“I have lived twenty-seven years,” she told Seton, “and I fear I grow old. Where shall I spend my twenty-eighth birthday, I wonder? Christmas will soon be with us and then another year will begin. I cannot believe that Elizabeth has kept me so long her prisoner.”
There came bad news of the Northern rebel. Sussex was in pursuit of them. Mary wept when she heard that Northumberland, who seemed like an old friend to her, had fled with Westmorland into Scotland. Elizabeth’s avenging army however, robbed of the leaders, did not hesitate to avenge themselves on their followers, and gibbets with their hideous burdens were now a feature of the northern roads—a grim warning to any who thought to follow the example of the rebels.
Now that the insurrection had been put down, there was no need for Mary to remain in Coventry. Elizabeth sent word that she was to be taken back to Tutbury and, as there would perhaps be attempts to rescue her on the way, if there were any danger of these being successful, Mary was to be executed rather than allowed to escape.
Elizabeth, deeply disturbed by the northern rebellion, believed now that there would be no peace in her realm while Mary lived: she longed for her death, yet she had no wish to be known as the one who had given the order for it.
If Mary died suddenly in an English castle there would be many to connect Elizabeth with the event. No matter what evidence was produced, suspicion would always attach itself to Elizabeth.
A letter from John Knox, written to Cecil—which that good and faithful servant immediately brought to his mistress—gave Elizabeth an idea which she determined to study.
John Knox raged against the Queen of Scots, while he congratulated Cecil on the suppression of the northern rebellion.
“But,” he wrote, “if you strike not at the root, the branches which seemed to be broken will bud again.”
That was clear enough. The root was Mary, Queen of Scots.
Elizabeth could trust Moray to know what to do with his half-sister if she were returned to Scotland, because he longed for her death as much as Elizabeth did; he had usurped her kingdom; would he greatly care if he were known throughout the world as her murderer?
First let her return to Tutbury; then a scheme could be devised for returning her to her unscrupulous brother.
In January Mary left Coventry for Tutbury.
X
Tutbury Again
MORAY RECEIVED THE NEWS from England with the calm which was second nature to him. Mary was an encumbrance of which he longed to be rid. He bore her no personal malice; had she not been a menace to his own power he could have been fond of her in so far as he was capable of affection. He wanted to see Scotland prosperous and at peace, and how could that be when rebel factions were continually springing up and making themselves felt, to the detriment of Scotland and his own dire danger?
Elizabeth was an uneasy ally. He believed he could trust Cecil, as much as a statesman could be trusted; for as both he and Cecil were stern Protestants therein lay the bond between them.
The time had come for the removal of Mary, and if she were returned to Scotland his first task would be to prove her worthy of death. Surely there was a good case against her. She had murdered her husband, and the just reward of murderesses—be they Queens or commoners—was surely death. True, many murders had been committed in Scotland and the victims had never been avenged. But, mused Moray, had their death been necessary for the good of the realm, and had those who would benefit been strong enough, those murderers would have gone the way he must now prepare for Mary.
Knowing Elizabeth, he realized that before long she would, with outward magnanimity, hand Mary over to her bastard brother—the understanding being that he should perform the deed with which Elizabeth had no wish to soil her hands.
Moray had many enemies in Scotland. He was a hard man and had never hesitated to act ruthlessly if the occasion warranted it. There was one incident which was characteristic of the manner in which he had shown the people his determination to be obeyed. It had taken place in the autumn when plague had struck Edinburgh, and he had ordered that when any man or woman was infected with the sickness, his or her family were to remove the sufferer without delay out of Edinburgh. That they must leave all they possessed was a condition they must accept. The Regent ordered that the family should leave, and leave it must—or incur his displeasure. There had been a husband, recently married, who, when his wife had been stricken, had kept this fact hidden, secretly nursing her in the comfort of his house, rather than take her out to die wretchedly in one of the surrounding villages where there was no suitable accommodation.
On the Regent’s orders that young husband had been taken from his wife’s bedside and hanged outside his own door.
To rule, one must be strong, the Regent believed. Mary had failed through sentimental weakness.
He had determined to treat Mary’s followers with the same ruthlessness as he had shown to that young husband. He peremptorily ordered them to give up all their possessions, and sent his Justice-Clerk, Sir John Bellenden, to make sure that the order was carried out.
In a country like Scotland, where it was not always easy to know who were one’s friends, it was necessary to pay highly those who did the most unpleasant work which the Regent would rather not himself perform. Bellenden therefore looked for rewards and, as payment for his services, Moray bestowed on him the estate of Woodhouselee which belonged to one of Mary’s mot ardent supporters—a member of the Hamilton family, James Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh.
ALISON SINCLAIR, wife of James Hamilton, lay in her bed, her young child who had been born a few days before beside her. A great fire blazed in the fireplace, for it was difficult to keep the rooms warm during such weather. Outside the snow was falling.
Alison was thinking of long ago days when she and her sister had knelt at the windows of this house looking out on the snow-covered countryside. She was remembering how they had been kept prisoners in the house by the weather and had amused themselves by playing hide and seek because it was such a wonderful house in which to hide. No matter where she went, she always thought of Woodhouselee as her home.
She had inherited it and brought it to James Hamilton when they married; and she believed it was as well, because now that James was more or less an outlaw, since he was the Queen’s man, he had lost much of his own property; she was perpetually thankful that Woodhouselee, being her inheritance, was unassailable.
James was now in hiding with his kinsman, Archibald Hamilton. It was sad that the troubles of the time should mean so many separations; but she was sure that when he heard that their child had arrived he would find some means of coming to her.
While she lay thus musing she heard the sounds of arrival in the courtyard below, and called to her maid: “He is here! I knew he would come. Go and bring him to me at once and make certain that no one leaves the house while he is here. I expect all my servants to be loyal, but how can one be sure in times such as these. And if Moray’s men knew that he was here they would most certainly come to take him.”
Smiling down at her newly born child, she called for a mirror. It was some time since she had seen her husband and she was eager to look her best. She was delighted because child-bearing had not changed her appearance, and she looked if anything younger than before. Perhaps that was because she was so happy. She had her baby . . . and now James had come to see them.
The door was flung open and a man stood on the threshold of the room. She was surprised rather than alarmed in those first seconds.
“But . . . ” she stammered, “who are you?”