Her first action was to seize the person of Mary’s ambassador to England, Lesley, Bishop of Ross, and send him to the Tower.
She saw at once that her fears had not been without grounds. Mary’s friends in Scotland, led by Huntley and Argyle, marched on Edinburgh. Kirkcaldy of Grange, who was keeper of the Castle and regretted his disloyalty to the Queen at Carberry Hill when he led Moray’s forces, had joined the lords of the Highlands. Fernyhirst, who had once offered Mary refuge in his castle if she could escape her English captors, marched across the border. And Leonard Dacre, on whose behalf Mary had pleaded effectively with Norfolk so that Dacre had not lost all his family possessions, gathered together three thousand men, and there was a new rising in the North.
If only Mary could escape, there was an army waiting to fall in behind her.
Huntingdon and the Shrewsburys, realizing the danger, doubled the guard at Tutbury; for they knew that fresh schemes for rescuing the Queen were being set in motion, and they believed that never had Mary’s chance of escape been so good.
Mary, however, thought constantly of Norfolk in the Tower. There was one thing she needed more than freedom; and that was affection. Generous as she was, she poured out her affection on any who were ready to receive it; and although she knew Norfolk only through his letters, she was prepared to give him the devotion she had always longed to give to a husband.
She wanted to be loyal; she wanted to make sacrifices; she was striving toward that perfect relationship which in her three previous marriages she had not attained.
“Mine own good Lord,” she wrote, “I would know your pleasure if I should seek to make some enterprise. If it please you I care not for my danger . . . ”
There was no answer from Norfolk, and she wrote again;
“If you think the danger too great, do as you think best, and let me know what you please that I do, for I will be for your sake perpetual prisoner, or put my life in peril for your weal and mine . . . .”
And she signed this letter “Your own faithful to death Queen of Scots, my Norfolk.”
When Norfolk received the letter he sweated with terror. Did she not know that, since the death of Moray, she was being watched more closely than ever before? He was not risking his head to write love letters.
MARY BELIEVED that she was now living through the most dangerous weeks of her life. Her enemy and father-in-law, the Earl of Lennox, was the new Regent; and all Scotland was aflame.
But Elizabeth had no intention of allowing Mary to be reinstated; she subdued the rebellion in England as she had that led by Northumberland; and she sent Sussex to Scotland with seven thousand troops to teach Mary’s supporters a lesson. Lord Scrope followed Sussex, and Sir William Drury laid waste many a Scottish community which had declared loyalty to the Queen.
Each day melancholy news was brought to Mary of the suffering of her supporters, who could not hold out against the military superiority of the English.
That winter and early spring were desperate days, and in addition to her sorrow and despair Mary suffered the return of the pains in her limbs and the sickness which seemed to her to grow out of the contaminated air of Tutbury.
She found small comfort in her tapestry and the companionship of her faithful friends. Bess and George Talbot were friendly, but she knew that they were—as they must be—spies for their Queen. They were not harsh jailors, but they were determined not to let her escape.
“How I wish,” she told Bess, “that I could ride out into the country now and then. I should love to have my horses again; I always had my dogs, for I love the creatures. I sadly miss having no animals of my own.”
“It may be that someday the Queen will consent to your having pets if you wish for them,” was all Bess offered. Yet Mary believed that, had Bess decided she might have a little dog, she would not have thought it necessary to ask the Queen’s permission.
There was some good news. When Scotland was defeated and there was no longer any hope that an army of Mary’s faithful followers would come marching to Tutbury to rescue her, Elizabeth released the Bishop of Ross from the Tower.
But even when Scotland was subdued, there were continuous arrests of those who had rebelled in the North and many were taken to London, tortured, and finally subjected to the horrible traitor’s death. Mary knew that these men were tortured in the hope that they would betray her as having urged them to rebel against the Queen of England.
Each day when she arose she wondered whether it would be her last on Earth; every time there was an arrival at the castle she wondered whether an order had been brought to conduct her to the Tower.
THE EARL OF SHREWSBURY had recovered from his sickness, and the gentleness Bess had shown him during his illness had disappeared. She was sharp and domineering, and there were times when George Talbot deeply regretted having married her.
Often he would find himself comparing her with two women—the Queen and the serving maid.
He was deeply aware of Eleanor Britton and it seemed to him that in the course of the day he saw more of her than he did of any other person. Perhaps he was always aware of her; perhaps he sought her out, and she was eager to be sought. When he sent for a serving girl, it was often Eleanor who came; he found himself thinking of the tasks he could give to one of the serving girls; thus she came often to his apartments.
It was dusk and when he had sent for a girl to light a fire in his ante-chamber, it was Eleanor who came, graceful, hesitant yet eager, her coarse gown cut low to show her white skin; her apron clean, having been hastily donned since she was to come to him; her hair was hidden by her cap and he felt an irresistible urge to see it.
“My lord desires a fire?” she asked in her gentle voice.
He nodded.
She said: “I have just lighted one in the Queen’s apartments, where my lady sits with Her Majesty. They are together at the tapestry.”
She did not move as he came toward her.
He took off her cap, and her hair fell about her shoulders; it was long, thick and gold-colored.
“It seems a shame to hide it,” he murmured.
She was waiting breathlessly for what would happen next; although she knew; and he knew; for in that moment they both realized that this was inevitable. This was what they had been waiting for since they had first become aware of each other.
DURING THAT LONG WINTER, Mary suffered greatly from the rigors of Tutbury. She was longing for the spring to come. When she received the news that a papal bull had been obtained, which dissolved her marriage with Bothwell on the grounds of rape, she was devoid of emotion. There was one thing it did teach her though; she was free of Bothwell in all ways. She no longer thought of him as her husband; she thought of herself as a widow—Darnley’s widow—and it was as though that most turbulent relationship had never existed.
She longed to change her state of widowhood. Sometimes she would call Seton, Jane and the others to her and discuss the gowns she would have made after her marriage. It would be wonderful, she told them, to have beautiful clothes again. “I shall have some little dogs,” she declared. “Oh, how I long to be free again!”
Of the desires which were nearest to her heart she spoke rarely. Most of all she longed to see her son again. He was a sturdy little fellow now and the letters she enjoyed receiving most were those which contained some scrap of news of him. He was astonishing his tutors by his cleverness, for he had a natural aptitude for book leaning. He was in the charge of the Earl and Countess of Mar who, like all her enemies, did their best to make her son forget he had a mother. But he was a wise little boy, and obstinate; she learned that he asked questions only of those who he believed would give him truthful answers.