Carefully she lifted them out one by one and handed them to Mary Seton,
Lady Livingston, and Anthony Babington. "Come see!" she called to
Madame Rallay; the old woman put aside her sewing and shuffled over.
She could hardly stand straight now.
"Do you remember?" Mary asked softly. "These must be the
grandchildren of the dogs that roamed our chambers at Chambord and
Blois."
Madame Rallay, who was almost seventy now, smiled. "Oh, indeed. I
think I see a bit of Sleepy in them." Sleepy had been a lethargic but
prolific bitch. "It was kind of Charles to send them. Now the birds
will have company."
"My menagerie grows." Mary took the letter from the French ambassador
that had accompanied the puppies. She waited until she was at her desk
to open it. Letters were a source of power to her now her only power.
Sitting at her desk, scribbling letter after letter to anyone she could
think of the Pope, Philip, Charles, Catherine de Medicis, the
ambassadors, the Scottish Lords, Elizabeth, Cecil, Knollys she felt
less helpless and alone. The words, flowing off her, pen, felt mighty.
She did not want to imagine that once they left her hands they could be
disregarded or ignored.
The fine paper was a pleasure to open so much better than the mean
stuff she was forced to use. The French always had such beauty around
themselves. And the seal such a good quality of wax, brittle and
shiny. She unfolded the page with pleasure.
Her smile faded as she read the ambassador's words. She reread them
slowly.
"The French have abandoned me," she finally whispered, more to herself
than to anyone else.
"What is it?" asked Willie Douglas.
Wordlessly, she handed the letter to him.
"So the French have made a treaty with the English, in which you and
your rights are not even mentioned," he finally said.
"I have been discarded. My former country deems me and my troubles as
something they wish to slough off," she said in wonder.
The French. Her adopted country, the country of her mother, of her
favourite language, her sensibilities, her dress, her memories. Her
mother's kinsmen. All gone. No help from there.
She felt as though she had been kicked. France, her treasured past and
the place she had stated she wished to be buried, did not want her.
What if I had gone there instead of England? For four years I have
tormented myself with making the wrong decision, imagining that a safe
haven awaited me there, she thought. But no it is no safer than
England.
She began to weep stormily, putting her head down on her arms. Anthony
and Madame Rallay tried to comfort her, but the truth allowed her no
comfort. They left her in privacy.
In the outer chamber, Willie shook his head and murmured to Mary Seton,
"This is a heavy blow. She had always counted on France as a last
resort. This, on top of the betrayal and defamation of Bishop Leslie,
may break her spirit."
When Mary's eyes cleared, she reread the letter. Only then did she
note where the treaty had been signed: at the Chateau of Blois.
She laughed bitterly. She had always loved the octagonal staircase
there; she had dreamed of it often since leaving. Someday I will stand
on it again, she had vowed.
Shrewsbury returned from his duty of presiding over Norfolk's trial and
announced that owing to Elizabeth's extreme displeasure with her cousin
the Queen of Scots, she was to reduce her suite of attendants
immediately. She was to choose the ones to remain, and the rest must
depart from
Sheffield. Sorrowfully, Mary drew up the list. She could not be
without Mary Seton, or Willie, or her priest, or Madame Rallay, or
Bastian Pages and his wife, Margaret Carwood. Those serving her had
been Scots, French, and local English people. The orders were that she
should retain only sixteen of them.
Shrewsbury had returned in a weakened condition. Mary guessed that he
had been chided for allowing plots to flourish under his roof and not
providing strict enough guard over her. Bess now shot her venomous
looks, blaming her for her husband's condition. The sewing ceased.
But Mary's secret channel of correspondence had not been detected, and
she was able to continue writing letters. When she had first heard of
Norfolk's sentence, she had taken to her bed in grief and guilt. But
when his execution was halted by royal reprieve twice, she began to
wonder how Elizabeth thought. Why did she hesitate?
After Elizabeth's illness, another warrant was issued for Norfolk's
execution and again it was halted. Shrewsbury wordlessly gave Mary a
copy of Elizabeth's command.
Methinks that I am more beholden to the hinder part of my head than
will dare trust the forward side of the same, and therefore send the
lieutenant the order to defer this execution till they hear further.
The causes that move me to this are not now to be expressed, lest an
irrevocable deed be in the meanwhile committed. Your most loving
sovereign,
Elizabeth R. It was endorsed by Cecil "n April 1572, the Q. Majesty,
with her own hand, for staying of the execution of the D.N. Received at
2 in the morning."
Did this mean that Elizabeth was incapable of proceeding with an
execution? Mary suddenly realized this might be the case. And it
would not be surprising.
She was safe. Norfolk was safe. Nothing could touch them after all.
Elizabeth was an impotent victor.
Mary's spirits rose as spring came to Sheffield. Her rheumatism
improved with the warmer weather, and it was impossible not to respond
to the greening of the earth, the flowers that sprang up around all the
paths. There was talk of transferring to Sheffield Manor so that the
Castle could be cleaned. The manor, situated in the hunting park, was
a welcome summer abode. And security was looser there; it was more
difficult to guard.
