The Memoirs of Mary Queen of Scots (22 page)

Promptly at ten o’clock I arrived at the great mineral pool and walked slowly along its stone perimeter. The moon had risen, a nearly full moon that shone down on the still waters and silvered them with its bright reflection.

A lone figure was entering the pool, a woman, so thin she was almost wraithlike, her sparse gray hair floating unfettered around her shoulders and down her back. She entered the water, her simple spa gown spreading out around her as she submerged. The moonlight drained her of color; she looked ghostly, the planes of her face harsh and sharply etched.

I knew the woman had to be my cousin Elizabeth, yet it was not the Elizabeth of her formal portraits, which I had often seen since Bess possessed copies of several of them. This was not the rouged, high-colored, youthful woman whose picture I had seen so often at Wingfield Manor, but a different creature entirely, an aging woman who looked ill, and whose bony arms, wrists and chest revealed a physical vulnerability that startled me and made me draw back, for a moment, into the shadows.

It was no wonder the courtiers said she would not have a child, I thought. She did not look at all like a woman of childbearing years,
with the ripe, abundant flesh of a mother or a mother-to-be. She looked like a slight, fragile woman on the threshold of the dreaded years, the years over forty when women’s flesh becomes repugnant and what beauty they possess drains away. I wondered what she had looked like at twenty, or at twenty-five. Despite what her vanity told her, I knew that she had never been beautiful, nor had she resembled her dark-haired, seductive mother. It was her sister Mary who had been the beauty, blond and sweet-faced (though her face, people said, had become drawn and lined soon enough). Elizabeth was the quick-witted one, it was said, though always nervous and fearful.

And why not? She had had much to fear, throughout her life.

I watched as my cousin moved languidly through the hot waters, then I entered the pool myself and joined her.

“So, my brave little cousin, we meet at last.” Her body appeared frail, but her voice was low, masculine and commanding. She scrutinized me for a moment, and I met her gaze. “My friend Cecil,” she went on, “wants me to cut your head off. I think he would do it himself, if I’d let him.”

I was frightened, more by the wry laugh that accompanied her words than by the words themselves, or her acidulous tone. Despite the scalding water, I shuddered.

“I have restrained him. That is the only reason you are alive. Now the question is, what am I to do with you? By God’s death, I do not know.”

“I cannot solve that dilemma, Your Majesty,” I said, hoping my voice was not tremulous, but unable to prevent myself from thinking, does she mean to drown me?

“When I was very young, in France, a wise man read my fortune, and told me that I had disordered the cosmos by surviving, as a child. I was not meant to survive, he said. Yet I have.”

“In this we are alike. My survival too was rued by many—though never, thankfully, by my remarkable father. The Lion of England.”

Suddenly she swam away from me, her movements more swift and
athletic than I would have imagined. Evidently her frail appearance was deceptive.

When she returned I asked her, “And what would the Lion of England have advised you to do?” I was aware, as soon as I said the words, that I had spoken recklessly.

“Ha! All the world knows his ways. He removed all inconveniences from his path, without mercy. He would say, ‘Off with her head!’ But I am not my father.”

She looked at me, searching my face, evidently wanting to see fear there, or shock, but seeing none.

“There is a likeness between us, is there not?” she asked presently. “We are both tall, we are both slender—” (You are skeletal, I wanted to say, but didn’t.) “We both have lovely hands, and are thought to be beautiful.” I held my peace, returning her steady gaze. “Only you have a son, and I have not.” (And I have a daughter as well, I wanted to say, but of course I did not.)

For a time there was no sound but the lapping of the waters against the stones, and the splashing made by my cousin’s restless hands. I could not help but feel more and more relaxed, as the heated waters bathed me, while she appeared to be becoming more and more agitated.

“You could still marry, Your Highness,” I said at length.

She shook her head violently, making the drops fly from her long gray hair.

“Never. I would be a fool to marry. And you may as well know, even the physicians say it is unlikely I can have children. By God’s holy bones, there is enough gossip on that topic!”

“I’m sorry.” And I was, in that moment, genuinely sorry, thinking of my own beloved little ones.

Elizabeth tossed her head. “I’m not—except for the devilish question of the succession, of course. In truth I don’t like children. Dirty, unruly things. A curse and a worry, most of them.”

Her tone was bitter. Why, I wondered. Was it because the one man she had wanted to marry, Robin Dudley, was denied her?

I thought back over what I knew of her life. She had been born into great controversy, as Henry VIII’s daughter by his love Anne Boleyn. But Anne was executed when little Elizabeth was how old? Two or three, I think Bess had told me. Only a tiny child. Did she even remember her doomed mother? Then she was declared a bastard, and made to feel an outcast at her father’s court. After the Lion of England died, her young brother King Edward had restored her to favor, but her Catholic sister Mary, when she became queen in her turn, had distrusted her half-sister Elizabeth and put her in the Tower. Poor Queen Mary, who everyone said had had a sad life and had been brokenhearted because she could not bear a child. And then, at last, Elizabeth had become queen, against all odds—only to find herself thwarted in her desire to marry her beloved Robin—a thing she desired so greatly that she ordered the murder of Robin’s wife Amy. Or so it was widely believed.

