Deeply disturbed Mary wrote at once to the Bishop asking him to have inquiries made concerning Willie, and a week later she heard from him again. Willie had been seen in London; he had received a passport in the Queen’s name and from that day had been seen no more. Inquiries had been made at his lodgings; but he had not returned to them; his landlord was indignant because Willie had left owing money.
The Bishop wrote that Willie’s landlord had been paid and that further inquiries were being made.
Now Mary was really uneasy, feeling certain that some calamity had befallen Willie. It was known that he had been shrewd enough to make possible her escape from Lochleven; did this mean that someone believed he was too sharp a boy to be allowed to go about on the Queen’s business?
Elizabeth had written letters expressing her displeasure to Scrope and Knollys. She had given orders that the Queen of Scots was to be removed to Tutbury, and she could not understand why there should be this delay. Knollys wrote back that the delay had been due to the bad condition of the roads and the fact that there were no horses.
Elizabeth’s retort was that horses must be borrowed from neighbors and the journey made as soon as the roads were sufficiently cleared to make the journey possible. She added that she was well informed as to the state of the roads and was not pleased with dilatory servants.
“There can be no more delay,” said Knollys to Scrope. “We shall have to set out.”
Scrope was as unhappy as Knollys; he was hoping that his child would be born before they must leave for Tutbury; but both men agreed that preparations must go ahead. The two of them were so much out of favor that, if they offended their Queen further, they might be in serious trouble.
Scrope’s troubles lightened a little during the next days, for his wife was delivered safely of a son. Knollys was less fortunate.
When news came to the castle that his wife had died, asking for him, he shut himself in his own chamber and remained there for some days. He no longer cared what happened to him; temporarily he hated Elizabeth who had prevented his being at his wife’s bedside, and he was afraid that if he spoke to anyone he would give such utterance to his wrath that he would be in danger of being named as a traitor.
When he emerged he was subdued, but there was a terrible bitterness in his face which Mary noticed and understood. All her sympathy was for him; and she felt: He is that callous woman’s prisoner, even as I am.
“My dear Sir Francis,” Mary said, “I would there were something I could do to comfort you.”
“Your Majesty is good,” he answered listlessly.
“At least you know she suffers no more.”
He turned away, his sorrow, choking him, prevented speech.
“Have you written to the Queen asking permission to go to her?” she asked gently.
“Of what use now?” he murmured.
“You will wish to bury her,” Mary told him.
He nodded.
Mary laid a hand on his arm. “Then write to her. There are others who can take me to Tutbury. She cannot refuse you this.”
“I will write to her,” he said. “I thank Your Majesty for your sympathy.”
He looked into that lovely face and saw that the long eyes were wet with tears; and he was so moved that he could only turn and stumble away.
ELIZABETH’S RETORT was sharp. Knollys’ duty would not end until the Scottish Queen was safely delivered into the hands of her new keepers at Tutbury, that mission which, to her amazement, had not yet been carried out.
Knollys could not believe that she had refused him this. But there was no mistaking her meaning.
“Ah well,” he murmured, “What does it matter now? What does anything matter?”
SETON AND MARY were together looking out onto the snowy landscape.
“There will not be many more nights when we shall look from these windows at that scene,” Mary was saying. “We shall miss it. It is very beautiful. Oh Seton, we are going farther into the heart of England. Each mile we go south means a mile farther from Scotland.”
Seton was silent. She had no comfort to offer. Like her mistress she was beginning to understand that the Queen of England was extremely capable in the art of double-dealing.
At last she said: “Perhaps it will be less of a fortress than this one.”
“I doubt not we shall be well guarded. And I am to lose Knollys and Scrope.”
“For the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury, who may become your true friends. Your Majesty has a way of finding friends.”
“Let us hope I find a friend who will help me to regain my kingdom. But they say that Tutbury is one of the bleakest castles in England.”
“We will do our best to make you comfortable; we have not done so badly here.”
While they talked, messengers arrived with letters from London.
Willie’s whereabouts remained a mystery. There was one, however, she was told, who might have more opportunity of discovering what had happened to him than Scotsmen who were treated with some suspicion in London, and that was the French ambassador, Bertrand de Salignac de la Mothe Fénelon. Mary’s friends in London had mentioned the matter to him, but if she herself wrote he might be inclined to double his efforts.
Mary said: “I will write at once. I cannot rest easily until I know what has become of Willie.”
IT WAS LATE FEBRUARY when Mary was preparing to leave Bolton Castle. The weather was bitterly cold and the roads only just negotiable. Progress would be very slow and uncomfortable, but Elizabeth was growing impatient and neither Scrope nor Knollys dared delay longer.
While the last preparations were being made, a note from the French ambassador was brought to Mary, and when she read it she grew pale and called to Seton.
“Is it Willie?” asked Seton.
Mary nodded.
“They have not . . . ”
Mary smiled. “Oh no . . . He is alive. But he is in prison in the North of England. He must have been arrested as soon as he acquired his passport.”
“And all this time he has been a prisoner. What will become of poor Willie?”
“He will be freed. I shall insist on it. I shall not rest until he is free. What has he done but be a loyal subject to his Queen!”
“You think that something can be arranged?”
“Yes, through Fénelon. Elizabeth will not wish the French to know that she is clapping my supporters into jail simply because they are my supporters. I shall not rest, I tell you, until Willie is free.”
“And then?”
“And then,” said Mary firmly, “he shall remain with me until it is safe for him to join George in France. I shall write at once to Fénelon. He must do this for me.”
Mary sat down at her table and wrote an impassioned appeal which she knew would not fail to move the heart of the King of France. She reminded him of those long ago days and how happy they had all been together. Now she asked his help because his ambassador could more easily than any other friend of hers obtain the release of one of her most faithful servants. She implored Charles to help in this instance. The release of Willie Douglas—her savior of Lochleven—was the greatest boon she could ask of him; and she knew he would instruct his ambassador that this was a task in which he must not fail.
She sealed the letter and dispatched it; then she wrote another to de la Mothe Fénelon.
There was nothing more she could do but continue with her preparations for departure.
THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND was pleased with the outcome of the Conference. Nothing had been clearly defined—which was what she had hoped for—but Mary’s character had been completely blackened; Elizabeth herself had declared that she could not, without manifest blemish of her own honor, receive her into her presence. The ruling had been that nothing had been proved against Moray and his supporters that might impair their allegiance and honor; and nothing had been sufficiently proved against the Queen of Scots.