The Captive Queen of Scots, стр. 68
“Who else was in this plot with you?”
“Pembroke and Arundel.”
Elizabeth rose from the bedside.
“My love . . . ” began Leicester anxiously.
She stooped over him and laid her hand on his forehead.
“I fear you are displeased with me . . . .” he went on.
“And what do you expect when you plot behind my back?”
“What can I do to win back your regard?”
“Get well. I like not to see you sick abed.”
She kissed him, and when he would have taken her in his arms she laughed and eluded him. “Remember you are a sick man, Robert. Remember too that the Queen commands you to be well. I expect you at Court ere long.”
Leicester was still smiling when she had left him. He felt limp with relief. He thanked his stars, his good looks, and his charm by which he had extricated himself from that dangerous situation.
ARRIVING BACK AT COURT Elizabeth was thoughtful.
Pembroke, Arundel, Norfolk, she was thinking. And so Norfolk fancies himself as her husband, does he? And doubtless she fancies Norfolk. She had been without a husband so long that she will be eager for one, I’ll swear. But she can go on panting for a man, for she’ll not get one!
When she was with her ministers, the Spanish ambassador found his way to her side.
He told her—as he did on every occasion they met—that His Most Catholic Majesty was deeply concerned about the imprisonment of the Queen of Scotland, and he requested Her Majesty to give the matter her attention.
“I give the matter attention,” retorted the Queen. “And I tell you this, that if the Queen of Scots does not bear her condition with a little more patience she may find some of her friends shorter by the head.”
A silence followed this remark. Those who were friends of the Duke of Norfolk sought the first opportunity of making their way to his apartments.
They warned him that he was in mortal danger. Someone had betrayed to Elizabeth his intentions toward the Queen of Scots, and Elizabeth’s remark was almost certainly directed toward him.
Norfolk, always on the alert for danger, was far from the Court before that day was over.
ELIZABETH SUMMONED the Earl of Huntingdon to her presence.
“I am sending armed guards to Wingfield Manor,” she told him. “I consider it an unsuitable residence for the Queen of Scots. You will go to Tutbury Castle whither the Queen is being removed. Shrewsbury and his Countess will be with you there. You will keep a watch on them also. There has been too much intrigue. See that there is no repetition of such happenings at Tutbury.”
Huntingdon assured her that he would leave without delay and that her orders should be carried out.
So Huntingdon set out for Tutbury, while the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury left Buxton for the same destination.
VIII
Return to Tutbury
MARY WAS WORKING AT HER TAPESTRY at Wingfield Manor, with her ladies about her, when Lesley’s letter was brought to her. She read it and, noticing her pallor, Seton rose from her work to come to her side.
“Leicester has betrayed to Elizabeth that there is a contract between myself and the Duke, who has left Court with all speed. The Queen has hinted that my friends are in danger.”
“That means . . . ” began Seton and stopped.
“It seems so foolish,” cried Mary impetuously. “Why should Elizabeth object to my marriage with an English nobleman?”
“Perhaps,” suggested Seton, “it was unwise to keep the matter secret from her.”
“Lesley advises me to burn all the letters I have received from the Duke, together with any secret documents I may have in the apartment. He feels sure that a search will be made and that if anything which they can call treasonable is found it will give them the excuse they need.”
Seton said: “I do not think there is a moment to lose.”
Mary nodded, and she and Seton with the rest of the ladies left their tapestry. Mary then went to her table and unlocking a drawer took out certain documents which she threw into the fire.
“Is there anything else?” asked Seton anxiously.
Mary was searching through the boxes in which the few clothes she possessed were kept. She sent her ladies to their own chambers, instructing them to bring out any single thing that could be called incriminating.
The documents were still smoldering in the grate when there was a knock on her door and Hereford entered.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “you are to prepare to leave for Tutbury without delay.”
“Tutbury!” Mary’s voice rose in shrill protest.
“Those are the orders of Her Majesty, the Queen.”
“Oh, not Tutbury. Not that evil-smelling place!”
Hereford answered: “We shall be leaving within the hour.”
“But that is impossible. I am not prepared.”
“Have no fear on that account,” answered Hereford, grimly. “I and my guards will put your possessions together, and the Queen’s orders are that there must not be even an hour’s delay.”
His eyes had gone to the smoldering pile in the grate and he understood. He was too late to find that which he had hoped to send to the Queen. But perhaps there was something left.
Mary gasped with indignation to see his guards already coming into the apartment.
“But this is monstrous! Am I to enjoy no privacy?”
“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon, but I am obeying the orders of my mistress, the Queen of England.”
It was no use pleading.
Within the hour Mary and her suite, in the company of Hereford and his armed guard, had left Wingfield Manor for Tutbury. Hereford was disappointed. He had come to her apartments just too late to seize the documents which he knew must be there. All he had to send to Elizabeth was the cipher she had used in her correspondence with Norfolk. Still, that might prove of some use.
THROUGH THE GOLDEN September day they traveled.
When Mary saw the fortress on the red sandstone rock and the marshy lands surrounding it, her spirits drooped.
Her whole mind and body called out a protest: Not Tutbury!
As soon as she entered her old apartments that evil smell assaulted her nostrils, bringing with it memories of sickness.
How could she endure those bleak rooms, one above the other, connected by that cold stone staircase?
Tutbury seemed to her a place without hope.
She was anxious on account of one of her women—Margaret Cawood, wife of Bastian, who had been married at the time of Darnley’s murder—for Margaret was pregnant, and Mary was wondering how she would fare in the cold of Tutbury during the winter months which lay ahead.
There was more to concern her than a cold and uncomfortable house. Hereford was handing her over to the Earl of Huntingdon who, he explained, was to take the place of the Shrewsburys as her keeper.
Mary was aghast at Elizabeth’s choice, and she thought there was some sinister meaning behind it, for Henry Hastings, Earl of Huntingdon, the son of Catherine Pole and therefore a descendant of the Duke of Clarence, had royal connections and a remote claim to the throne.
Such a claim might have made him extremely unpopular with Elizabeth, and she was naturally watchful of him; but she knew that he would be more eager than most people in her realm to prevent a marriage between Mary and Norfolk, that he would be very anxious to incriminate the Queen of Scots if it were possible to do so—and therefore she considered him highly qualified to have charge of Mary at this stage.
He received the Queen respectfully but coolly, and as she was conducted to those well remembered and much loathed apartments she felt that the walls of Tutbury were closing about her forever.
MARY STOOD BENEATH the vaulted ceiling and covered her face with her hands to shut out the sight of the place.