Perhaps she is bitter out of guilt, I thought. Is that what keeps her from allowing Baron Burghley to have me executed? The fact that she does not want more guilt on her conscience?

But in the course of these musings my cousin had swum to the edge of the pool and was climbing out. I heard her muttering “A curse and a worry. Yes, by God’s death, a curse and a worry.” Then she shouted for her women, and in an instant three of them appeared, carrying blankets to throw around the queen’s spare shoulders, and lanterns to light her way to her waiting carriage.

I knew that Margaret was waiting for me, and that she would come if I called for her, but I delayed. Instead I continued to lie in the hot soothing waters, pondering my cousin’s words and reminding myself that as Jamie always said, it was actions, not words, that counted. And Elizabeth’s actions, though somewhat puzzling, were not hostile. She had come to the vicinity of Wingfield Manor to see me. She had kept me alive. She had spoken, on the whole, civilly to me and had even confided that she disliked children and most likely could not have any.

Or had all her actions been false? Had our entire meeting been a ruse, designed to deceive me or distract me from some larger and more sinister plan? Did she know that Thomas had told me of the letters hidden in Amy Dudley’s casket? Was she hoping to find out whether I had them, or what other scheme I might be involved in?

The moon had risen higher, and its pale white light bathed all in beauty. But for me there was to be no peace that night. For hours I lay awake, haunted by images of my thin, wraithlike cousin with her bony body and blunt words, her wry laugh and acid tone, her talk of a likeness between us and her sudden, abrupt leavetaking. What was I to make of it all? Did she mean me well or ill? And was she, despite the latent strength in her frail body, unlikely to live much longer?

The queen left Buxton on the night of our encounter in the mineral baths. I never received a thank you for the lovely blue cloak I made for her, or even an acknowledgment that she had received it. There was no further word from her on any subject. Only silence—and her abrupt departure.

On the day after she left, however, I received a gift that was more precious to me than any communication from the queen—except, of course, the communication that I most longed for. The news that I would soon be freed.

Jamie was at Buxton, staying at George Talbot’s house, in his constant guise of Holp the peddler. He was very welcome there, as the invalids and semi-invalids who frequented the spa were eager to buy his medicinal remedies and he could be very charming and persuasive when he chose, as I well knew.

And Jamie had another service to offer. Like many peddlers, he made small loans. From time to time he had loaned modest sums to the immensely rich George Talbot (who always felt poor and needy), and Talbot was usually in arrears in his repayment, which made him inclined to do favors for Jamie. Others at the spa owed Jamie money also, in fact he had quite a clientele of wellborn people who were in
debt to him, just as they were in debt to their dressmakers and tailors, their jewelers and coach-makers. Jamie encouraged these debts—and charged high rates of interest, just as the Italian moneylenders did. He confided to me that he was building a small fortune.

“When I have enough, I’ll buy us an army and invade Wingfield Manor and take you far away, someplace where the English can never reach us.”

“Oh, if only you could!”

“We could sail to the Orkneys or the Faroes, or perhaps southwards to Africa where the monkeys and the parrots come from. How would you like that?”

“Please, dear Jamie. Please.”

He kissed me, then said that he had a surprise for me.

“Talbot has given me permission to take you riding.” We went out to the stables and there I found Mignonne, and gladly mounted her. She whinnied softly as soon as she saw me, and I petted her soft neck.

“Where are we to go?”

“Oh, not far. Out into the countryside.”

The hill country around Buxton was rough, the riding paths no more than narrow tracks overgrown in many places with brambles and scrub. We rode without an escort, until we had gone perhaps five miles from the town of Buxton. Then we reached a cottage with a barn attached, a very modest place indeed, so modest that I couldn’t imagine how Jamie had happened to find it or who could live inside.

But when the cottage door opened and I saw my beloved grandmother Antoinette standing in the doorway, smiling, her arms outstretched, I let out a cry of joy and ran to her. She had grown more gray in the years since I had seen her last, her face more lined but still very handsome, the elegance of her garments a sharp contrast to the bareness of her surroundings.

She stepped back into the dark room and called out, “Viens-tu, ma poupette, viens voir ta maman!”

In response to her words a sweet-faced little girl came up to me,
her dimpled hands held out, her small mouth turned up in a grin, her plump cheeks pink with excitement.

“Maman maman maman,” she cried, and I swept her up into my arms and wept and swung her around and around for sheer happiness.

“She’s a bonny Scots lass, is she not?” Jamie said proudly. “Even if she does speak French and call me papa.”

