Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (161 page)

They wound their way slowly down through Derbyshire, a small county
that lay at the centre of England like the pit of a plum. Its hills
were gentle and it appeared to have many streams and valleys; several
forests covered faraway hills, making black patches against the white
snow. It was reputed to be a very green, rich county, but of that Mary
could see no evidence in this dead time of year. The Earl of
Shrewsbury, her new "host," had most of his holdings here, and they
passed near two of them: Wingfield Manor and Chatsworth. But, although
these were new manors, the Queen had ordered them to take up residence
at Tutbury Castle, farther south, at the very border of Derbyshire and
Staffordshire.

Mary had asked about Tutbury, and had been told that it had a
magnificent view over the surrounding fields beyond the River Dove, and
had abundant game in its nearby Needwood Forest, which was also
associated with Robin Hood. John of Gaunt had held his Court of
Minstrels here, making the place, Scrope had assured her, "the very
essence of Merrie England."

"Ah, yes, Merrie England," she had said. "Is that what I came to see?
Indeed it is legendary like the fashions of France and the wild country
of Scotland." As a child she had wondered about King Arthur, Robin
Hood, Richard the Lionheart, the longbow archers, and the Yule log and
Merlin the magician. So now she was to be lodged in quarters that
called all of that to mind. She was also curious about the Earl of
Shrewsbury, and had managed to obtain only bits of information from the
close-mouthed Lord

Scrope. The Earl was very wealthy. The Earl was newly married, but
for the second time. His wife was almost as rich as he was, and eight
years older. As part of the marriage negotiations, they had married
their sons and daughters to one another, to keep the wealth in the
family. The Earl was a Protestant, but was lax in prosecuting
Catholics in his county. As a result, Derbyshire and neighbouring
Lancastershire were well endowed with Catholic families.

"But what is he like?" Mary had asked.

"Colourless," Lord Scrope had finally admitted.

"What is his wife like?"

"Colourful. Besides her own colours, she's added the ones leeched from
her three previous husbands."

They saw Tutbury on the horizon long before they reached it, as they
approached the confluence of the rivers Trent and Dove. It bristled
with towers and walls on a redstone cliff overlooking the banks of the
Dove, and with the setting sun behind it, it looked like jagged dog's
teeth. Mary shuddered the second she saw it. Merrie England? This
was anything but merry; it was a prison.

A prison. I am a prisoner, she thought. A true prisoner, as bad as
Lochleven.

For an instant she imagined turning suddenly and galloping away. I
cannot meekly enter here! she thought. But then she knew there was
nowhere to ride, no friendly subjects to hide and protect her. She was
in the heart of enemy territory, where there could be no shelter for
her. She did not even know her direction.

No, that is not the way, she told herself sternly. You will not ride
out and hide in cottages and sleep on the ground, as you did in the
flight after Langside. You have hopes among the nobles. Have you so
soon forgotten Norfolk? And Northumberland? And even Philip of Spain?
There is a good chance that he may invade here in response to
Elizabeth's seizing of his gold ships that went astray. I am not
alone. I am not alone. I am not alone!

They began their ascent to the castle, winding up a steep path. It was
more than a hundred feet up to the top, and they had to pass over a
wide dry moat, over a drawbridge, and through a formidable gatehouse
the only entrance to the castle. At length they emerged into the
castle grounds; later Mary was told they were three acres in extent.
Stout walls encircled three sides, and the fourth needed no walls, as
it was a steep drop to the valley floor, a hundred feet below. Two
watchtowers guarded the thick walls.

The ground was barren, and only a few torches were lighted, throwing
eerie, leaping shadows on the frozen ground. Stiffly Lord Scrope
dismounted and said, "I will announce our arrival." But by the tone of
his voice, he betrayed his anxiety that Shrewsbury had not been waiting
for them.

Mary and her attendants waited, patting their horses and assuring them
they would soon be stabled. At length Scrope returned, bringing
someone with him.

"Queen Mary," he said, "may I present George Talbot, the Earl of
Shrewsbury?"

George. Always a lucky name for me, she thought. Pray that this may
be so now. "I am pleased," said Mary.

Shrewsbury took her hand and kissed it. Only then did he look at
her.

She saw a man of about forty, with a long, lugubrious face, thinning
hair, and a greying beard. His eyes looked as though they had seen
many defections and melancholias.

"My Countess and I welcome you," he said sadly.

Mary's household was to be lodged in the south range of buildings,
which were two storeys. As she stepped over the threshold, the first
impression she had was of an overwhelming odour of mould. It became
more intense when she actually stood inside. The guardroom smelt and
dripped like a grotto. A pervasive cold gripped her.

"Welcome, Your Majesty," said a low, powerful voice. A woman had
emerged from the neighbouring chamber, and she approached Mary. "I am
Bess, Countess of Shrewsbury."

