Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (182 page)

I suppose, had I the inclinations of the Wife of Bath, there would have
been Anthony Babington to hand, although to me he will always seem a
child. But Anthony, although he did seem to admire me and find me
pleasant, never looked at me in any improper way. And I have heard
that after he went to London, he made a good marriage with a Catholic
girl, and made quite a fashionable showing at court. Then, he took
himself to France and, so I have been informed, has made contact with
Thomas Morgan, my representative in Paris. He still yearns for
adventure, I think, and I pray he does not himself become the prey of
true adventurers and scoundrels.

But on this Wife-of-Bath business there is the most astounding,
pitiful, and comical courtship now proceeding between Elizabeth and
little Francois, Catherine de Medicis's baby. There is a
twenty-two-year age difference between them! Francois, who was only
six years old when I left France, has come to England courting her,
and, from all reports, she is smitten! It seems that he is the only
one of her many suitors actually to have crossed the Channel and come
in person to woo and thus, although he is tiny, pockmarked, and of an
hysterical disposition, she purports to find him charming. She calls
him her "Frog" and wears a gold frog pin with emerald eyes, and hangs
upon him and sighs.

Robert Dudley is not amused, but then he cannot afford to complain. He
himself made a secret marriage, to Lord Knollys's daughter Lettice, and
the Queen was furious when she was told by the Frog's aide. Her
faithful Robin had finally grown weary of waiting, after seventeen
years, and deserted his post. Some say she pursues the French marriage
only as a sort of revenge, others as a compensation. She is on the
verge of being unable to bear children at all, and perhaps she snatches
at this as her last chance. Certainly I doubt it is in a Wife-of-Bath
manner that she wants him. But her Council and half the realm are
suddenly unsure they want the Virgin Queen to desert her post as surely
as Robert Dudley did his. For twenty-odd years they have hounded her
to marry, now that she may, they are horrified.

And I? If she marries and has a child, then my son will be dislodged
from the succession. But I cannot begrudge her marriage although I
myself would never marry again. I will die as Bothwell's widow, and
that is what I wish.

And as for James, I have put forward a proposal that is being actively
considered: that he and I rule together in a sanctioned Association.
This would confirm his kingship, as well as procuring my liberty. I
believe there is a real chance that it may be approved, and thus at
last everyone shall be satisfied. My old enemies in Scotland are all
dead: Lord James, Morton, Lennox, Knox. There now should be no
hindrance to my return. Surely the English would be relieved to end
their keeping of me!

For more and more it works against them to have me here. It has long
outlived whatever purpose it had, and far from buying them safety, it
provokes plots and unrest. I cannot help it that the situation between
the Protestants and the Catholics has deteriorated so. But it has, and
my presence here is dangerous for me and for them. I am powerless to
prevent madmen from scheming and weaving their schemes around me. I am
a hostage to my own partisans, and will be punished for their plans.

It happened: someone attempted to assassinate William of Orange, the
Protestant leader of the Netherlands, in response to Philip's call.
Luckily he lived, but now Elizabeth's life is feared for as well, for
she is the other great Protestant leader. The cardinal secretary Como,
papal secretary of state, said in writing that anyone assassinating
Elizabeth would be doing a good deed. He said, "Since that guilty
woman of England is the cause of so much injury to the Catholic faith,
there is no doubt that whosoever sends her out of the world with pious
intention of doing God service, not only does not sin but gains merit,
especially having regard to the excommunication sentence passed on her
by Pius V of holy memory." So the Holy See counsels murder what would
the Prince of Peace make of it?

In response, the English Parliament passed a series of vicious laws
against Catholics: it became high treason to convert an Anglican to
Catholicism, anyone saying or hearing mass was liable to a large fine
and a year's imprisonment,- a heavy fine was laid on anyone who failed
to attend the Anglican services.

Yet the Jesuits continue to come to these shores, risking their lives
for their faith, and mine as well They have set up a secret press and
pour out pamphlets and books, several hundred copies of one were even
distributed at Oxford in the very church where a formal academic
exercise was being held! They have recently reached the Sheffield
area, and I had the supreme happiness of receiving one, a rather
Samerie. Although he could not stay, it was a blessing to have him
even for a day. Yet I fear for him, and for his fellows. May God
protect them!

In this climate, there has been launched the "Holy Enterprise" launched
in words, that is. The "Holy Enterprise" is nothing more or less than
the retaking of England for the Catholic faith. This time it is my
relatives, the Guises, who mastermind it, along with Pope Gregory,
Philip, and the English Catholic exiles. Their dream is to invade
England with five thousand borrowed Spanish troops from the
Netherlands, led by the young Duc de Guise, my nephew, they will then
be joined by twenty thousand native English. They will liberate me,
they say. And I, through my secret messenger Francis Throckmorton,
Nicholas's nephew, have kept myself informed of all these plans. Who
am I to gainsay them? They promise to liberate me. If my prison door
is thrown wide open, shall I refuse to walk out? Shall I be like Saint
Paul and stay in my chains? Nay, that I shall not. For Saint Paul was
imprisoned for what he preached and what he believed, whereas I was
imprisoned for no good reason no earthly reason, that is. If it is for
God's reason, then I submit. And if it is for God's reason, then no
power on earth can break me out.

