Father de Pr au swept in, the silver pin in his hat gleaming.
He looks the way we all used to, Mary thought. He does not look like a
captive or an exile yet. But then, he is free to go.
She looked around at all her household. They are all free to go, she
thought. Every person here can pack his bag, notify the Earl of
Shrewsbury that he has decided to leave, and have the gates swing open
for him. Only I cannot leave I alone.
Father de Preau led the prayers in French. As some of the members of
the household were Protestants, Mary always insisted that the readings
and prayers be ones that they could participate in. Private mass and
confessions would take place in her chamber at other times.
"Saint Paul says, in the second book of Corinthians, "We are troubled
on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in
despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.
For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a
far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." My friends, my
brothers and sisters, take heart!" the priest enjoined them.
Mary felt the nagging voice that had been troubling her of late: Is all
this to be rewarded? Or is that just a vain hope, something to make
each day bearable? "For there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge,
nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou go est the Scripture also says.
If there is nothing hereafter, then I am a pitiable fool and suffering
means nothing.
The prayers were over; now the household would go about its repetitious
tasks until time for dinner at eleven o'clock. Shrewsbury's people
dined then, too, and the gates were locked during that hour.
Mary and her ladies retired to her suite of rooms, there to work on
their needlepoint. They embroidered ceaselessly, and there were now
embroidered stools, bed hangings, pillows, and panels everywhere. Mary
made gifts for Elizabeth caps and petticoats and sent her French
relatives little mementoes. It was a way of reminding them of her
existence.
Today she was working on an elaborate set of genealogical bed hangings
to be sent to her son, James. On a field of rich emerald green, they
traced her ancestry in France and Lorraine, showing Charlemagne and
Saint Louis. James must be reminded of that side of his family and his
glorious inheritance.
She picked up the gold thread that would be used to indicate shiny
surfaces of shields, swords, helmets. James was almost ten now, and in
the custody of the Earl of Morton. The poor child, she thought, he is
as much a prisoner as I. With this difference: that every year that
passes brings him closer to freedom, whereas my hope of it recedes.
Some day he will be a grown man and can dismiss his warders and gaolers
as he pleases.
Mary had written him and sent him gifts over the years, but never
received a reply. Still she continued, never knowing what became of
her missives. She had already written the letter that was to accompany
this gift, labouring over the wording. She called him to be faithful
to God and to remember his mother, "she who has borne you in her
sides."
She sighed and rubbed her eyes. They were bothering her of late. She
spent so many hours focusing on close work, sewing, reading, and
writing, that she was straining them. She could feel the muscles in
her forehead relax when she looked up.
I must stop squinting, she told herself.
She motioned to her little spaniels to come over to her, and they
trotted quickly, their nails clicking on the smooth floor, their
tongues hanging out. She had come to rely on them as children to amuse
her. They alone seemed happy in this place.
"Yes, my dears," she said. "I believe there will be chicken at dinner,
and possibly mutton. I will bring you some."
The bell signalled dinnertime, as it did every day, day after day after
day. The ladies rose and went into the hall, where white cloths were
spread over long tables. They never ate with Shrewsbury's retainers in
the Great Hall; the two households must never mingle.
As always, there were sixteen dishes to prepare seven meat, three
vegetable, three soups, three sweet desserts. It never varied. Like
sleepwalkers, they partook of the meal they had already partaken of so
many times. Yesterday, today, tomorrow it was all one.
Now I know what eternity is, Mary thought. Some wag once said,
"Eternity is two people and a haunch of venison." But he has never had
his forty people and sixteen perpetual dishes.
They rose. The men would attend to their tasks, stretching them out as
long as possible to fill the hours. The coachmen would polish the
coach wheels, still shiny from yesterday's polishing, since they had
travelled nowhere. The apothecary would rearrange his bottles, moving
the powdered mandrake root to the place where the tinctures of
Solomon's seal and milkwort had stood. The femmes de chambre would air
and brush the Queen's dresses, still fresh from yesterday's airing, and
put them back in their proper places. They would refold all the
clothes that were already perfectly folded. The grooms would take the
Queen's three horses out for exercise exercise she was not allowed to
give them. The secretaries would stack the writing paper and trim the
sealing wax. There were still at least ten hours to get through before
they could sleep, to begin all over again the next morning.
As Mary walked slowly, painfully, back to her rooms, she wondered if
she should sew this afternoon, or read a history. Or perhaps she could
get permission to walk her little dogs in the inner courtyard. But her
knees and ankles were bothering her so that even a short walk would be
trying. And her head was aching.
"Madam," said Bourgoing, hobbling up beside her, "I notice your steps
are especially slow today."
