"And every murderer has a mother who stands at the gallows-foot,
extolling his kindness to his relatives!" yelled another. " "Not my
Gregory! He always watered the flowers so faithfully!" "
Everyone screamed with laughter, and even Walsingham guffawed. Cecil
struggled to maintain order.
Mary burst into tears, which just ignited them more. She had always
hated bear-baiting, where the chained animal was attacked by waves of
snarling dogs, their jaws dripping with red foam. She had refused to
watch this so-called sport, remembering with pain her tame bear in
France, so gentle and obedient. Now she felt as if she had been
transformed into a bear herself, held fast to be slashed and killed.
And they said Elizabeth greatly enjoyed bear-baiting, that it was one
of her favourite pastimes.. ..
"Let us proceed," said Cecil. "Let us move on to the next charge, that
of trafficking with England's enemies, inviting invasions by Spain." He
nodded to Walsingham.
Walsingham rose. "There are numerous letters to prove this. She has
written to her agents in Paris, to Mendoza the Spanish ambassador, to
Philip himself, urging just such action." He opened a great pouch and
let the letters fall out like a shower of leaves. One or two landed on
the floor.
Mary commanded her chest to stop heaving, and stilled her own trembling
by willpower. "I do not deny that I have longed for liberty and done
my utmost to procure it. In this I acted from a very natural wish.
When it was denied me by Queen Elizabeth, I turned to other countries,"
she said. "Yet I was not driven to this until I had been cruelly
mocked by deceptive treaties, all my amicable offers slighted, and my
health destroyed by rigorous imprisonment."
The room had at last grown silent.
"I have written to my friends, and solicited them to help me to escape
from Elizabeth's miserable prisons, in which she has kept me now nearly
nineteen years, till my health and hopes have been cruelly
destroyed."
"Enough!" said Bromley, raising his hands. "It is not Queen Elizabeth
who is on trial here today!"
"And, Madam," said Cecil, "when the last treaty was being negotiated
for your liberty the Association with your son the King what was your
response? Parry was sent here by your pensioner, Morgan, to murder our
Queen!"
"No!" cried Mary. "I knew nothing of this! If Morgan did this wicked
thing, he acted without my knowledge."
"Ha!" said Cecil. "We know you are in back of all these plots. Oh,
you think to deceive us, but we know you for what you are! Daughter of
sedition, indeed!"
Mary stared at him. "My lord," she finally said, "you are my enemy."
"Yea!" cried Cecil. "I am the enemy of all Queen Elizabeth's
enemies."
She looked out at the faces of the men, flushed and agitated. Their
spurs clinked as they shifted in their seats. Soon they would be out
in the October air, riding south, laughing, stopping at taverns. They
would imitate her and mock her, putting on little plays for the other
patrons. Someone would wrap a black blanket around himself, drape a
white veil over his head, and say, "I am an anointed Queen ..." in a
squeaky voice.
"I will speak only to a full Parliament, in the presence of the Queen
and her Council," she said. "For I see that it is extreme folly to
stand for judgement here, where all are so evidently and notoriously
prejudiced against me." She stepped away from her chair. "I forgive
you all," she said to the whole assembly. "My lords and gentlemen, I
place my cause in the hands of God."
She turned and made her way slowly to the nearby door, the one through
which she had entered. As she did so, she passed by a table of lawyers
frantically taking notes. "May God keep me from having to do with you
all again," she said with a smile.
Then, before Cecil or Bromley could stop her, she disappeared through
the door.
Cecil rose and called for order.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen! You have heard all the proceedings. Our
gracious Queen calls us to reassemble in London to pronounce sentence,
ten days from now." He held aloft the scribbled instructions from
Elizabeth. "You are free now to go!"
With a burst of energy, the men leapt up from their chairs and
benches.
From her window, Mary saw the courtyard swarming with men, their bright
mantles making a rich pattern against the dull stones. Soon they would
swirl away, carrying their news throughout the countryside.
She lay down and shut her eyes. When she arose and looked out again,
the courtyard was empty.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Walsingham dragged his sore leg as he walked alongside Cecil, who was
also limping, because of a riding injury. The two men made their way
painfully from the boat landing to the path leading up to Walsingham's
country house, Barn Elms.
The weather had remained warm very late; although it was the end of
November, neither man needed a mantle, and the sun was radiant on their
shoulders. Behind them the Thames lapped at its banks, and there were
still many boats plying the waters.
"My infirmity is caused by a fall," said Cecil. "To think that in
attempting to speed my journeys, I have only succeeded in laming
myself." His right leg was splinted and bandaged.
"Mine is caused by Her Majesty's stubbornness," said Walsingham.
"Truly, I am at a loss as to how to proceed. My stomach chums, my knee
swells, my leg bleeds...." His voice rose in distress, and Cecil
looked at him in alarm. Was he about to cry?
They passed the rows of tobacco plants that Walsingham had set out;
they seemed to be thriving.
"She does not care!" Walsingham muttered. "She cares not for our hard
work, our diligence, her own safety ... it has all been for naught,
Cecil, for naught! The Serpent will live."