August 15, 1584. The Feast of the Assumption of Our Lady. Yesterday I
left Buxton, and I fear I shall never return. It was a feeling that
came to me, a whisper that all would be changed soon does that mean my
death? I had taken the warm waters for six weeks, lying in them,
letting them soothe my stiff limbs. I now know I will never be cured,
but only find a temporary relief of symptoms. The entire day was built
around taking the cure, and at night I would return to my chambers in
Shrewsbury's hall and, rubbing my limbs with the oil of ripe olives,
mixed with chamomile and rose-dew, I would feel them grow warm and
limber. Then I could sleep peacefully. Mary Seton, who is always with
me, now has the rheumatism as bad as I, and has been availing herself
of the waters as well.

I would sit at the window, looking down at the empty street empty
because so few people are allowed to come while I am here, lest some
spy or messenger slip through. For that reason alone, I cannot stay
here long, as I cannot in good conscience keep the whole place for
myself.

But last night as I was looking down, I suddenly was seized with an
urge to write a farewell message on the glass, taking off the Duke of
Norfolk's diamond from around my neck, I scratched Buxtona, cjuae
calida celebris is no mine Lymphae, orfe mibi posthac non adeunda,
vale: "Buxton, whose fame thy milk-warm waters tell, whom I, perchance,
no more shall see, farewell. " I have loved Buxton, but I can bid
farewell. I have learned how to bid farewell to everything 1 hold dear
or have enjoyed. Now, as I have told my English gaolers, there are
only two things that can never be taken from me: my royal blood and my
Catholic faith, which are the true reasons I am imprisoned.

Coming through the countryside and back to Sheffield Manor, the beauty
of the land in high summer was one of fulfillment and peace. I
remembered how in France there were always processions through the
countryside on Assumption Day, the image of Our Blessed Lady being
borne through the fields of grain, riding like a ship in the summer
harvest. But nothing of that sort any longer in England. As we passed
through the extensive deer park that surrounds the manor for it was
originally a hunting lodge and summer residence the shadows under the
massive oaks seemed as cool and restorative as a deep well, beckoning
us to stop and rest awhile. But of course that was not allowed. We
must go straight through the high brick gatehouse and directly back
into the apartments.

I was allowed to rest and my ladies to unpack our things before I was
presented with the unwelcome and ominous news: William of Orange had
been assassinated, shot down in his own house in Delft by a Burgundian
agent of Philip's. "Shot at revoltingly close range," was the way
Shrewsbury put it.

"It grieves me," I said.

"It does not grieve your relatives the Guises, nor the Pope, nor the
Jesuits lurking about here, nor, of course, Philip of Spain. Your
friends!"

"They are not my friends," I replied. And indeed I had faced the fact
that they were not. All they had to give was words. I had begun to
suspect that they had no real intention of helping me, that I was just
a verbal pawn to be used in their game of international politics Only
they had the power armies and men to deliver me, but they never would,
because they did not care. The ones who cared fanatic loyalists,
gentry families of ancient Catholic allegiance had not the power to do
it. And thus I would die here in England, in my tower, guarded by
staunch Protestant dragons.

"Of course they are your friends! If they are not, why do you intrigue
with them? The Throckmorton Plot " Shrewsbury's sad eyes had begun to
glow.

Yes. The Throckmorton Plot. That was what they were calling it, named
after my agent who had been captured and tortured by Francis
Walsingham. He had served as a messenger between me, the Spanish
ambassador, and all the plotters in Europe who were planning the "Holy
Enterprise."

"I was merely kept informed about it," I said. "I offered no advice,
no support."

"You should have reported it to Queen Elizabeth! Your failure to do so
means that you are a traitor! Have you heard of misprision of treason?
It means to be aware of treason and fail to report it. It is a
felony!" His voice was rising, and his gentle demeanour was changing.
Of late, Shrewsbury had undergone a transformation,-he was worn down
and worn out, and weary of his thankless task in being appointed my
Protestant guard-dragon. He also, understandably, felt betrayed that I
had dared to "plot" right under his nose. It was a delicate matter.

"Dear friend, let us not quibble. This is but a reflection of a larger
issue, one that loomed from the first moment I was illegally detained
here. I told Sir Francis Knollys then, and I have continued to say it,
"If I shall be held here perforce, you may be sure, then, as a
desperate person I will use any attempts that may serve my purpose
either by myself or my friends." It is the role of the prisoner to try
to escape, and the role of the gaoler to try to prevent it. But within
those prescribed courses of behaviour, we may still be honourable
people."

"Honourable! To try to assassinate Elizabeth!"