“And I have a mission for you.”
She saw the pleasure leap into his eyes.
“A dangerous mission,” she went on, “but I trust you to complete it.”
“Oh ay,” said Willie.
“You are going to France, taking letters from me to George and my uncles.”
Willie’s eyes sparkled.
“First it will be necessary for you to obtain a safe conduct from London. So you must make your way there. Send word to me through the Bishop of Ross when you have received it. Then I shall know that you will shortly be in France. And I shall wish to hear from you and George that you are together.”
“And am I to bring back letters to Your Majesty?”
“We shall see. First go to George. He will give you your instructions.”
“We’ll get an army together,” cried Willie. “Ye’ll see. We’ll come and win England from the redheaded bastard and give it to Your Majesty.”
“Hush, Willie. And pray do not speak of a royal person in such a manner in my hearing.”
“No, Your Majesty, but that won’t alter my thoughts. When do I start?”
“I leave it to you, Willie.”
She knew it would be soon. She saw the desire for action in his face.
He left next day. She watched him set out, and she felt very sad.
“Yet another friend has gone,” she said to Seton.
“If it saddens Your Majesty to lose him, why let him go?”
“I think of his future, Seton. What future is there for any of us . . . in this prison?”
“But we shall be back in Scotland one day.”
“Do you think so, Seton?” She sighed. “If you are right, the first thing I shall do is send for George and Willie and try to recompense them in some measure for all they did for me. In the meantime, I like to think of them . . . over there . . . making their way in the world. Because there must be one prisoner, that does not mean there have to be hundreds.”
Seton was silent, thinking: She is melancholy today. She is wondering what is happening at the Conference. Knollys’ depression affects her.
She looked out of the window and saw that the snow had begun to fall.
THIS WAS A SPECIAL DAY. Twenty-six years before, in the Palace of Linlithgow, a baby had been born. That baby was Mary, Queen of Scotland and the Isles.
Mary opened her eyes to see her women around her bed, all come to wish her a happy birthday; she embraced them one by one.
They had presents for her which delighted her—little pieces of embroidery mostly, which they had managed to hide from her until this morning.
There were tears in her eyes as she cried: “The best gift you can give me is your presence here.”
But it was a birthday, even though it must be spent far from home in a castle which was a prison. For today, thought Mary, she would forget everything else but the fact that this was her birthday. They would be merry.
They would have a feast. Was that possible? She was sure her cook could contrive something; they would invite everyone in the castle. They would all wear their best gowns and, although she had no jewels to wear, Seton should dress her hair as she never had before. They would dance to the music of the lute, and they would forget that they were in Bolton and imagine they were dancing in those apartments which in Holyrood House had been known as Little France.
So the happy day progressed. It was too cold to go out, and a great fire was built up to warm the apartments. Everyone in the castle was eager to celebrate the birthday, and there was an air of excitement from the cellars to the turrets.
Seton dressed her mistress’s hair by the light of candles, and the face which looked back at Mary from the burnished metal mirror seemed as young and carefree as it had before the days of her captivity had begun.
It was her duty, Mary told herself, to throw off gloom, to forget her exile from her own country, that little Jamie was being kept from her, that in London a Conference was being held and perhaps the most evil charges were being brought against her.
The meal was prepared; she heard the laughing voices of her servants as they scurried to and fro; she smelled the savory smells of cooking meats.
And when the table was set in her apartments the whole household assembled there, and she received them like a Queen in her own Palace.
She sat at the center of the table and Knollys insisted on handing her her napkin; Lord Scrope and Margaret looked on with pleasure.
Margaret was getting uncomfortably near her time, and her husband was anxious that she should not tire herself, but she declared she was happy to be there; and when the meal was over, she sat with the lute players and watched the Queen lead the others in the dance.
Mary, flushed with the dancing, her chestnut hair a little ruffled with the exertion, seemed like a very young girl in her excitement.
Knollys watching her thought: How easy it is for her to forget. She was meant to be joyous. When will this weary business end?
It was while they were dancing that messengers from Elizabeth, delayed until now by the bad weather, arrived bringing letters for the jailors of the Queen of Scotland.
Knollys and Scrope went down to receive them. Knollys was startled when he read the letter which was addressed to him; he could only read it again, hoping he had been mistaken.
Elizabeth was displeased with Mary’s jailors. They had shown too much leniency toward their prisoner; and had indulged in schemes for her marriage. Elizabeth therefore proposed to deprive them of their duties, and they were to prepare to conduct the Queen of Scots to Tutbury Castle, where the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury would be her new keepers.
“Tutbury!” he murmured. And he thought of that bleak Staffordshire castle which was one of the most comfortless places he had ever seen, lacking the chimney tunnels which were a feature of Bolton Castle and which had helped so much to make the large apartments bearable during this bitterly cold weather.
Knollys was filled with pity for the Queen of Scots who was so surely at the mercy of the Queen of England; he was even sorrier for himself. He had offended Elizabeth, and who could know where that would end! How could he have guessed that she would have taken such a view of his attempt to marry his nephew to Mary? George Carey was a kinsman of hers, and she had always favored her relations—particularly those on her mother’s side, for those on her father’s might imagine they had more right to the throne than she had.
There was a postscript to the letter. He was not to leave Bolton until he did so with the Queen of Scots. It would be his duty to conduct her to Tutbury and place her in the hands of the Shrewsburys.
He thought of Catherine, his wife, who was so sick and asking for him.
He let the letter drop from his hands and sat staring ahead of him; then he noticed that Scrope was as agitated as he was himself.
He tried to thrust aside his personal grief and said: “But Tutbury . . . in this weather! We could not travel there while the blizzards last. It is too dangerous.”
“Tutbury . . . ” said Scrope as though repeating a lesson.
“Yes, I suppose she tells you what she tells me . . . that we are to be relieved of this task, and that it is to be handed to the Shrewsburys?”
“Yes,” said Scrope as though dazed, “she tells me that. But . . . how can I move her? How could she go now?”
“We shall have to wait until the weather has improved a little,” said Knollys. “She will be reluctant. Remember how difficult it was to remove her from Carlisle.”
“I was thinking of Margaret . . . .”
“Margaret!”
Scrope tapped Elizabeth’s letter. “The Queen orders that Margaret is to leave Bolton without delay. She expects to hear that she has gone before Christmas.”
“But in her condition!”