Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (165 page)

Voluntary suffering was altogether different from involuntary, thought
Mary. In one sense it was nobler, in that it need not be borne; but in
another it was gentler, because the power of ending it lay within a
person's will, not God's. It was an exercise in will, not in
humility.

No one showed any inclination to leave her. She wished those who had
other callings would pursue them before it was too late. Dear Mary
Seton was she to remain unmarried only because she had chosen this
exile?

It is different with me, Mary thought. I have had marriage, and a
child, and if I now must live celibate, it cannot be altered. But Mary
Seton who will there be for her? She is not likely to want an English
Protestant, and there are no eligible men in my party of exiles. I do
not want to be responsible for her loneliness or is that part of my
punishment, too?

December 5, 1570. Anniversary of the death of Franqois. My
punishment. Why does it go on and on? Soon I will be twenty-eight, I
will have been in captivity almost four years. I will have spent half
as long in bondage and punishment as my entire time in Scotland. And
there is no end in sight The days stretch out, in a long road of
sameness, as far ahead as human eye can see. Who can rescue me?

I try to endure the suffering the bodily, with the strange visitations
of pain in my joints, the mental, with the responsibility for what has
happened in Scotland and to my followers, the spiritual, with the guilt
for my personal sins. I know, in my inmost being, that suffering is to
purify the soul. Mine was very blemished and faulty. Bur for how
long, O Lord? "And his lord was wroth, and delivered him to the
tormentors, till he should pay all that was due unto him." I have
paid, and I am paying, and I will pay. But for how long? Or is my
punishment to last until I stop crying "How long?", counting the days,
and beating my wings against the cage?

On Mary's birthday, December eighth, Shrewsbury and Bess sent the
Earl's new ward up to Mary's apartments with a pastry castle to help
her celebrate. One side of the castle was open, to show the rooms the
pastry cook had constructed in painstaking detail. There were
miniature chests holding little name tags, and inside there were gold
coins for Mary's attendants. Bess had even painted facsimiles of some
of the embroidery panels they had done together, and hung them on the
pastry walls. They had sent up Shrewsbury's musicians to join the few
that Mary had in her company, and soon lively dance tunes filled the
dark December afternoon.

Mary was actually in a great deal of discomfort; her joints were
especially swollen and red that day, and she was troubled with a
recurring headache. But she had dressed in her best gown, and had
Seton arrange her hair grown back to shoulder length with a wig.

"Alas, my lady," Seton had said, "your hair is not as thick and
luxurious as it was before."

Hanging in the air was the rest of the sentence: .. . and I fear it
never will be, that that is another thing left behind in Scotland. A
permanent sacrifice.

"Then put on my wig, the one with the reddest tints," said Mary. "How
fortunate I am to have you to help me! They say Elizabeth's real hair
is never seen, that she always wears wigs."

Mary saw her own hair disappear underneath the wig, just as the diamond
from Norfolk she always wore around her neck lay hidden beneath her
clothing. Norfolk .. . her one chance of escape. She had not received
word from him in some time; the castle was tightly guarded.

Shrewsbury and Bess had joined them briefly, offering gifts: an ivory
box, a magnifying glass with an ebony handle. Shrewsbury had then
introduced the boy who had brought up the pastry, and had stood, ever
since, silently staring.

"This is my new ward, Anthony Babington," said Shrewsbury. "He comes
of an old neighbouring family, and his father was my good friend. I
would like you to allow him to serve as your page, if you would," he
said. "I can think of no greater consolation for the loss of a father
than to enter the household of a queen."

"And what say you?" asked Mary, looking at the boy. He was a slender
boy, with very fair skin and black hair. He did not smile at all.

"It would please me," he said quietly. Still no smile.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Eleven," he answered.

Eleven. That strange, secretive age between childhood and manhood. His
almond-shaped eyes were downcast.

"Eleven ... do you know Latin? Have you studied history?"

"A little." Now his lips were curving up in a slight smile.

"Very well, then. You will serve half the day and study the other
half. We will try not to make the lessons too hard."

Shrewsbury shook his head. "They cannot prove too hard for him. He is
a brilliant lad at least in book-studies. Try him."

New Year's Day, 1571. A new year .. a blank page upon which,
supposedly, I have the power to write my fate. Fate? Is Fate a woman
in London? I continue to write to Queen Elizabeth, but it is a futile
exercise. She blames me for the Northern Uprising and for the Bull of
Excommunication She has stopped writing to me in her own hand and uses
a secretary

Cecil was here in the autumn I met the famous man himself, my adversary
He came to lay out certain proposals to me that might result in my
being restored to my throne in Scotland But they were so harsh it was
obvious he had only come so that he could say he had tried, and I was
unreasonable One of them was that Prince James should come and be a
hostage in England The others were that I must at long last confirm the
Treaty of Edin burgh, renounce my present title of succession to the
English throne, and make no marriage without the permission of
Elizabeth and the Scottish Lords.