She looked at him with amusement. He had shrunk over the years,
becoming stooped and gnome like His gout was far worse than hers.
"Your pains are worse than mine, friend," she said. "Yet I do admit,
my legs ache today. Is it for this you preserved me from the scars of
smallpox?" She made sure to laugh as she said it, so he would know she
was teasing.
"Have you received any word from the Queen as to when you may go to
Buxton?" he asked.
"Yes when cherries ripen in January, and pigs dance the galliard," she
replied.
"Surely she is not so cruel! Shrewsbury goes regularly!"
"Yes, but she says I may escape, and that even his new quarters there
are not secure enough. It must be a stout prison to hold a woman
crippled with gout and rheumatism, you know."
"Write to her again!" he said.
"I have written at least fifteen times on the subject. I have no new
approach for the sixteenth time, I fear." Mary smiled. "I must
content myself with your hot wax treatments. Truly, they do help."
Together they traversed the gallery where she had hung portraits of her
Scottish ancestors, and were just on the verge of entering her private
apartments when Anthony came running up.
"A messenger from Scotland!" he cried. He pointed down at the
courtyard, where a dusty man, carrying a large covered basket, was
talking to the guards. There was much gesturing. Finally the rider
took out a letter and let the guard read it. Only after he and two
others had read it was the man allowed to dismount and enter the
building, escorted by yet another guard.
Mary stood and waited; the man and his companion made their way down
the gallery toward her.
"Most gracious sovereign," the messenger said, kneeling and removing
his hat. "I come from Lady Bothwell, your husband's mother. His late
mother."
Lady Bothwell! Mary had never met her, but she knew Bothwell had taken
his stubborn courage from his mother, who had stood her ground after
his father had so cravenly discarded her. As the Lady of Morham, she
had held her head high and watched as her erstwhile spouse met an
ignominious end, never gloating, but never shrinking, either. Bothwell
had spoken often of her, and she knew he visited her.
The late Lady Bothwell, had he said?
"She has died?" asked Mary. "It grieves me to know." She gestured
for him to follow her into her privy chamber.
Once inside, she asked him for the letter. He put down the basket and
gave her the letter, apologizing for its having been opened.
"I saw the reason," Mary said. "All mail that comes openly to me is
treated thus. That is why I we" she nodded at Anthony and Monsieur
Nau, who had been waiting in the room "maintain another line of
communication .. . one that is, alas, often shut down."
She opened the letter herself and read.
My most esteemed sovereign and daughter,
My time on earth drawing to its close, it is meet that I set my worldly
affairs in order. Thus it is that I am drawing up my will, and mean to
bequeath my belongings to William Hepburn, my natural grandson, who has
lived near me during his lifetime. My land I leave to my widowed
daughter Janet. I tell you this so that, should you be able to
communicate with my son James your husband, he will know.
Having lived so many years as I have, seeing much sorrow yet much of
joy, I am ready to take my leave of it all in peace. I regret only a
very few things, one of them being that I never saw you as my son's
wife, you being spirited away so soon, and he following not long
after.
It grieves my heart as a mother to know her son lies in prison across
the seas, and separated from his wife. I wish to give you something of
his, in a manner of speaking. As a boy he had an especial affinity for
dogs, which I am proud to say he took from me. Some years ago he sent
me two Skye terriers. They thrived, and these pups are their great
grand-pups. I am told that you are fond of little dogs and already
have several pets, so I hope these will find a welcome home with you as
a remembrance of him.
The Skye terrier, as you may suppose, I was told came originally from
Skye. They will not grow very big, only some eight inches or so. As
they grow up, their hair will get longer and longer until some say "you
canna see the dog for the hair." But let not that fool you. They are
no dandies like the curly-haired fops at French courts, but are strong,
fearless trackers of game, can burrow, and swim in treacherous waters.
They are one-person dogs and fiercely loyal. But one warning: if they
are unsure of their master's love, they can fall into a melancholy.
I now take my leave of you and of this world, begging it to treat you
well, and in lieu of my James, to take unto you these his "relicts."
Agnes Sinclair, Lady Bothwell of Morham
Mary felt her eyes clouding over with tears. The courage of the old
lady, the sanguine acceptance of all ... it was poignant. She quickly
folded the letter and turned to the basket. These were the descendants
of the dogs from the cottage on the moor!
"So you have carried pups all the way from Scotland," she said to the
messenger. "It must have seemed a long journey!"
"Nay, they were no trouble," he said, unlatching the lid of the hinged
basket and revealing three pups inside, all of different colours:
black, cream, and grey. They began whining and squirming as soon as
they saw the light.