“It would seem, Your Majesty, that the Queen of Scots enjoys too much liberty at Chatsworth. It might be advisable to remove her from that place. Shrewsbury could take her to his castle in Sheffield, which to my mind would be a meet and fitting place to house her.”
XII
Sheffield
IT WAS ON A BLEAK NOVEMBER DAY that Mary traveled over the mountains from Chatsworth to Sheffield. Through the mist she caught her first glimpse of her new prison, which stood on a hill above that spot where the rivers Don and Sheaf met, the latter giving its name to the nearby town. The fame of this town was already known to Mary because it was noted for the mineral wealth which had enabled its inhabitants to become the foremost manufacturers of edged tools such as knives, spear and arrow heads.
The Earl had decided that she should not go at once to the castle but occupy the more cozy Manor House which was about two miles from it and in the center of a wooded park. Bess had pointed out that the Queen would find Sheffield less comfortable than Chatsworth, and that as the winter lay before them the Manor House would provide a more congenial lodging than the castle.
So to the Manor House came Mary. On that day when the trees were dripping with moisture, and the spiders’ webs, draped over the bushes, looked as though they were strung with tiny crystal beads, Mary felt a numbing sense of foreboding. Seton, close to her as ever, understood her thoughts. Thus must it ever be when they entered a new prison. They must always wonder how long they would stay and whether this would be their last resting place.
The situation was charming enough with avenues of oak and walnut leading to the house from several directions, and in the manor, which had two courts, an outer and inner, Mary had been allotted a suite which was adequate for her needs.
Yet as she entered the Manor House she said to Seton: “I remember hearing that it was to this place that Cardinal Wolsey came after his arrest. I seem to feel his spirit lingers still. I understand so well his feeling, for he had fallen from greatness. He went on to Leicester to die. I wonder what my fate will be.”
Seton tried to brush away such melancholy thoughts.
“It is always difficult to adjust ourselves to a new lodging,” she said.
THAT WINTER seemed as though it would never end. The air of Sheffield was not good for Mary and sometimes her limbs were so stiff with pain that she found walking difficult. She suffered acutely from neuralgia and there were times when she was convinced that she was near death.
Only the presence of her friends made it possible, she declared, for her not to die of melancholia, for when she considered their case she reminded herself that they suffered of their own free will, for there was not one of them who could not have walked out of Sheffield, a free man or woman; yet they stayed for love of her.
It was during this mournful winter that sad news reached her from Scotland. Her son was being tutored by George Buchanan, one of her greatest enemies, who had delighted in spreading slanders about her and was now teaching young James to believe them.
This news so prostrated Mary that her friends became really alarmed, and on several occasions were on the point of ordering the administration of the last rites.
It was during this sad period that Seton brought her the news that a friend had arrived at the manor and was asking to see her.
“Who is it?” asked Mary.
Seton was smiling. “One whom I think Your Majesty will be pleased to see.”
“Then tell me . . . ”
But Seton had run to the door and flung it open.
Mary stared at the man who entered, for a few moments not recognizing him, so much had he changed. Then with a cry of joy she seized his hands and drew him to her in a long embrace.
“How can I tell you how welcome you are!” she cried.
But George Douglas did not need to be told.
THIS WAS INDEED not the same George who had gone away. His stay in France had turned him from an idealistic boy to a man of the world. Yet he was nonetheless ready to give his life for the Queen. He told himself that he no longer dreamed impossible dreams. She was his Queen whom he would serve until death; she was as a goddess who was far beyond his reach. Unlike her he had never believed that there could be a relationship between them other than that which had always existed; and in France he had found a woman with whom he believed he had fallen in love, and it was for this reason he had returned to Mary.
Mary was delighted, and the coming of George so lightened her spirits that her health seemed to benefit; and as there were now signs of spring in the bleak Sheffield air, her companions congratulated themselves that she had recovered from what they had feared would be a mortal illness.
She wanted to hear all about George’s romance, and it was characteristic of her generous nature that she could feel only joy because he had found someone to love, even though in some measure this must mean that she was supplanted in his most tender affections.
As for George he was ready enough to talk. He tried to explain to her the beauty and charm of Mademoiselle La Verrière. Mary listened, regretful only because she could not give the couple rich presents, wondering what she could do to help them to their happiness.
For George had his problems. “She is a lady of some rank and her parents frown on our union because of my poverty.”
“My poor George! When I think of what you have lost on my account, I could weep. But we must not despair. I am a prisoner but I have some friends. I will write at once to my ambassador in Paris who is, as you know, the Archbishop of Glasgow, and I will ask that twenty-five thousand francs be settled on Mademoiselle La Verrière. Then I am sure her parents will be as delighted with the match as their daughter and you and I are, my dear George.”
“I fear I bring trouble to Your Majesty. You cannot afford to be so generous.”
Mary touched his cheek lightly and laughed. “I cannot afford not to make this little gift to one to whom I owe so much. Oh, George, I would it were more I could give you. Do you think I shall ever forget Lochleven and all I owed to you . . . then and after.”
George was too touched to answer, and Mary became practical.
“If you are to return to Scotland you will need a passport. I will write to Elizabeth and try to obtain this for you. If I cannot, then you must go back to France and stay there until it if safe for you to return home.”
“Your Majesty is kind enough to concern yourself with my affairs,” said George at length. “I have been thinking since I came to Sheffield of ways in which I could be of assistance to you. I have had many a talk with Willie, who is chafing at inactivity.”
Mary laughed. “Ah, Willie! You find him much changed?”
“He has become a man.”
“You heard of his troubles. Poor Willie. He is another who has suffered in my cause. He has never been quite the same since his incarceration in an English prison.”
“He could not be a boy forever,” replied George. “In one way he has changed not at all—and that is in his devotion to Your Majesty.”
“I have so many good friends, and for them I am grateful. I will tell you, George, that there are constant schemes for my rescue, yet none succeeds. Perhaps that is my fault, for there have been occasions when I have been unwilling to escape. I have not only myself to consider, and I could not blithely ride away to freedom leaving others to be punished for my actions. But I never cease to hope. And I will tell you this, George: even at this moment Lord Claud Hamilton, with others of my friends, are in touch with the Spanish government. When the time is ripe I shall be lowered from my window by means of a cord and join my friends. But I must wait until I can be sure that I have enough supporters to make the attempt worthwhile. There have been too many abortive attempts to set me back on my throne, and too many have suffered because of them.”