I could not get over the sight of my dear Marie-Elizabeth. I had seen a miniature portrait of her, painted when she was about three years old, but I had not seen her in the flesh since she was a tiny infant. I held her in my lap and would not let her go, while my grandmother told me all about the farm in Normandie where they lived, Saint-Cheron, and the healthful life they enjoyed there, with fresh eggs from the hen house and fresh cream from the dairy, home-grown barley and oats for baking bread and apples and pears and cherries from the orchards in season.

“I have a pony, maman,” little Marie-Elizabeth told me, looking up into my face with a beguiling smile. “And there are kitties in the barn and grandmamma gave me a bird that talks. When are you coming to live with us?”

At this I could only shake my head. “I don’t know, dearest little girl. If only I knew.”

“Recite your Latin for maman, poupette.”

I smiled to hear Marie-Elizabeth pronounce the words of a few lines from Vergil in Latin, her Latin heavily accented with French.

“Her tutor is very pleased with her,” grandmamma said. “And her dancing master as well.”

“You should see her ride,” Jamie said. “I helped teach her. She has a good seat for a child who is not yet six years old.”

Jamie explained that as soon as he had heard I would be coming to the spa, he sent Red Ormiston in the
Black Messenger
to bring Marie-Elizabeth and my grandmother to England, hoping they could see me during my weeks away from Wingfield Manor. Ormiston smuggled them ashore at a deserted cove unguarded by Baron Burghley’s spies.

“The coast is well guarded these days. They are watching for the Jesuits, who are swarming ashore in dozens, coming to take back England for the pope.”

“I know. The French ambassador writes to me. He sends his messages through the cobbler Johannis, in the cork heels of my shoes.”

Jamie held out his hand to Marie-Elizabeth. “Come, my bonny.” She slid off my lap and took his hand. “I know your grandmamma wants to talk to you alone, Orange Blossom. We will go and see the garden.”

I watched my daughter’s retreating figure with longing.

“Anyone can see how you love her,” grandmamma said. “You should be with her. It could be arranged, you know. You have only to tell us when and where, and King Charles’s soldiers will come for you. This Baron Burghley I hear about has eyes everywhere—even on this cottage, I have no doubt—but your Jamie is clever. He could find a way to get you to the coast, and King Charles will bring his ships to guard you on your return to France.”

She knelt at my feet, the folds of her long black gown spreading out over the dusty floor.

“Your little girl needs you. She cries for her papa, she sees him so rarely. And now that she has known you, she will cry for you too.”

I could not help but be moved by this plea, it was so heartfelt—and so unlike my self-possessed, wise grandmother.

“I weep for her too, grandmamma,” I said. “And for you.”

A silence fell, then my grandmother spoke again, in a far firmer tone.

“Don’t imagine that Queen Elizabeth will just hand you her throne,” Antoinette went on, rising shakily from her knees and beginning to walk around the small room. “Don’t imagine that she is your friend. She is ruthless. Everyone knows it. She is even more ruthless than your mother-in-law Catherine, who I have never liked or trusted and who ordered the murder of so many innocent souls on that terrible St. Bartholomew’s Day.”

My former mother-in-law had shocked all of Christendom the year before by ordering the slaughter of thousands of Protestants in Paris, a slaughter that continued for nearly a week and left untold numbers dead. The victims had been killed for no other reason than that they were Protestants, not Catholics; the queen feared that they meant to destroy the supremacy of the Catholic church in France.

“Ever since the pope excommunicated Queen Elizabeth there has been war brewing between the Catholics and Protestants here in England,” my grandmother was saying. “You are the Catholics’ heroine. Secret Catholics, fearful of the Protestant queen and her Parliament, hang your picture in their homes, along with the crucifix. They hope that through you, the country can be brought back into the fold of the true church. But you know what will happen. There will be war, and more slaughter, and you and your son will be in danger—and Marie-Elizabeth too, if—God forbid—it becomes known that she is your daughter.

“Do not risk it, petite reinette,” she pleaded, suddenly abandoning her calm tone and showing her emotions once again. “Come home to France, as you should have when Marie-Elizabeth was first born. Don’t make the same mistake as you did then! Come home to France, where you are loved, and forget all that has happened since you left. Let us all start afresh at Saint-Cheron. You have a husband and a daughter, and it may even happen, God willing, that one day your son will be reunited with you as well.

“The path you are on cannot lead to anything but destruction. You cannot really expect to ever be queen in either England or Scotland. Your claims are just, but they can never be realized. The Scots despise you and even if Elizabeth dies, she will not leave her kingdom to you, but to your Protestant son—or someone else entirely.

“I beg you, dearest Marie, listen to your wise old grandmamma and come to us in France!”

You should have been a lawyer, I thought to myself. You are very persuasive—and I would like nothing better than to live with Jamie
and Marie-Elizabeth and you in your rural paradise. But no matter what you or Michel de Notredame or anyone else may say, I know where my destiny lies, and it does not lie on an estate in Normandie. I am a queen, a queen of two realms, not a dairymaid or a farmer. I must seek my thrones. Once I reign, I will bring my family to court. All will be as it should be. I must be patient, and courageous, and in the end, I shall have it all.