"Come, let us bring a bench over and sit."
Side by side they sat on a plump embroidered bench cushion, letting the
sun warm them. They were both dressed in black, and the rays of sun
soaked into their clothes and heated them.
Mary's profile was still clean and pleasing, and had changed little
over the years. Seton had seen it before the bridge on Mary's nose
formed, when she still had the upturned nose of childhood; had seen it
bloom into beauty, carried aloft on the swanlike neck, in France; had
watched it settle and set in adulthood; and, last, had seen it all but
disappear behind the veils and headdresses the aging exile had
affected. But today it was visible, kissed by the sun and still
bonny.
I believe that a man would still love her, thought Seton, if there were
any worthy of her. But she'll never meet any, no, never anymore.
"Do you remember the oak trees around Chambord?" asked Mary. "And how
we would gather leaves about this time of year, and look for the
biggest acorns to use for dolls' cups?"
Aye, in that time when all the world was young ... "I could never
forget."
"I wish we were back there."
"Do you wish we had never left?"
"No. Not that. But I wish I could be permitted to return. Well, I
will be, someday."
How odd that Mary would say that with such certainty. "How do you know
this?"
"Because it is in my will. I have requested to be buried in Reims,
near my mother and my uncle. But I fear I will not be aware of the
journey!"
How calmly she said it! "Do not speak thus!" cried Seton.
"And you will be there to receive me," continued Mary.
"What do you mean?" Seton was alarmed.
"I mean, dear Seton, dearest companion I am sending you back to France,
and before the winter."
"No! No! I will not leave you!"
Mary turned and looked at her. Her eyes were lined, and such sadness
showed in their depths that Seton knew what was meant by the saying,
"the soul is in the eyes."
"I am your Queen, am I not?" said Mary. "If I command it, then you
will go."
Seton flung herself on her knees and clasped Mary's feet. "Then do not
command me! Do not cast me away!"
Mary stroked Seton's shoulder. The material of the dress was warm from
the sun. "I wish you to go to the Abbey of St.-Pierre. My old aunt
Rene'e is still Abbess there, and she will take you in. Seton, Seton
you are almost as ill and crippled as I. I must release you from your
duties. Why, you cannot even dress my hair anymore! Soon everyone
will know that my hair is grey!"
"If you can stand to remain here, so can I," said Seton. "How could I
go where you so long to go, and leave you behind?"
"Because in doing so, it will be as near as I ever come to going
myself. And Seton I will not be remaining here. I am being
transferred to Tutbury. I cannot allow you to go there as well. My
conscience would never permit it. Just think to return to France ...
to see our old friends and relatives ... to see your dear brother ...
ah, he has suffered, too!"
"Indeed." Lord Seton, after being captured and wounded at Langside,
had gone into exile in France, where he was so poor he was reduced to
driving a wagon.
"You cannot tell me you do not long to see him!"
"Not as much as I wish to remain with you."
"That is not your choice. I am ordering you to go, and to go before
the winter comes and you are trapped." She took Seton's face in her
hands and held it tenderly. "We have always been so close. You have
been my true companion all my life, and even our mothers were
companions your mother came from France with mine, two Frenchwomen
married to Scotsmen. Now you must carry my heart with you back to
France, for if you go, I will feel that I have gone, as well."
Seton started crying, the tears making long, silent paths down her
cheeks.
"Pray do not cry," said Mary. "I cannot stand that. All my life has
been a parting until now, but this is the first time it has been by my
own doing. When you are there, when you are safe and loved and cared
for, then you will thank me. And I will have something to be proud of,
some good that I have done someone." She sighed. "You know they are
trying to prevent my even giving alms now? But it is of no matter. My
income has dwindled to where I have almost no alms to give. France is
different now from before. "Now there arose up a new king over Egypt,
which knew not Joseph." All the leaders we knew have died, and control
is in the hands of those who were only children when we were there.
Little Henri is King! The other little Henri is Duc de Guise! They
have no memories of me, nor I of them. My own mission there has
deteriorated into a band of exiles, and there is no Frenchman of any
note directing my affairs. That is why they are so badly handled, I
fear. Also, time makes my claims there seem odd; it is over twenty
years since I left."
"Just think we left before the religious wars there," said Seton. "I
fear France is a ravaged place now. No, even if I go back to France, I
cannot go back to our France, the France we loved."
"It is gone forever." Geddon whined and pawed at Mary's gown. "What,
are you sad, too? You are an aged and wise dog, dear one." She patted
his head and pulled at his ears, which still amused her after all these
years. "Pray give me some words of consolation." Geddon licked at her
hand and shook his body.