Mary's first thought was that someone had taken Queen Elizabeth and
rolled a millstone over her, flattening her out and broadening all her
features. This woman looked like the Queen, with light reddish hair, a
long thin nose, and tight little lips. But her face and person were
square. Everything about her was square, from her head to her eyes to
her shoulders and her hands and even, amazingly, her fingernails.
Peeking out from under her heavy woollen gown were square shoes
encasing square feet.

"I trust you will be comfortable here," she was saying. "We have sent
for tapestries from Sheffield and furnishings from London. This place
is in poor repair very poor we never stay here, and the Queen's
information is sorely out of date!" She sounded as though she would
like to box the Queen's stupid ears.

"I am sure I will be," Mary replied.

"Do not be so sure! It is most uncivilized! It was built over two
hundred years ago and nothing done since. But," she said with a snort,
"we do what we can!" She turned to her husband. "George, is there no
word yet about the seven lined hangings with the story of Hercules? I
sent for them last Monday. You said they would come from Wingfield.
Well?"

"I have been told they are at Derby. One of the mules is lame."

"Your excuses are lame!" she bellowed. Then she said to Mary, "I will
take you to your quarters, Madam."

March 4, 1 569. Tutbury Castle, Staffordshire. What have I done to
warrant such a punishment? This "castle" is not fit to house Judas or
Brutus, and yet I must endure it. It sits atop its cliff, exposed to
the elements, the winds rip across it and through the flimsy south
range of buildings where they have housed me. These quarters are even
worse than they seemed when first I smelt them. The mould was delicate
compared to the stench of the privies, which have nowhere to empty, and
sit, festering, beneath us. Noxious vapours pervade every chamber.
Wearing perfume to try to overcome it has only the effect that the
perfume becomes mixed with the latrine odours and itself becomes
repulsive.

They said Tutbury "overlooks the fields," but there are no fields
below, only swamps and marshes As they have thawed, the ice has
released the deadly vapours from them as well, and the cruel wind blows
them up here, to poison the outdoor air as the privies do the indoor
air. My clothes reek of it, as if I had rolled in decaying slime

This castle is so closely guarded, with its one steep path winding up
from the little village behind it, and its gatehouse, that I have not
been able to carry on any correspondence, besides with Elizabeth. Over
and over I beg her to let me come and speak to her in person, or else
to set me free to seek my fortune elsewhere. But her replies are
evasive. O, how can I endure this?

I know nothing of what is happening in Scotland, or how my party is
faring there. I know nothing of Bothwell's fate. I know nothing of
what is happening on the Continent, of what my relatives in France are
doing and whether Philip has responded to the English provocation. In
short, I am kept in a dark dungeon!

1 have established a code for Norfolk. The Spanish ambassador is "30."
1 am "40." Northumberland is "20" and Westmorland is "10." I have had
much ado to send any messages to any of them. They cannot send any in
here, and I can only send them out when I let out my faithful Lord
Merries or my recently arrived John Leslie, the Bishop of Ross, to take
letters to Elizabeth. Then he can smuggle out messages to the others.
But sometimes they are searched, and it is difficult to think of any
hiding places that my adversaries have not already in mind. They say
this Francis Walsingham, Cecil's deputy, is a spymaster and has spies
of his own everywhere. Thus he knows all the tricks, and is most
inventive himself. It is he who works behind the others like a shadow,
and it is he, ultimately, whom I must outsmart every time I want to get
a message out.

How amused Catherine de Medicis would be! She had such disdain for my
attempts at games of intrigue, when I was a child in France. But even
as a man with weak arms must learn to chop wood if he needs a fire, I
have had to teach myself all these things, which I would rather not
know.

Leslie says that things are moving, that Norfolk is being brought
round. I must do something to strengthen his resolve! Of course I
have no desire to marry him, but that is beside the point. I must be
free in order to marry him, and once free, I will have a choice. I
must put a petition to the Pope to dissolve my marriage to Bothwell, in
order to seem sincere. Of course it is pointless, because I was not
married to Bothwell by Catholic rites. But no matter it will seem
convincing. And it will give me an opportunity to write openly to
Bothwell about it. Just to speak to him, if only on paper.. .

There is now a priest in my household, going under the name of Sir John
Morton and acting as a gentleman attendant. Shrewsbury is only too
aware of it, but looks the other way, which is kind. With the
departure of Knollys, they have stopped subjecting me to the Anglican
priest. I am strengthened by the presence of Morton, and the
opportunity to practise my own faith, however secretly.

1 must stop now. My fingers ache. Since coming here, my joints have
swollen and become stiff. My physician says it is rheumatism. But I
am only twenty-six!

Mary put down her pen and capped the inkwell. The ink in it was thick
with the cold. She then closed her book and wrapped it in the false
cover she had devised for it that made it look like a ledger, and put
it in the stack of other ledgers. As she stood and smoothed out her
skirt, she was only too aware of the stiffness of her fingers.