CHAPTER XVIII

“FACE TO FACE”

A free man, a free agent! But at what a price was Shrewsbury free!

His honour was undermined by his own family, his fortunes impaired by his Queen’s penuriousness, his prime was past, his best given in return for apparently naught. Even the gratitude of his captive—and she never seems to have been regardless of such leniency as he was permitted to show her—had it been emphatically expressed, would have been no real reward to him, for it would only have placed him under suspicion. He had but one testimonial to his credit—the fact that in the midst of Mary’s dangers and terrors she felt that she was safer in his keeping “than in that of any other.” His farewell to her cannot have been anything but a strained and painful matter, with the hateful barrier of “scandilation” to mar the dignity and courtesy of it on both sides. She wished him to convey her letters to Elizabeth. He declined, and her new gaoler sent them with his official correspondence. Thus parted, after the strange intimacy of fifteen years, Mary of Scotland and George Talbot. When they met again it was as principal actors in the “tragedy of Fotheringay” in the autumn of 1586.

The Earl travelled to London with his retinue of gentlemen and grooms—a business of four to five days. Face to face he and his sovereign stood at last and the second formal step in the scandal affair was taken.

He was “very graciously used by her Majesty,” who showed herself “very desirous to comprehend the controversies between him and the lady, his wife.” Walsingham, commenting on this, writes that he feared this reconciliation would “not be performed over easily.” Elizabeth kept her promise and set to work at once. The Lords of the Council were summoned to testify to his loyalty, uprightness, and honour, and he was called to face them and receive their magnificent and pompous declaration, “a memorable testimonial by Queen Elizabeth and the Lords of the Council as to the discharge of his duty faithfully, and trust in the custody of the Queen of Scots.” It is not necessary to quote the whole document here. The actual domestic scandal is only touched very vaguely in it thus:—

“And if in some trifles, and private matters of small moment, not appertaining to the Queen’s Majesty, his Lordship thought that his honour and reputation had been touched by the evil reports of any, he was required to think that the same was common to them and others as well as to himself in this world, howbeit, if any person could be particularly charged by his Lordship, it was reason that he should be called to answer the same; and, therefore, his Lordship was desired to assure himself of this their Lordships’ good and honourable opinion concerning his Lordship, and so to sit down as a person that was very meet for the company, then to serve her Majesty and the realm; and so, therewith, he took his place in Council according to his degree and office.”

Thus did their Lordships pour oil on the bruises of their battered colleague. But he needed more than words. The pain was too deep to be healed by that bland reminder of the general prevalence of false witnesses in the world. The phrase “if any person could be particularly charged ... it was reason that he should be called to answer the same” is far more curative. Two such persons had been dealt with. But his lady was not to escape. Beale, his good friend, took a serious view of the situation. “I have dealt with the Earl,” he wrote to Walsingham, “touching his son, and find him well affected towards him save that he says he is ruled by his wife, who is directed by her mother. I think his hatred for her will hardly be appeased, as he thinks the slanders and other information made to her Majesty have proceeded from her.”

Both Mary and Shrewsbury were to have their full satisfaction. Mary was from the first most explicit, and, not content with her excited outpourings to the French Ambassador, herself wrote to Elizabeth at this date from Wingfield Manor after Shrewsbury and she had parted. She alludes in this letter to Elizabeth’s “honourable promise.” She declares that she will never desist from her demands for satisfaction until her reputation is formally cleared in regard to the Countess’s slanders. It is a final challenge which Elizabeth could not in decency resist.

In December of this year Bess Shrewsbury with William and Charles were called to their account before the Lords of the Council. Full satisfaction was received—of a kind. There could be nothing very triumphant about it from Mary’s point of view. There was really none of that magnificent abasement of her trio of enemies which she painted subsequently to a correspondent in one of her letters after her removal to Chartly. This is her version:—

“The Countess of Shrewsbury (I thank God) hath been tried and found to her shame, in her attempt against me, the same woman indeed that many have had opinion that she was, and at the request of my secretary Nau, he being at the Queen of England’s Court in the month of December, ’84, the said lady upon her knees, in presence of the Queen of England and some principals of her Council, denied to her the shameful bruits by herself spread abroad against me.”[75]

