Bess, who had established herself in command of the whole company and even managed to subdue Huntingdon, advised her husband to write at once to Elizabeth telling her that Mary had been safely conveyed to Coventry and that she was now held at the Black Bull Inn.
The letter was written and, while Elizabeth’s reply was awaited, Huntingdon discussed the possibility of reducing the number of Mary’s servants, for if they must needs move on, it was no easy matter to convey such a large party.
“That,” said Bess, “is a matter of less import than some. The Queen will be desolate if she is parted from her friends. This is no time to concern ourselves with the reduction of her household. Furthermore if you turn these people adrift at such a time they will join the rebels with valuable information. Let well alone.”
Huntingdon was forced to accept the logic of this, and he did not broach the subject to Mary as he had intended. He satisfied himself, during their stay at the Black Bull, with making sure that the Queen was well guarded night and day.
Elizabeth’s reply was choleric, and she wrote individually to both Shrewsbury and Huntingdon. She was furious and a little frightened, as she always was when confronted by rebellion among her subjects. She was relying on the Earl of Sussex who was stationed at York, and Sir George Bowes who was at Barnard’s Castle, to subdue the rebels. In the meantime she berated the Earls for so demeaning royalty by taking a Queen to an Inn. They were to remove Mary at once and find some suitable house in Coventry—a good and loyal city—where she was to remain until commanded to do otherwise; and Elizabeth expected her prisoner to be guarded day and night.
Bess, who had already been looking for a suitable residence—she herself considered it somewhat demeaning for a Countess to stay at an Inn—had discovered an old house known as St. Mary’s Hall, and her inspection of this had shown her that it contained adequate lodging for the Queen.
Immediately on receipt of Elizabeth’s letter Mary was taken to St. Mary’s Hall and there a large room, which was called the Mayoress’s Parlor, was given to her as her presence chamber; there were other rooms connected by a wooden gallery, which served as bedchamber and ante-chamber for Mary. Her ladies were housed in smaller rooms connected with those allotted to Mary; and in the circumstances Bess considered that they had housed the Queen satisfactorily.
Now that she was settled, Huntingdon again took up the matter of her servants, to which Mary was intensely hostile. She would not part with any one of her friends, she cried. “Is it not enough for you,” she demanded, “that I am kept a prisoner here, that I am not allowed to see my sister and cousin, Elizabeth, that I am treated as though I am a criminal? I will not allow you, my lord Huntingdon, to part me from one of my friends.”
Huntingdon tried to soothe her. “You must not regard me as your enemy,” he insisted:
“When you show yourself to me as my friend I will not,” was her answer.
“I will show you that I am your friend,” Huntingdon promised her, “and that soon.”
Mary did not take his words seriously and was as suspicious of him as ever.
IT WAS A LIFE of rigorous imprisonment that she was forced to live in Coventry. She was not allowed to walk out in the open air, and she pined for it. The time was passing and when she looked back she grew frantic to realize that she was more Elizabeth’s prisoner now than she had been when she had first come to England.
“I should never have come south,” she told Seton frequently. “I should never have put my trust in Elizabeth.”
During those days of late November news came of the rebels. They had acted rashly, for although they had enjoyed initial success, it was clear that they could not hold out for long against the English.
“How I wish they had never attempted this!” cried Mary. “They will bring nothing but misery to themselves and others.”
The fear that the rebels would march on Coventry and fight for the possession of the Queen’s person was each day growing more and more remote; but this did not mean a relaxation of the rigorous rules.
The Shrewsburys were as anxious that she should not escape as Huntingdon was, and although Bess remained friendly she was watchful, and it would not have been easy for any letter to have passed her scrutiny on its way to Mary.
It was a surprise one day when Huntingdon came to the Queen’s apartment and told her he wished to talk privately with her. Mary sent her friends away, and when they were alone he said: “I bring a message from my brother-in-law, the Earl of Leicester, who sends his greetings to you and wishes me to tell you how much he deplores the manner in which you are being treated.”
“I would he would speak to his mistress on my behalf. I understand that she has a special regard for him.”
“He has worked continually for your comfort.”
“Then I should have expected better results from one who enjoys such favor with his Queen.”
Huntingdon smiled almost slyly. “The Queen, having such regard for my brother-in-law, might not be pleased to hear of his devotion to Your Majesty.”
“Tell me more of this . . . devotion.”
“The Earl of Leicester bids me tell you that, if you will break your engagement to Norfolk and take him instead, he will use all his powers to bring about your release and restore to you that which is yours by right.”
“You cannot mean that the Earl of Leicester wishes to be my husband!”
“That is what I do mean. What is your answer?”
“I am affianced to Norfolk.”
“Who can do you little good, being in the Tower.”
“I was not speaking of what good could come to me, my lord, but of my engagement to His Grace.”
“Your Majesty should consider this matter.”
“I do not need to consider. Until my engagement to Norfolk is broken I could not contemplate entering into another.”
Huntingdon bowed and took his leave.
MARY CALLED SETON and Andrew Beaton to her and told them what Huntingdon had suggested.
“Why,” said Andrew, “it is clear what is happening. Elizabeth is going through a pretense of taking the Duke of Anjou for a husband. Leicester is piqued and wishes to show her that he can play the same game.”
“Then,” said Mary, “I was right to treat this offer with little seriousness.”
“Perhaps,” put in Seton quietly, “it would have been well not to have made a definite refusal. It may have been that Leicester could have done you some good.”
“Oh, Seton, nothing can come right when no one person trusts another. Let us be straightforward and act honorably. I am betrothed to Norfolk, and while that betrothal exists I cannot enter into the same state with another man.”
Seton spread her hands helplessly. “We are surrounded by people who play these double games. And we try to be honorable! Is that why we are hustled from one prison to another?”
Mary looked at her friend reproachfully. “Perhaps, Seton,” she said. “But I would not wish to betray those who have befriended me, even if by so doing I could win my freedom.”
“This is a desperate game and we are playing it with rogues,” insisted Seton.
Mary was firm. “I must find some means of writing to Norfolk,” she said; “he will be sad and lonely in his prison.”
IT WAS AGAIN HER BIRTHDAY, this time to be spent in St. Mary’s Hall at Coventry. It seemed incredible that it was only a year ago when she had celebrated her last birthday. So much had happened since, and yet so little. “I was a prisoner then,” mourned Mary; “I am a prisoner still.”
She would have no attempt made to celebrate the occasion.