The Captive Queen of Scots

She took one fleeting look at him as she hurried away.

The Earl went down to the hall, where his wife was already waiting to greet the Queen of Scots.

MARY FELT DESPONDENT as she rode nearer to Tutbury. It had been a tiresome and tedious journey, eight days having elapsed since she left Bolton. It had not however been an uneventful journey. Lady Livingstone, who had been ill before they started, became worse as they traveled over those ice-bound roads; as for Mary herself, she found that her limbs were stiff with the cold, and when she tried to move them felt excruciating pain.

They had spent the first night at Ripon and, because Mary and Lady Livingstone were so ill, it was impossible to leave the next day. Knollys and Scrope, believing that if they delayed longer Elizabeth would accuse them of deliberately prolonging the journey they had obviously been reluctant to undertake, assured Mary that they could give her no more than a day in which to rest.

But there was a whole day’s respite and this Mary spent in the room which had been provided for her, writing letters; and during the second night she lay at Ripon she listened to the howling wind and dreaded the resumption of the journey on the next day.

As the cavalcade traveled from Ripon to Wetherby, Mary was startled by a beggar who thrust his way to her litter and began begging for alms.

Knollys and Scrope were frowning and the guards made to drag the man away, but Mary would not have this. She said: “Heaven knows how we suffer, yet we do enjoy a modicum of comfort. I pity those who are homeless on days such as this.”

She turned to the man. “My good man,” she said, “I have little to offer you, but I would it were more.” As she took a coin from her purse the beggar put his head close to hers and whispered in a voice which was so unlike that of the whining beggar that Mary almost showed how startled she was: “Your Majesty, I am here on the orders of my Lord of Northumberland. He bid you be of good cheer. He wishes me to tell you that he will be in touch with you at Tutbury. He has plans . . . and men of influence are ready to stand with him.”

Mary’s spirits could always be raised by incidents such as this; unostentatiously she took a gold enameled ring from her finger and pressed it into the man’s hand, with the words: “Take this to your master. Say that I look to him to keep his promise.”

Northumberland’s messenger moved away from the litter and for the rest of that day Mary was scarcely aware of her discomforts, telling herself that because she had noble and influential friends in England, as well as Scotland, she could not long remain a prisoner.

But later when they arrived at Pontefract Castle, where they were to spend the night, even the memory of Northumberland’s message could not prevent the depression which descended on Mary as she entered that place of tragedy; and as she looked at the tall walls flanked by the seven towers, at the deep moat, the barbican and drawbridge, she could not help shivering at the thought of Richard II.

“Oh, Seton,” she said, when they were lodged in the apartment which had been put at their disposal, “I would not wish to dwell long in this place. I would rather face those bitter winds than live within these walls.”

“Your Majesty should be careful not to betray your revulsion; otherwise . . . ”

Mary finished for her: “My good cousin and dear sister might seek to make me her prisoner here. Yes, you’re right, Seton. I will take care.”

It was a restless night that was spent within those walls. Mary dreamed that she was a prisoner in the terrible dungeons to which, she had heard, there was no entrance except through a trapdoor above them, and from which escape was impossible.

Escape! Her mind was forever occupied with the thought of it. And that night it was as though the ghost of Richard II, who had met his mysterious and bloody death within these walls, came to her and warned her to escape from this prison—and any prison in which it might please the English Queen to incarcerate her.

How relieved she was to set out on her journey again; but depression descended on her when, at Rotherham, Lady Livingstone’s malady increased and all agreed that she was unfit to proceed; but as both Knollys and Scrope agreed that they dared not delay longer, Lady Livingstone was left behind while the rest of the party went on.

Mary’s head was aching, her limbs stiff and painful; but she was able to travel, and that was enough.

Her thoughts were with her dear friend Lady Livingstone, as she traveled on and spent the following night at a mansion near Chesterfield. This was a pleasant experience following on the stay at Pontefract, for here was a comparatively simple country house, presided over by a kindly hostess, Lady Constance Foljambe, who was determined to make the Queen of Scots as comfortable as possible.

The next morning, when Mary said goodbye to Lady Foljambe, she thanked her warmly for her hospitality and said how she would have liked to linger as her guest.

“Our house is always at Your Majesty’s disposal,” Lady Constance told her; and there was compassion in her expression. She knew what the Queen would find at Tutbury.

MARY SAW THE CASTLE in the distance. Set on a ridge of red sandstone rock, it was impressive, and she could see that it would be almost impregnable, for surrounded by a broad and very deep ditch, it was a natural fortress. She was shivering, not only with the cold, as she drew nearer.

The party crossed the drawbridge; this was the only means of entering the castle and Mary noticed that the artillery in the gateway towers would make escape difficult.

That set her thoughts on Willie Douglas, and she wondered where he was now, and if he would ever be with her in Tutbury. If he were, she could be sure that he would begin to plan her escape.

The Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury were waiting to receive her. She noticed with relief that the Earl had a kindly face and that he was a little embarrassed to receive her as his prisoner. He was a man of some forty years. And there was his wife. Mary was not sure of the Countess whom she judged to be some ten years older than her husband, a woman who was undoubtedly handsome; but there was a severe aspect in her features which was faintly disturbing. As they came forward to make their bows and curtsies it occurred to Mary that the Countess was not quite the kind of woman to whom she would have looked for friendship.

“I trust Your Majesty will be comfortable at Tutbury,” said the Earl, almost apologetically.

“We shall see that Your Majesty is comfortable at Tutbury,” the Countess quickly affirmed.

“I thank you both. It has been a long and weary journey, and I am very tired.”

“Then allow me to conduct you to your apartments,” said the Countess. “There you may rest for a while, and I could have food sent to your chamber.”

“That is kind and would please me,” answered Mary.

The Countess went with Mary up the cold stone staircase.

There were two rooms allotted to Mary, one above the other, and these were co

In the lower chamber Mary looked about her with distaste. She noticed the cracked, damp walls and she could already feel how very cold the place was.

“Perhaps Your Majesty would prefer the upper room,” said the Countess briskly; and they mounted the staircase.

Mary saw the vaulted ceiling with the damp patches and the moisture trickling down the walls; she could feel the icy wind blowing through the ill-fitting casement and door. She went to one of the two small windows cut out of the thick walls and looked out over the bleak and snowy countryside.

Suddenly she wrinkled her nose distastefully. “What is that I smell?” she asked.