The Captive Queen of Scots

Leicester was thinking the same. He admired Elizabeth beyond anyone else on earth. He had good reason to respect her shrewd brain. He would be beside her while she lived; but if she were to die suddenly—a fate which could overtake any—and there was a new ruler on the throne, that ruler could well be the Queen of Scots.

He wished to ingratiate himself with Mary while he worked for Elizabeth. If he could find evidence to bring Mary to the block, he would do so. But if he could not, and if she must live, he wanted her to think of him as her friend. Thus he determined to make sure of a place in the sun in either camp.

“Robert,” cried Elizabeth, “you must go to Buxton. You need those baths. I will give Mary permission to return to Buxton to continue with her cure. I will also write to the Shrewsburys, telling them to expect you, for if you are to spy on Mary you will need to be under the same roof. There! Then you shall come and tell me if all the reports of her beauty are true. I shall want exact details of how she looks and what she wears.”

Robert smiled. He was already composing the compliments he would pay Elizabeth when he returned from his visit to Mary.

When he had left her, Elizabeth wrote to the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury. They must treat the Earl of Leicester as they would treat her, for all that was done to him was done to herself. “He is another ourself,” she wrote indulgently.

There were still times when she could be indiscreet through love of Leicester.

IT WAS GRATIFYING to be back at Low Buxton. For the first few days Mary indulged in the pleasure which she found in this place; her health improved and there was gaiety in her apartments. She did wonder at the capricious behavior of Elizabeth in whisking her away and then allowing her to return.

Then Bess broke the news that Leicester was coming to Low Buxton.

“He has to take the waters on account of his health,” she said. “It seems strange to me that he should pay his visit while Your Majesty is here. You will have a chance of assessing the charm of this man who, rumor has it, has fathered several children on the Queen.”

Mary looked startled but Bess went on: “Oh, there is none to hear me. And if such a rumor were repeated, Elizabeth would never dare accuse me of uttering it. Such matters are best kept dark.”

“She could take her revenge by accusing you of something else.”

Bess snapped her fingers. She had changed since her stay in the Tower. Her dignity had certainly been ruffled; and there was one other event which had increased her pride; that was the birth of her granddaughter, Arabella Stuart, to Elizabeth and Charles whose marriage had been the cause of her imprisonment. Bess had a granddaughter—her own flesh and blood—who was in the line of succession to the throne; it was something she could not forget. Her Arabella, she thought, though she was wise enough not to give voice to this thought, was more royal than Queen Elizabeth, for the child was undoubtedly legitimate; and could Henry VIII’s marriage to Elizabeth’s mother, A

So, in the presence of Mary, she could snap her fingers at Elizabeth, and she had no compunction in recalling all the scandalous gossip she had ever heard about her.

Leicester arrived in due course at Low Buxton, and on the orders of Elizabeth the Shrewsburys treated him with the respect due to royalty.

When he was brought to Mary, they assessed each other, and Mary was immediately aware of the charm which Elizabeth had found so potent, though it had no effect on her. She was certain that Leicester was an enemy. As for Leicester, he was struck by the beauty of Mary and wistfully thought how pleasant it would have been if the attempt to marry her had been successful.

Mary was pale and often moved with difficulty; the years of imprisonment in comfortless castles had robbed her of her youth, yet her beauty was indestructible. The contours of her face were perfect, although the flesh had fallen away from the bones; the long eyes were lovely although there were shadows beneath them; and all her movements were graceful in spite of rheumatism.

There is still time, thought Leicester, to take her away and restore her to that glowing beauty which must once have been hers.

He would tell Elizabeth of the shadows under her eyes, of her loss of flesh, of her rheumatism. That would please the jealous creature and do him no harm.

Meanwhile he sought to charm the Queen of Scots. This was not so easy as charming Elizabeth. There had been too many to love this woman, not for her crown but for herself. She lacked Elizabeth’s political shrewdness certainly, but she had learned not deliberately to blind herself to the motives of men who came to court her.

He talked often with her, during the stay at Low Buxton, but she was always aloof. He tried to discover how firm was the basis of those rumors which said Don Jon of Austria was to be her husband. He implied that he was ready to work in her cause. But she did not trust him. She played a skillful game of prevarication with him which angered him, and he decided that he could do no good by lingering at Low Buxton.

He curtailed his visit, declaring that the baths were less beneficial than he had hoped, and he went away angry, but not before he had had a private talk with the Earl.

The health of the Queen of Scots was clearly not good, he said. Queen Elizabeth would be disturbed when she heard of this and he was going to ask that a certain physician be sent who he was sure would quickly cure Mary of her ills.

Shrewsbury thanked the Earl for his kindness and trusted he would take a good report to Elizabeth of the hospitality he had received at Low Buxton.

“Have no fear,” Leicester told him. “You could not have made a guest more welcome if that guest had been Elizabeth herself.”

So he left Buxton pondering. The Queen of Scots would not accept him as a friend. He knew what sort of physician he would send to her.

MARY HAD RETURNED with the Shrewsburys and her little court and guards to Sheffield when Leicester’s physician arrived.

Bess and her husband were apprehensive when they discovered that he was an Italian named Julio Borgarucci.

Bess took him to the apartment which had been prepared for him and then hurried to the Earl.

“Are you thinking the same as I am?” she asked.

“An Italian!” murmured the Earl. “We know what they are noted for.”

“I fancy I have heard of this man. He is not so much a physician as a professional poisoner.”

“Do you think he comes on the command of the Queen?”

“Who knows? Leicester is one of those who believe they can act first and ask the Queen’s permission afterward.”

“I’ll not have my prisoner poisoned under my roof.”

“Ah, Shrewsbury, you are truly vehement for once! But I had forgotten—she is more than your prisoner, is she not?”

“She is the Queen of Scotland.”

“Your beloved Queen of Scotland! You must protect her at all costs . . . against Leicester’s Italian . . . against Elizabeth herself, if this man comes by her command.”

“I believe, my dear Bess, that you feel in this ma

Bess nodded; but she was not so sure. She kept thinking of her granddaughter, little Arabella Stuart. Since the birth of this child, Bess could not stop thinking of the bright possibility of her wearing the crown. The fewer to stand before her in the line of succession the better; consequently Bess had felt less kindly toward the Queen of Scots since the birth of Arabella. Not that she showed this; not that she entirely admitted the fact to herself; but it was there . . . lurking at the back of her mind, and the advent of Julio Borgarucci to Sheffield could only renew it.