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“What’s this I hear about the Queen of Scots and Shrewsbury?” the Queen demanded.
“It is a rumor, Your Majesty, spread by their enemies.”
“Poof!” Elizabeth’s gaze did not leave the Countess’s face. “Your trouble is over these estates which you are trying to get for Cavendish’s children. You don’t believe these rumors, do you?”
Bess lowered her gaze and tried to look troubled.
“It’s nonsense,” thundered Elizabeth. “You are too clever not to have seen at once if any such thing was going on under your roof. I refuse to believe anything but that. And what is more, I shall write to Shrewsbury and tell him so.”
Bess was relieved yet disappointed. But she would not return to Sheffield. She went back to Chatsworth and Elizabeth wrote to Shrewsbury quoting what she had said to Bess.
It was her way of telling Shrewsbury he was to remain at his post despite scandals.
FROM CHATSWORTH Bess pursued her plans with her usual energy, and so widespread were the scandals concerning Shrewsbury and the Queen of Scots, and such appealing letters did Elizabeth receive from the latter, that she was at last convinced that she must remove Mary from Shrewsbury’s care.
She had heard that Mary’s health had deteriorated rapidly since she bore the additional burden of this scandal, and she gave permission for her to visit Buxton.
Mary’s sojourn at the Spa had its usual beneficial effect and when she had returned to Sheffield Castle Elizabeth wrote to Shrewsbury telling him that she had at last decided to relieve him of his duties.
She was appointing in his place three gentlemen—Sir Ralph Sadler, Sir Henry Mildmay and Mr. Somers.
Shrewsbury received the news with mixed feelings. It was impossible, he knew, for him to continue as the Queen’s guardian when such rumors were rife. It was fifteen years since Mary had come under his charge, and the relationship between them had grown cordial. They understood each other, and parting in such circumstances must necessarily be painful.
He decided that he would not break the news to her at once, for he knew that she did not like Sadler, and would be distressed at the thought of a new jailor of any kind.
He came to her apartments and told her that he had news.
“I am to go to Court,” he said, “where I shall endeavor to plead your cause with Her Majesty.”
Mary impulsively held out both hands to him and he took them.
“I shall miss you when you are away,” she told him.
“Have no fear that I shall not do my best for you while I am there. In the circumstances . . . ”
Mary broke in: “My lord, what has happened has distressed us both, but you more; I am accustomed to insults. And you have lost your wife.”
Shrewsbury said bitterly: “It was no great loss, I come to believe, Your Majesty.”
“It is always sad that there should be such quarrels. I begin to think that not only am I cursed but that I bring bad luck to all around me.”
“Your Majesty should be of good cheer. I doubt not that you will now have a new lodging.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. Sir Ralph Sadler, who will be with you during my absence, thinks that you should stay at Wingfield Manor, while some other lodging is made ready for you.”
“So it is Sadler!” She smiled ruefully. “I shall pray that you soon return. It will be strange to leave Sheffield after so long.”
“I sincerely hope that you will find a lodging more to your liking.”
“You might ask the Queen if I could lodge at Low Buxton. I verily believe that if I could do so I should quickly regain my health.”
He looked at her sadly. He felt it was wrong to deceive her, yet he could not tell her yet that he was in fact saying goodbye.
XVI
Tutbury Once More
THE CORTÈGE MADE ITS WAY SLOWLY along the rough roads. It would not reach its destination before nightfall, but there was not one member of the party who was eager to reach Tutbury Castle.
Seton, riding beside her mistress, noticed a certain alertness in her face. Mary was always mildly excited at the prospect of moving. Did she still dream that a band of gallant friends would waylay the party and free her at last from the captivity of years? Seton believed that she did; that in spite of encroaching age and even more unwelcome infirmity, Mary would always hope for what now seemed the impossible.
Seton moved painfully in the saddle. She was even more crippled with rheumatism than her mistress. But how could one live for years in drafty castles, never being allowed to take enough fresh air, without becoming infirm? They should be thankful perhaps that they were as healthy as they were.
The last months had not been easy, and in desperation Mary had sent Jacques Nau to London to plead with Elizabeth for her liberty. The seeds of scandal which Seton was sure had been scattered by the revengeful Bess of Hardwick, had taken root here and in France and Spain. Mary tried to vindicate herself in Elizabeth’s eyes by suggesting that none was safe from Bess’s evil tongue and hinting at the scandals the Countess had whispered to her concerning Elizabeth; but no sooner had she done this than she regretted it. Elizabeth, however, wisely chose to ignore both Mary’s hints and Bess’s gossip.
Was there no end, Mary asked herself, to the tribulations she must endure? And now that she had new jailors in place of the Shrewsburys, Mary was learning how free she had been in the charge of the Earl.
Seton could not help feeling a certain satisfaction because Sir Ralph Sadler had suffered from the rigors of the Queen’s prison and had found Wingfield and Sheffield so bad for his health, that in a few months he had become almost crippled with rheumatism and was restive to be released from his duty.
“Poor Sir Ralph,” Seton whispered to the Queen, “he at least suffers with his limbs as we do.”
Mary turned to look at her friend and in the harsh light noticed how worn her face was . . . worn with pain, anxiety and frustration. Poor Seton, thought Mary. When I look at her it is as though I look into a mirror. My pain and anxieties are marked on my face even as hers are. If she could have married Andrew; if she could have been the mother of healthy children . . . But what was the use of entertaining such thoughts? They were two women, unlucky in love; doomed, it seemed, to be prisoners for the rest of their lives.
So must it be for her. But it need not be so for Seton.
Mary said: “Seton, I shudder to think of Tutbury. Of all my prisons that is the worst.”
“It will be better when the spring comes . . . .”
“And the smell grows stronger . . . .” murmured the Queen. She turned almost angrily to Seton. “I must endure this life, Seton. But why should you?”
Seton sighed. “Because, as I have told you before, my place is at your side.”
“Nay, Seton. You should go away while there is time.”
“And leave you!”
“I never had patience with those who suffered u
“It is only if I were separated from you that I should suffer.”
“Look at your hands. Your knuckles are enlarged with rheumatism. Do you think I ca
“Ah, if we could both go . . . ”
“Let us indulge ourselves, Seton. Let us think about it.”
They were silent, thinking of those early days when they had ridden lightheartedly in the chase, when they were young and their days were carefree.
“There is no reason why you should not go, Seton,” whispered the Queen. “I could arrange for you to go into a convent with my aunt Renée. She would receive you with pleasure, knowing you to be my dearest friend. Dear Seton, go, while you can still walk.”