The Captive Queen of Scots, стр. 73

Now that she was settled, Huntingdon again took up the matter of her servants, to which Mary was intensely hostile. She would not part with any one of her friends, she cried. “Is it not enough for you,” she demanded, “that I am kept a prisoner here, that I am not allowed to see my sister and cousin, Elizabeth, that I am treated as though I am a criminal? I will not allow you, my lord Huntingdon, to part me from one of my friends.”

Huntingdon tried to soothe her. “You must not regard me as your enemy,” he insisted:

“When you show yourself to me as my friend I will not,” was her answer.

“I will show you that I am your friend,” Huntingdon promised her, “and that soon.”

Mary did not take his words seriously and was as suspicious of him as ever.

IT WAS A LIFE of rigorous imprisonment that she was forced to live in Coventry. She was not allowed to walk out in the open air, and she pined for it. The time was passing and when she looked back she grew frantic to realize that she was more Elizabeth’s prisoner now than she had been when she had first come to England.

“I should never have come south,” she told Seton frequently. “I should never have put my trust in Elizabeth.”

During those days of late November news came of the rebels. They had acted rashly, for although they had enjoyed initial success, it was clear that they could not hold out for long against the English.

“How I wish they had never attempted this!” cried Mary. “They will bring nothing but misery to themselves and others.”

The fear that the rebels would march on Coventry and fight for the possession of the Queen’s person was each day growing more and more remote; but this did not mean a relaxation of the rigorous rules.

The Shrewsburys were as anxious that she should not escape as Huntingdon was, and although Bess remained friendly she was watchful, and it would not have been easy for any letter to have passed her scrutiny on its way to Mary.

It was a surprise one day when Huntingdon came to the Queen’s apartment and told her he wished to talk privately with her. Mary sent her friends away, and when they were alone he said: “I bring a message from my brother-in-law, the Earl of Leicester, who sends his greetings to you and wishes me to tell you how much he deplores the manner in which you are being treated.”

“I would he would speak to his mistress on my behalf. I understand that she has a special regard for him.”

“He has worked continually for your comfort.”

“Then I should have expected better results from one who enjoys such favor with his Queen.”

Huntingdon smiled almost slyly. “The Queen, having such regard for my brother-in-law, might not be pleased to hear of his devotion to Your Majesty.”

“Tell me more of this . . . devotion.”

“The Earl of Leicester bids me tell you that, if you will break your engagement to Norfolk and take him instead, he will use all his powers to bring about your release and restore to you that which is yours by right.”

“You cannot mean that the Earl of Leicester wishes to be my husband!”

“That is what I do mean. What is your answer?”

“I am affianced to Norfolk.”

“Who can do you little good, being in the Tower.”

“I was not speaking of what good could come to me, my lord, but of my engagement to His Grace.”

“Your Majesty should consider this matter.”

“I do not need to consider. Until my engagement to Norfolk is broken I could not contemplate entering into another.”

Huntingdon bowed and took his leave.

MARY CALLED SETON and Andrew Beaton to her and told them what Huntingdon had suggested.

“Why,” said Andrew, “it is clear what is happening. Elizabeth is going through a pretense of taking the Duke of Anjou for a husband. Leicester is piqued and wishes to show her that he can play the same game.”

“Then,” said Mary, “I was right to treat this offer with little seriousness.”

“Perhaps,” put in Seton quietly, “it would have been well not to have made a definite refusal. It may have been that Leicester could have done you some good.”

“Oh, Seton, nothing can come right when no one person trusts another. Let us be straightforward and act honorably. I am betrothed to Norfolk, and while that betrothal exists I cannot enter into the same state with another man.”

Seton spread her hands helplessly. “We are surrounded by people who play these double games. And we try to be honorable! Is that why we are hustled from one prison to another?”

Mary looked at her friend reproachfully. “Perhaps, Seton,” she said. “But I would not wish to betray those who have befriended me, even if by so doing I could win my freedom.”

“This is a desperate game and we are playing it with rogues,” insisted Seton.

Mary was firm. “I must find some means of writing to Norfolk,” she said; “he will be sad and lonely in his prison.”

IT WAS AGAIN HER BIRTHDAY, this time to be spent in St. Mary’s Hall at Coventry. It seemed incredible that it was only a year ago when she had celebrated her last birthday. So much had happened since, and yet so little. “I was a prisoner then,” mourned Mary; “I am a prisoner still.”

She would have no attempt made to celebrate the occasion.

“I have lived twenty-seven years,” she told Seton, “and I fear I grow old. Where shall I spend my twenty-eighth birthday, I wonder? Christmas will soon be with us and then another year will begin. I cannot believe that Elizabeth has kept me so long her prisoner.”

There came bad news of the Northern rebel. Sussex was in pursuit of them. Mary wept when she heard that Northumberland, who seemed like an old friend to her, had fled with Westmorland into Scotland. Elizabeth’s avenging army however, robbed of the leaders, did not hesitate to avenge themselves on their followers, and gibbets with their hideous burdens were now a feature of the northern roads—a grim warning to any who thought to follow the example of the rebels.

Now that the insurrection had been put down, there was no need for Mary to remain in Coventry. Elizabeth sent word that she was to be taken back to Tutbury and, as there would perhaps be attempts to rescue her on the way, if there were any danger of these being successful, Mary was to be executed rather than allowed to escape.

Elizabeth, deeply disturbed by the northern rebellion, believed now that there would be no peace in her realm while Mary lived: she longed for her death, yet she had no wish to be known as the one who had given the order for it.

If Mary died suddenly in an English castle there would be many to connect Elizabeth with the event. No matter what evidence was produced, suspicion would always attach itself to Elizabeth.

A letter from John Knox, written to Cecil—which that good and faithful servant immediately brought to his mistress—gave Elizabeth an idea which she determined to study.

John Knox raged against the Queen of Scots, while he congratulated Cecil on the suppression of the northern rebellion.

“But,” he wrote, “if you strike not at the root, the branches which seemed to be broken will bud again.”

That was clear enough. The root was Mary, Queen of Scots.

Elizabeth could trust Moray to know what to do with his half-sister if she were returned to Scotland, because he longed for her death as much as Elizabeth did; he had usurped her kingdom; would he greatly care if he were known throughout the world as her murderer?

First let her return to Tutbury; then a scheme could be devised for returning her to her unscrupulous brother.

In January Mary left Coventry for Tutbury.

X

Tutbury Again

MORAY RECEIVED THE NEWS from England with the calm which was second nature to him. Mary was an encumbrance of which he longed to be rid. He bore her no personal malice; had she not been a menace to his own power he could have been fond of her in so far as he was capable of affection. He wanted to see Scotland prosperous and at peace, and how could that be when rebel factions were continually springing up and making themselves felt, to the detriment of Scotland and his own dire danger?