"Dogs have more sense than to mourn and wallow in melancholy," said
Seton. "Perhaps that is why we need dogs about us. Do they have dogs
at the convent?"
"I believe so. They used to. Of course, that may have changed,
too."
They watched the sun go down over the tops of the trees, sending out
shafts of bronze light. A haze lay over the horizon, slumbering and
golden. There was an intense peace about it, an urge to acceptance in
the remaining hours of light. Mary took Seton's hand and held it
tightly, and they sat silent and still.
In the glowing dusk, they heard the distant sound of the hounds, and
knew the hunters were returning. They would be gathering at the foot
of the tower, milling about, while they dismounted and the game was
taken away to be dressed.
Mary stood up and watched as pinpricks of light came closer; torches
had been lit. The company was singing, shouting, in spite of their
weariness. Three deer carcasses were being borne on poles. The hounds
were trotting along, their tongues hanging out.
"Your Majesty!"
Mary recognized Shrewsbury's voice, and so she called down, "Yes, good
Lord Shrewsbury!"
"We will be having refreshments in the ground chamber," he called.
"Pray have the fires lit and come and join us!"
"With pleasure," she said. Turning to Seton, she said, "It will take
me an hour to descend, I fear. Here, let us go down together."
On the ground floor, the fire was already crackling, the ornate white
plaster arms of Shrewsbury, with the greyhounds supporting his family
shield, illuminated above the fireplace. Indeed, the ceiling of the
room, with its exquisite hexagonal designs and intricate flowers twined
one round the other, were emphasized by the shadows of the firelight.
It reminded Mary a bit of France, of the great hunting chateaux there,
only in miniature.
Shrewsbury had his hat off and was fanning himself. "Plenty warm in
here," he was saying.
"Was the hunting good?" Mary asked.
He answered cautiously, as if he were afraid it was a veiled request.
"Yes, we took both antlered deer and fallow deer," said Shrewsbury.
"Ah!" He helped himself to a cup of steaming red wine, with roasted
apples floating in the bowl. "The hounds did well, expecially the
buckhounds and my special breed of "Talbot hounds." I understand your
little terrier is good for badgers. He'll have to come along
sometime." He looked around as if awaiting rescue.
"I fear he is too old now," said Mary. "He could not keep up like his
mistress."
One of Shrewsbury's sons was present, as well as some neighbouring
gentry. They were, as always, staring at Mary, ready to remember every
detail so they could report on it. Shrewsbury had been reprimanded for
that, as well. The English Council had complained that he was showing
off his famous captive. Well, it was almost over now, he thought with
relief. Fifteen years of captivity for both of us, about to come to an
end.
"Madam," he said in a low voice, keeping his wine cup up near his lips,
"it is as I had heard. You are to be transferred from my keeping into
that of another."
"Who?" That had been the mystery. Who would replace Shrewsbury? He
would have to be noble, and wealthy, and politically trustworthy.
Robert Dudley? Cecil?
"Sir Amyas Paulet," replied Shrewsbury.
"Who?" Mary had never heard of him.
"A worthy gentleman, and a good friend of Sir Francis Walsingham's."
"Is he of the same religious persuasion?" Mary knew that Walsingham
was of the church party increasingly known as Puritan militant, strict
Protestantism of a sort that the genial Martin Luther would have found
uncomfortable. Puritans were the spiritual children of John Knox.
"Yes, and more so," said Shrewsbury, and Mary's heart sank.
After the hunters had departed and night had fallen, Mary and Seton
made their way back to their rooms. The fires had already been lit,
chasing the chill out as best they could. Dear old Father de Preau was
waiting to say the nightly prayers that closed their day. The members
of the household were gathered, and at the end of the prayers, Mary
added, "And may God keep us when we are parted."
Afterwards several people came up to her, puzzled.
"I have just received word that I am to be transferred to a new .. .
host. There is a possibility that they may request my household to be
reduced. I do not know; I only ask that you keep this in mind so that
if it comes, we are prepared," said Mary.
Before they could question her further, she withdrew into her private
chamber. She did not wish to talk about it, or anything else, at the
moment. The decision to send Seton away had drained her.
Quietly they made ready for bed, Seton helping her with gentle,
practised hands, as she always did. Before retiring, Mary opened her
little coffer with her miniatures, and took them out one by one,
holding them up to the candle.
There was Francois, and one of her mother. There was Darnley, as he
had been when first he came to Scotland, and all at once she remembered
that meeting in the misty cold garden, and why she had loved him. There
was Damley's mother, whom Mary had never met. There was the flat face
of Catherine de Me'dicis, and the baby face of the infant James. And
then there was .. . Elizabeth.
A face I shall never see, she thought. Never in this lifetime. And
yet ... if I could just see her .. .