Anthony had proved adept at smuggling out letters; people did not
suspect a boy, and one whose family had long been friends with the
Shrewsburys. He amused himself devising new codes, and experimenting
with hollowed-out corks and waterproof packets to be inserted in
bottles. One of his triumphs was suggesting that black paper could be
used to hide messages in a dark privy house; it was not a place where
people were apt to linger or look closely.
Mary gathered her skirts and took her private book hidden in a sewing
basket outside at Sheffield Manor to what she called the Bower. It was
a sitting area with lilacs surrounding it, and a turf bench. She
arranged her skirts and looked up at the tightly budded branches; the
lilacs would not be out for another fortnight. But when they bloomed,
what a fragrance!
At her feet the three puppies tumbled and played, happy to be outside.
She had named them Soulagement, Douleur, and Souci: comfort, sorrow,
and care. They were lively animals, with Douleur being the least
sorrowful.
"I named you Douleur because you were nearly all black," said Mary,
stroking his ears. "But you have a happy nature." The puppy wagged
his tail and began chewing on her sleeve.
"Pray do not chew," she said. "My clothes are not easily replaced."
She took out her pen, set the inkwell on a rock where she thought the
puppies could not reach it, opened the leaves of her book, and began
writing.
May 8, the year of grace 1572 Month of Our Lady. All around me I see
the tightly bound leaves ready to unfurl. They have been as tightly
bound as I, and have endured the winter, the ice and dark. But I am
still bound, and see no summer for me.
It is five years now since my marriage to Bothwell, almost five years
since we parted. I have not received any word from him in a great long
while. I believe he is still being held in Malmo, I have written to
his mother, old Lady Bothwell, in hopes she has had some word that I
have not. I pray for him daily, nay, many times daily, and dream of
him often The dreams are of a faded image now, no longer the white-hot
heat that used to come to me in the night. But still alive, still very
much alive, no ghost. I try sending my thoughts to him, believing that
they somehow pass over the seas and through the stone walls I know he
understands about my attempts to make an honourable escape by means of
a promise of marriage.
1 reach out to my throat and touch the diamond that Norfolk gave me, I
believed it was my passport to freedom. Now it seems nothing more than
a reminder of despair. Pray God Elizabeth continues to spare him
Evidently she shrinks before spilling blood. That is such a novelty to
me has my experience in Scotland tainted me that much? There no blood
was sacred, and everyone had a dagger ready to plunge into the man
seated next to him at dinner Even the men of God bay for blood there
Blood is all they understand
Without a doubt, I am safer here They do not assassinate in this land
The only suspected murder is that of Amy Robsart, and that was to clear
the way for a marriage. Of course I guard routinely, as all persons
do, against poison. But it is more a precaution than anything else. I
always plunge the unicorn horn, a powerful antidote against poison,
into my food and drink before tasting them.
I consider myself in mourning, and dress accordingly. I wear only
black, relieved by white veils and lace. I am in mourning for my lost
throne, my lost husband, my lost freedom. They try to have me dress in
colours again, but I will not. Let them see me and be reminded of what
they have done to me. Let them face themselves.
I spend an hour a day in prayer, and have prayers in my household twice
a day. Not everyone serving me is Catholic, and the prayers must be
acceptable to the Protestants as well, I try to select ones that will
speak to us all.
As for my own private prayer what a strange journey that has been! I
try to keep my appointment with my Lord, so that He cannot reproach me
with "Could ye not watch with Me one hour?" But as the months have
passed, I found that it is a land of valleys and rifts. There have
been four stages through which I have passed. The first was when, my
heart so heavy, my mind stunned, my body exhausted, I would keep a
formal appointment. Sitting before the crucifix, I would recite
prayers, words. The rosary. The Pater Noster. Devotions from my book
of hours. God was a distant, fearful personage I would limit to
certain areas of my life. I kept my hand on the door and would only
open it a little way.
Each stage has had its crisis, and the crisis here was that after many
months this became boring. The appointment with God was so routine and
dull that I began to dread it. Gradually I dared to push the door open
wider, to become more honest with Him, to tell Him my feelings, even my
anger and hatred toward Him. I shared my heart, and my prayers became
more simple. Sometimes I was even silent, and just felt His faint
presence. For an instant I would actually enter the room.
Then sinful thoughts, distractions would flash through my mind, and
would have to use words again to bring me back to the Presence. And
the Presence, increasingly sweet, was something I desired.
But along with the sweetness was purity, and in the presence of that
purity I began to feel stained. I longed for the love of God it had
become increasingly necessary, increasingly sustaining but the more I
longed for it, the less I felt I deserved it. I became mired in a
recital of my own sins and guilts. I remembered not only the actual
deeds I had done, but all the things left undone or half done: the
things I had failed to value, the people I had failed to comfort or
help, the opportunities passed by, the waste I had strewn about me, the
gifts I had trampled underfoot.