Cecil put his arm around him. "Nay, nay. Progress is being made. The
Serpent has been pronounced guilty by the commission, and both houses
of Parliament have petitioned the Queen to proceed to the execution."
"But she refuses! She merely thanks them for their pains and says she
cannot give an answer! She asks them to find some other way she says
that she would accept a personal apology from Mary God knows, she
cannot seem to do that which she needs to do for her own good!"
Cecil sighed. He looked over at a large boulder. "Come, let us sit
here in the sunshine. It will do us good." He settled himself with a
sigh, extending his hurt leg. "You must understand that she is in a
terrible position. She has an abhorrence of being seen to shed blood.
Perhaps she wishes to efface the ghost of her father. Perhaps in some
corner of her mind she equates Mary with her own mother, Anne Boleyn.
Both were brought up in France, both were accused of indiscretions,
both convicted of seeking the death of the monarch. Yet Elizabeth and
many others can never be sure of Boleyn's guilt; perhaps Elizabeth
wishes to atone for it this way. Who can say?"
"Perhaps she is merely indecisive," snorted Walsingham. "Or
cowardly."
"The Serpent used her trial as a showcase for her own eloquence and
wit," said Cecil. "So, they say, did Anne Boleyn. But it availed them
nothing. And as for Mary, even her supporters were forced to admit
that the evidence against her was overwhelming. Still" his voice
trailed off "she was most impressive."
"Now you sound as if you were in love with her!"
"Nay. I spoke true. I am the enemy of all Queen Elizabeth's
enemies."
"I was disappointed in her. She was just a stout middle-aged woman
mouthing pieties and platitudes, and oozing with self-pity." Walsingham
winced as he massaged his leg. "Like Katherine of Aragon. No wonder
Henry VIII shut her up in a tower. Those tedious, artificial speeches
..." He shook his head. "Instead of exciting pity, they had the
opposite effect. Disgust!"
"The Earl of Leicester is returning," said Cecil suddenly. "Perhaps
the Queen will listen to him, when all else fails. He has been urging
her to action, but letters are not so persuasive as a personal
appeal."
"Meanwhile the Scottish and French ambassadors have already begun their
agitating on her behalf, further eroding Her Majesty's resolve. And it
does not help that the Serpent has embraced martyrdom and wants
Elizabeth to have her publicly executed. In order to thwart her,
Elizabeth may keep her alive! I think that filthy and wicked creature
of Scotland has been ordained of God for our punishment! Oh, Cecil!
What a thankless task we perform!"
Cecil shrugged. "Let her act out her pitiable martyrdom," he said.
"The most wicked criminals have God on their lips at all times, for God
is the only one who can stomach them."
"Oh, let Lord Leicester come soon!" Walsingham turned his sad eyes
toward the heavens. "Work your magic on the Queen!"
Elizabeth stood before her mirror in the privacy of her chamber at
Richmond. She was wearing only her chemise, and her bare feet stuck
out from under its hem. Her wig was gone, and her natural hair had
been released to fall over her shoulders. Shorn of all her earthly
glorifications of jewellery, lace, brocades, padding, and cosmetics,
she stared at what was left.
If she squinted, she could claim she had changed little since she first
came to the throne: still slender, her natural hair still golden red,
most of her teeth still with her. She was fifty-three now, and her
childbearing years were over. Spared from motherhood, her body had
retained its girlish lines and an unusual youthfulness. Yet she knew,
too, that her last romance had passed with her fertility. There had
been no more courtships after the one with the Frog.
I kept my virginity, and my virginity has kept me, she thought, gazing
at herself. And I am thankful.
She drew her robe about her and twisted her hair up, fastening it with
a silver clasp. She poured out a small portion of sweet Cyprus wine
and took a sip. Her abstemious ness in eating and drinking had helped
to preserve her health as well.
At my age, my father the King was marvellously fat, she thought. I
remember someone said that three of the biggest men in the kingdom
could fit into his doublet. I have now lived almost as long as he did;
he died when he was fifty-five, and he had long called himself "the old
man." But I do not feel like "the old woman"!
Death ... I do not feel death near, not from natural causes, but .. .
She finished the wine and sat staring at the inlaid pattern of her
desk. On the desk was a memento mori, a skull. And in her open prayer
book was a page showing death grabbing innocent people: death as the
artificer, whispering "No compass or art can cause me depart." Another
motto was engraved on the tomb of a recumbent knight: "No one device,
no art, no toil, could make us give death the foil." She shuddered and
closed the book.
She ran her hands over her cheeks, feeling the pointed cheekbones just
beneath the skin.
She had seldom felt so beset as in this, her fifty-third year. Her
spinsterhood was now settled and unchangeable. Robert Dudley, her own
Robert, Earl of Leicester, had now been remarried for seven years. For
the past year his courtly presence had been denied her, as he had been
away commanding the English forces in the Netherlands. She had been
disappointed in his performance there, and in the revelation of the
extent of his ambition. Yet she had missed him by her side in
England.