He was a gentle man. I enjoyed meeting him. He seemed so thoughtful,
so open-minded. I would even have been misled into believing that he
liked me, except that I had been informed that he had tried to beg off
the task of seeing me and had fallen into an opportune illness, and
that he had referred to me as offering "sugared entertainments to draw
men toward her." I did not offer him anything with sugar in it when he
came to Sheffield, but I tried to behave toward him as I would wish to
be behaved toward. He was going on to Buxton after leaving here, a
place nearby that has thermal baths of healing, it seems he is troubled
with gout. I would like to go there sometime myself, if my painful
joints do not subside. But of course I am not allowed to go without
written permission from Queen Elizabeth.

Nothing more has been said about my "clearing myself" to her, evidently
that ploy has been consigned to the dust heap, which proves that it was
never anything but a ploy, an excuse not to see me.

Why will she not see me? I mean the true reason. There can be no true
reason. Charity and statecraft both would require that she do so. She
has met with my rebel lords, who were not even related to her by blood,
nor were they anointed rulers. She has met with pirates and
blackguards, with defrocked priests and renegades, with known murderers
like Lennox he who murdered the little children who were his hostages
in the wars of 1547, before there was peace between England and
Scotland. My own Lord Herries, when he was only seven, was the only
one he spared. They say he has terrible dreams and cannot bear to be
left alone at night. Yet Elizabeth meets with him! And made him
Regent of Scotland, while she leaves me to languish here in
captivity!

She hates me. She has always hated me. There can be no other
explanation. Lennox cries daily for my extradition and execution.

March 15, 1571. At last, after so many months of ciphers and
messengers and negotiations, all the plans are set. Ridolfi has
succeeded in obtaining the Duke of Norfolk's signature on a letter
consenting to become Catholic. This was necessary before either the
Duke of Alva or Philip could be persuaded to lend their efforts to
freeing me. They were, understandably, reluctant to be part of any
plan to put a Protestant in line for the English throne,

or for me to be married to a Protestant. Now Ridolfi will set sail and
make for Brussels to present all this in person to Alva, before
proceeding on to Rome and Spain. Bishop Leslie's servant, Charles
Bailley, will meet him on the Continent and serve to deliver letters
back to England, to me and Leslie and Norfolk. Now, God go with him!

Mary was finishing a letter to Norfolk, written with the precious
orange juice. ".. . On that condition I took the diamond you sent by
my Lord Boyd, which I shall wear unseen about my neck till I give it
again to the owner of it and me both. I am bold with you, because you
put all to my choice. Let me hear some comfortable answer...."

Suddenly she was aware that someone was standing in a corner of the
room, barely breathing. But she could feel the human presence. She
pulled a plain piece of paper over her secret one.

"Who's there?" she asked.

"Only me," said the small, distinct voice of Anthony Babington. He
stepped out of the shadows and walked over to her, his handsome, smooth
face holding no expression at all. In all the weeks he had been a
member of the household, she had never seen him smile. Stare, often;
smile, never.

"Anthony, I did not know you were here. Have you duties just now?" The
little boy was an odd presence; in some ways he seemed older than
eleven, because he was so intense. So far he had no friends or
playmates.

"Yes, I was to gather the green cloths from the tables, take them out
and shake them."

"Then you may do so."

Anthony did not turn to his task, but instead came over to her desk and
stood looking down at the paper.

I wish he would go away, Mary thought, so I can finish this letter.
Soon the other members of the household will be back in this chamber;
since they are not allowed to leave the castle, they never stay away
long.

He persisted in looking at the desk, then finally said, "You are
writing a secret letter." He pointed at the little cup of orange juice
and said, "The smell gives it away."

Now he will tell Shrewsbury, thought Mary. How can I persuade him not
to?

"I know something better than orange juice," he said. "Something I
could show you."

"Why?" she asked, startled. "I do not need to write secret letters. I
was only practising. In case I did."

"Then you must practise with my method." He looked at her from
underneath his hair, which made a dark awning across his forehead.

"No, because if Shrewsbury saw me doing such a thing, he would suspect
me of something wicked. All secrets are considered wicked, you know."
She smiled at him, trying to make this moment only a game, so he would
forget it later. He was now dangerous to her.

"Then we shall be wicked together," he said, his lips curving upward in
a hint of a smile. "The way is this use alum. Orange juice and lemon
juice have this disadvantage, that once they have been exposed to the
heat, and read, the paper bearing them must be destroyed. Now alum
will also be invisible, and only become readable when the paper or
fabric is dampened and held up to the heat, but it will fade again when
it dries. So you need not worry about destroying it. It allows more
things to serve as message-carriers."