Orders were sent to Sheffield Castle. “Keep the Queen under even stricter surveillance. Double the guard. It is imperative that she should not escape . . . for her own sake.”
SO THAT SUMMER PASSED into winter. Another birthday came and went—her thirtieth.
“I am growing old,” she told Seton. “See how my life is passing by while I go from one prison to another.”
Christmas came, but there were no revelries in Sheffield Castle.
The winter was long and cold, but Mary scarcely noticed it, and in the spring the Earl and Countess came to her apartments to tell her that since the castle needed sweetening they proposed to move her to the Lodge in the Park.
Mary was glad of the move. Anything was welcome to relieve the monotony; but the Earl and Countess were less happy with their captive in the manor, for they believed escape would have been easier there than from the castle.
She was never allowed out of her apartment and whenever she looked out of her window she saw guards who stood beneath it all through the day and night.
“She will never escape from here,” joked the guards, “unless she has some magic which will turn her into a mouse or a flea.”
THE EARL BROUGHT THE NEWS to Mary, and as he told her he realized that she understood its importance. She turned pale and put her hand to her side where lately she had begun to feel much pain.
“The Castle of Edinburgh has surrendered, Your Majesty.”
She did not speak for a moment. She pictured the castle, high on the hill, seeming impregnable. It was the last and the most important fortress held in her name.
“English forces under Sir William Drury captured it,” Shrewsbury told her. “Kirkcaldy should have surrendered long ago. There was no hope of holding out against the Queen’s forces.”
She knew what had been happening in Edinburgh; she had heard stories of the bravery of those who had loved her, how the soldiers’ wives had allowed themselves to be let down the steep rock by ropes in order that they might go into the town to buy bread for the starving defenders of the castle; how when they had been caught, which was frequently the case, Morton had ordered that they should be immediately hanged. She had heard how the soldiers had been let down to the well by means of ropes that they might fill their buckets with the precious water.
“They had to give in,” Shrewsbury was telling her now, “when the well was poisoned.”
“Kirkcaldy would never have surrendered otherwise,” said Mary. And she thought of Kirkcaldy who was now her firm ally yet who had stood remorselessly against her and, more than any, had helped to win the day for Moray at Carberry Hill.
“Kirkcaldy will never be on any side again,” replied Shrewsbury grimly. “He was hanged with his brother in Market Cross when the castle was taken.”
“Oh, my lord,” cried Mary, “why are you always the bringer of evil tidings?”
“If there were aught good to bring you, I would bring it,” Shrewsbury answered gruffly.
“Then as you can bring me no good, I pray you leave me alone with my grief.”
Shrewsbury bowed and left her. He was thinking that in some respects this might not be such bad news for her.
With Edinburgh Castle lost she was no longer a formidable enemy. Her importance to Elizabeth had waned with its capture. Might it be that now the watch on her would be relaxed a little? Her supporters in Scotland were defeated; the English were still talking in horror of the St. Bartholomew massacre. Elizabeth would have little to fear now from Mary Queen of Scots. Surely she would relent a little.
“HOW DID SHE TAKE the news?” Bess demanded of her husband.
“She has heard so much bad news that even this leaves her numb.”
“Poor creature! I pity her. It is sad that she should be so confined as she has been these last months. I am sick unto death of Sheffield. How I long for the beauty of my beloved Chatsworth!”
“What have you in mind?”
“She has become almost an invalid in these last months. She is in need of a change. I shall ask the Queen if we may not visit Chatsworth; and who knows, if we do I might take the Queen of Scots to the Buxton baths. They did you good. I’m sure they would be equally beneficial to her.”
“You think the Queen would listen to your request?”
“Are you a fool, Shrewsbury? Now is the time for her to show her leniency. Never have the fortunes of your romantic Queen been so low. I will write to Elizabeth. I’ll swear that very soon we shall be leaving Sheffield for Chatsworth . . . and it may well be Buxton too.”
XIII
Chatsworth and Buxton
AS SOON AS MARY WAS BACK in Chatsworth she felt happier. How delighted she was to go once more to her garden at the top of the tower and there, with Seton and Jane Kennedy, find pleasure in seeing that those plants, which she had tended with such care, were still flourishing.
Shrewsbury had been right when he had believed that she would not be allowed more liberty. Attended by guards she would walk from her apartments to the lake, and cross the bridge. She could leave them surrounding the lake, for there was no possibility of her escape; and although, when she looked over the balustrade, she could always see some of them, at least she was free to enjoy the fresh air.
Bess talked to her continually of what the Buxton Baths had done for Shrewsbury, and both Queen and Countess wrote to Elizabeth begging her to allow Mary to seek a like benefit.
It was now August, and the season for taking the waters would be over with the end of the month. Mary despaired of ever being allowed to visit Buxton, and the desire to go there became a passion with her. She talked perpetually of going.
“I know, if I can but take the baths, I shall be well again,” she declared.
Seton encouraged her. Sometimes now a whole day would pass without her mentioning the death of Norfolk or the valor of the defenders of Edinburgh Castle. She still yearned for little James, but that was something she would do all her life; she still showed anxiety as to the fate of George and Willie Douglas and all those whom she called her poor wandering sheep. But her desire to visit Buxton was doing much to rouse her from her melancholy; and, thought Seton, if we could but go there, I am certain she would be well again through her very faith in the baths.
It was the end of August when Elizabeth granted permission, maliciously commenting as she did so that, since the season was well nigh over, the visit would doubtless do the Queen of Scots more harm than good.
But when Mary received word that she might go—late as it was—she was jubilant.
She looked young again as preparations were made for her to be taken from Chatsworth to Buxton.
THE JOURNEY FROM CHATSWORTH to Buxton was not a long one, being of some thirteen or fourteen miles; merely to be on that beautiful road which led over the hill made Mary feel almost happy.
Already the color was returning to her cheeks and Seton was delighted to see this change in her. How ironical, she thought, that they, who had once had such lofty ideas of regaining the throne, could now be so uplifted by the prospect of a visit to Buxton.
The climate seemed more benign than even at Chatsworth and especially so when compared with bleak Sheffield.
Shrewsbury’s house in Buxton was called Low Buxton and it was here that Mary stayed. It was a charming house protected from winds by the hill at the foot of which it stood, while it benefited from the mountain air.
Shrewsbury had given orders that all visitors must leave the Spa before Mary arrived, so there could be no opportunities for making plans for her escape; thus all the social activities of that gay little town ceased immediately; and the Queen was never allowed to go anywhere unless surrounded by her guards.