As a matter of fact, the accused three unanimously asserted total ignorance of the entire scandal and its possible sources alike, and their declaration made before the Privy Council was solemnly recorded, and is included in the mass of State documents, while an exact copy of it is among the Talbot papers. It is not a very interesting or savoury little document, but highly important to George Talbot and his heirs as a second certificate of merit. It covers exactly the same ground as the extract quoted from Fletewood’s “dyarium.” At its conclusion, after testifying boldly to the dignity and honour of Mary, the mother and sons offer to uphold the truth of their wholesale disclaimer against any person whomsoever, whenever the occasion should arise. Thus, though posterity is afforded that vision of their abject position “on their knees in the royal presence” as stated by Mary, the attitude, contrasted with their denial, is rather that of reverent dignity than of sheer abasement.

Thus was the honour of the Talbots saved, but at such cost and after such a pitiful process of the public washing of family linen that it does very little real credit to the parties concerned. The poor Earl could only point to his Queen’s testimonial and console himself by thinking on his family doggerel:—

The Talbot true that is, And still hath so remaynde, Lost never noblenesse By princke of spot distaynde: On such a fixed fayth This trustie Talbot stayth.

For there is no real honour left to a house divided against itself. The quarrel of man and wife had become the property of the world. Matters must be patched up somehow with the aid of friends and Court officials. Everything, to the eye, was now put on a highly respectable basis. The bland disclaimer by the Cavendishes paved the way at any rate for a more decent family relationship.

For the fourth time in her life Bess Hardwick had faced and surmounted a great danger. As Lady St. Loe she had laid herself in some way open to back-biters, had triumphantly quashed them, and had escaped being deeply involved in the affair of Lady Catherine Grey; as Lady Shrewsbury she had braved the wrath of Elizabeth over the Lennox marriage, and now triumphed over Mary and the Earl. Upon this last occasion she emerged with a slate at least superficially clean.

Superficially. The thing extorts your admiration after the reading of Mary’s detailed accusations. But there is yet one more letter which Mary planned to send hurtling towards the Court. It is a bomb more deadly than any of the rest, and had it found its mark even the indomitable Lady Shrewsbury might have been annihilated—would certainly have been hopelessly discountenanced. It is the production known to all students of this historical period as “The Scandal Letter,” here translated with the exception of passages which are best in the original French. Again, full allowance must be made here for the overwrought condition of the writer. This letter tallies with the spirit of the letters on the same subject already seen. Moreover, it is on all sides adjudged by experts to be a genuine document in Mary’s own hand. This epistle, which in itself formed a safety-valve for the tumult of the writer’s brain, either was not despatched and was afterwards found among her papers, or may have been intercepted in full flight—possibly by Burghley, for it rests to this day among the Hatfield MSS. Events show that it can never have reached Elizabeth. The publication of such pernicious matter could not have done any good or have diverted in any way Elizabeth’s disapproval from her prisoner. Nor could it have altered Mary’s fate. If there be, as one cannot but think, a certain basis of truth in it—the Countess had a lively tongue, as the world knows—the road by which this lady travelled between 1578 and 1584 must have literally overhung a ghastly social precipice.

“Madame,[76]

“In accordance with what I promised you and have ever since desired, I must—though with regret that such matters should be called in question, still without passion and from motives of true sincerity, as I call God to witness—declare to you that what the Countess of Shrewsbury has said of you to me is as nearly as possible as follows. I assure you I treated the greater part of her statements, while rebuking the said lady for thinking and speaking so licentiously of you, as matters in which I had no belief, either then or now, knowing the nature of the Countess and the spirit which animated her against you.

