray in vengeance on one who was the very good friend of the Queen of Scots.
MARY WOULD SIT at her tapestry with her women; occasionally she would sing or play the lute. But each day she was more easily fatigued, and her friend watched her with misgivings. The Earl spoke to the Countess. “I am anxious,” he said. “Her health does not improve and she might well fall into a mortal sickness.”
“Nonsense,” retorted Bess. “She has but to adjust herself. What does she do all day but amuse herself! Look at me. Think of what I do. I am years older than she is.”
“I fear the rigors of Tutbury ill suit her.”
“We live at Tutbury, do we not? I’ll admit it is not the most sweet of our houses—but there is nothing to harm in a stink. If she had more to do she would be well enough.”
There was a knock at the door and, when Bess commanded whoever was there to enter, Eleanor came in.
She looked fearfully at the Countess but she was very much aware of the Earl.
“Well, girl?” said Bess sharply.
“My lady, there is a messenger below. He is asking for the Earl.”
“I will see him without delay,” said Bess. “Send him to me.”
Eleanor curtsied and retired, returning shortly with the messenger.
Bess imperiously held out her hand for the documents he had brought.
“Take this man to the kitchens and see that he is refreshed,” she commanded Eleanor who, curtsying once more, caught the eyes of the Earl on herself and flushed deeply.
Bess was too eagerly examining the documents to notice the demeanor of her serving-maid.
“Orders from the Queen,” she said, and the Earl came to stand beside her and look over her shoulder.
“Ah!” went on Bess. “So her friends are suspected of planning her escape. You see what you have done by showing your desire to pamper her. You have aroused our Queen’s suspicions. Depend upon it, George Talbot, we have to tread very warily if we are not to find ourselves in disgrace along with Scrope and Knollys.”
“What does Her Majesty require?”
“That Boyd and the Bishop are not to be allowed to remain with her or come to see her. They are to be banished at once to Burton-on-Trent.”
The Earl sighed. Poor Queen Mary! he was thinking. Here was another blow.
THE EARL MET ELEANOR BRITTON on the staircase near the Queen’s apartments.
She flushed and curtsied.
“Do you serve the Queen of Scots then?” he asked.
“I help her servants, my lord.” She added quickly: “It is the order of the Countess that I should do so.”