Norfolk nodded grimly. Yes, he thought, the project is too far gone to be lightly abandoned. Who knows from one moment to another, when Elizabeth herself might be set down and another put in her place? What if Mary were made Queen of England and he had been shortsighted enough to break his engagement with her?
He remembered an occasion when he had denied to Elizabeth that he had any pretensions to marriage with Mary. He had said that he would not feel safe on his pillow, married to such a one. That had satisfied Elizabeth at the time, he had believed; but she had referred to that phrase of his later when, full of suspicion that he might be in negotiation with Mary, she had suddenly leaned toward him when she sat at supper, nipped his arm firmly between her fingers and thumb and warned him that he should look to his pillow.
He could still feel the terror of occasions like that; it brought back memories of the day when he had heard that his father had lost his head because a sovereign willed it.
He turned to the card game and went on playing in silence.
While they were at play a messenger arrived with documents for Neville and for Norfolk.
They were from the Queen.
Elizabeth was grieved to think of my lord of Norfolk wasting his days and nights in the Tower. She liked not to hear that plague had penetrated the fortress. She was inclined to be lenient, and she was going to offer Norfolk a chance to leave his prison. He might return to his own house at the Charterhouse, whither Sir Henry Neville would accompany him, that the Queen might rest happily assured that he made no mischief. This she would grant him permission to do and asked only one concession in return. He must sign a document in which he solemnly pledged his word that he would not marry the Queen of Scots nor take part in her affairs without first obtaining the consent to do so from his Sovereign, Elizabeth.
When he and Neville had read these documents they regarded each other in somber silence.
Neville said: “It is the chance you have been praying for. Take it.”
Norfolk’s weak face was creased in almost petulant exasperation.
“Think of what she asks!” he cried. “How can I give my word to give up the Queen of Scots, after the solemn promises we have made each other?”
But even as he spoke he knew he would.
WILLIAM CECIL, accompanied by Sir Walter Mildmay and Lesley, Bishop of Ross, was riding toward Chatsworth.
He was thoughtful as he rode, wondering how far he could trust Lesley; the man had been imprisoned once and managed to escape with his life, but there were so many plots and counterplots surrounding the Queen of Scots that Cecil was not prepared to trust any one of her servants. He would keep a watchful eye on Lesley.
The matter was more serious than was generally believed—although the fact that Cecil thought it worthwhile making the journey to Chatsworth might cause some to realize its seriousness. While the Queen of Scots lived, his sovereign Elizabeth was in danger; and Cecil had made up his mind that if Elizabeth would not agree to the execution of her rival—and Cecil had to admit there was logic and good sound sense in her reason for this—then the lady’s claws must be clipped. There must be no more Catholic risings. By great good luck these had been suppressed on previous occasions, but it was possible that good fortune might not always be on the side of Cecil and Elizabeth.
It was all very well for a Protestant Queen and her even more fervently Protestant ministers to snap their fingers when Pius V excommunicated Elizabeth. There were too many powerful Catholics in England, too many even more powerful Catholic rulers abroad, waiting for that moment when they too could add their disapproval to the Pope’s.
And the trouble center was wherever the Queen of Scots happened to be. Chatsworth at this time.
So to Chatsworth rode Cecil, with his own little plan for rendering the Queen of Scots no longer a danger to his mistress. The most disastrous turn of events could be if Mary escaped from England to France or Spain and there was married to some Catholic Prince. This must be avoided at all cost. Cecil would have felt happier to see her head severed from her body; only thus, he believed, could she cease to be a menace; but failing that, he wished to see her make a Protestant marriage to an Englishman of his and his Queen’s choosing. This was the reason for his making the journey to Chatsworth.
When Mary heard that Cecil had arrived and was asking to see her, she was astonished. This was the man whom she believed to be her greatest enemy; at the same time she knew that he was the man who could do her most good if he were so inclined. It was in a mood swaying between hope and apprehension that she greeted him in that room which she called her presence chamber.
They faced each other—the tall and strikingly beautiful woman and the small, deformed statesman. Mildmay was present but from the first Mary was aware that this was a duel between her and Cecil. Mary was trembling with emotion; the steely eyes of Cecil were as cold as ice.
They bowed low and Mary told them that she was glad to see them. She was ready to be friendly, to forget all the wrong she knew Cecil had done to her; it was he who was aloof.
“I trust,” began Mary, “that you bring me good news of my sister and cousin.”
“Her Majesty is made sad by your reproaches,” Cecil told Mary. “She is astounded that, as she has given you refuge for so long, you should be so ungrateful as to offer her continual complaint.”
“Refuge!” cried Mary angrily. “Is a prison refuge?”
“Doubtless Your Majesty owes your life to the Queen of England who preserved you from the anger of your own subjects.”
“That life,” Mary cried impetuously, “has scarce been worth the living since I came to England.”
Cecil looked shocked. “I shall be loath to report your further complains to Her Majesty.”
“She, who has suffered imprisonment herself, will understand full well if you ask her to recall that period of her life. I should have thought one who had experienced that would have had greater sympathy for me in my plight.”
Cecil raised his hands as though in horror and turned to Mildmay, whose expression showed that he shared Cecil’s horror for what they were pleased to consider the ingratitude of the Queen of Scots.
“Tell me,” she went on passionately, “will the Queen of England restore me to my throne? She has power to do this, I am fully aware. But I would know her intention. Is she going to help me or not?”
“Your Majesty is distraught,” murmured Cecil. “Would you care to discuss these matters when you are a little calmer?”
“I want to hear now.”
“Well then, Her Majesty will restore you to your throne. There are certain conditions.”
“I had thought that most likely,” interjected Mary.
Cecil went on coldly: “She would require your son to be brought to England, and to remain here as a hostage.”
The mention of her son moved Mary so deeply that she found she could not check the tears which started to her eyes.
“He should live here,” Cecil was going on, “in some honorable place under the guardianship of two or three Scottish gentlemen. The Queen would most graciously allow you to name one of them. The others would be chosen according to the advice of his grandfather, the Earl of Lennox, and the Earl of Mar.”
The tears had begun to fall down her cheeks. She did not see these two hard-faced men. She saw only that little boy, puzzled, wondering why he never saw his mother, perhaps hearing tales of her. Where is my father? he would ask. Would anyone tell him: “The victim of bloody murder at Kirk o’ Field . . . murder in which your mother is suspected of being an accomplice!” Yet when they had asked him whom he loved best—Lady Mar who had been a mother to him, or his own mother, he had answered boldly: My mother.
She wanted to hold the child in her arms, to teach him, to play with him. And now she knew that the bitterest punishment of all had been the loss of her child.