“Premièrement, qu-un, auquel elle disoit que vous aviez faict promesse de mariage devant une dame de votre chambre, avait couché infinies foys avvesques vous, avecque toute la licence et privaulté qui se peut user entre mari et femme; mais qu’indubitablement vous n’estiez pas comme les aultres femmes, et pour ce respect c’estoit follie a tous ceulz qu-affectoient vostre mariage avec M. le duc d’Anjou, d’aultant qu’il ne se pourrait accomplir, et que vous ne vouldriez jamais perdre la liberté de vous fayre fayre l’amour et avoir vostre plésir tousjours avecques nouveaulx amoureulx, regrettant, ce disoit elle, que vous ne vous contentiez de maister Haton et un aultre de ce royaulme: mays que, pour l’honneur du pays, il lui fashoit le plus que vous aviez non seulement engagé vostre honneur avecques un étranger nommé Simier, l’alant trouver la nuit dans la chambre d’une dame, que la dicte comtesse blamoit fort a ceste occasion là, où vous le baisiez et usiez avec lui de diverses privautez deshonestes; mays aussi lui revelliez les segrets du royaulme, trahisant vos propres conseillers avex luy. Que vous vous esties desportée de la mesme dissolution avvec le Duc son maystre, qui vous avoit esté trouver une nuit à la porte de vostre chambre, où vous l’aviez rencontré avvec vostre seulle chemise et manteau de nuit, et que par après vous l’aviez laissé entrer, et qu’il demeura avecques vous près de troys heures.

“As for the aforenamed Hatton [it was said] that you literally pursued him, displaying your love for him so publicly that he was obliged to withdraw, that you gave Killigrew[77] a box on the ear because he did not bring back Hatton when sent in pursuit, the latter having left your presence in anger because of insulting remarks you had made about some gold buttons on his coat. [The Countess said] that she had worked to achieve the marriage of the said Hatton with the late Countess of Lennox, her daughter, but that he would not listen to the proposal for fear of you. Again, that even the Earl of Oxford durst not live with his wife lest he should lose the advantages which he hoped to receive for making love to you, that you were lavish towards all such persons and to all who were engaged in similar intrigues; for example, that you gave a person of the Bedchamber, named George, a pension of £300 for bringing you the news of the return of Hatton; that towards all other persons you were very thankless and stingy, and that there were but three or four in your kingdom whom you had ever benefited. The Countess, in fits of laughter, advised me to place my son among the ranks of your lovers as a thing which would do me good service and would entirely disable the Duke, whose affair, if allowed to continue, would be very prejudicial to me. And when I replied that such an act would be interpreted as sheer mockery, she answered that you were so vain, and had such a good opinion of your beauty—as if you were a sort of goddess from heaven—that she wagered she could easily make you take the matter seriously and would put my son in the way of carrying it through.

“[She said] that you were so fond of exaggerated adulation, such as the assurance that no one dared to look full into your face, since it shone like the sun, that she and other ladies at Court were obliged to employ similar forms of flattery; that on her last appearance before you she and the late Countess of Lennox scarcely ventured to interchange glances for fear of bursting into laughter over the way in which they were openly mocking you. She begged me on her return to scold her daughter because she could not persuade her to do likewise; and as for your daughter Talbot she was assured that she would never fail to sneer at you. The said Lady Talbot, immediately upon her return, after she had made her obeisance to you and taken the oath as one of your servants, related it to me as a mere empty pretence, and begged me to receive a similar act of homage, one which she felt, however, more deeply and rendered absolutely to me. This for a long time I refused, but in the end, disarmed by her tears, I let her yield it to me, she declaring that she would not for worlds be in personal attendance upon you, for fear lest if you were angry you would treat her as you did her Cousin Skedmur (whose finger you broke, pretending to those at Court that it was caused by the fall of a chandelier), or as you did another, who while waiting on you at table received a great cut on the hand from a knife from you. In a word, from these latter details and the rumours of common gossip you can see that you are made game of and mimicked by your ladies as if they were at a play, and even by my women also, though, when I perceived it, I swear to you that I forbade my women to have anything to do with the matter.

“In addition the said Countess once informed me that you wanted to induce Rolson[78] to make love to me and attempt to dishonour me, either literally or by scandalous rumours, and that he had instructions to this effect from your own lips; that Ruxby came here about eight years ago to make an attempt on my life after being received by you personally, and that you told him to do all that Walsingham should command and direct.

“That when the Countess was promoting the marriage of her son Charles with one of Lord Paget’s nieces, while you on the other hand wanted to secure her by the exercise of your unlimited and absolute prerogative for a member of the Knollys family, she had raised an outcry against you and declared it was pure tyranny that you should want to carry off all the heiresses of the country according to your own fancy, and that you had disgracefully abused the said Paget, but that in the end the nobility of the kingdom would not stand it, even if you appealed to other than those whom she knew well.

“Il y a environ quatre ou sinq ans que, vous estant malade et moy aussy au mesme temps, elle me dit que vostre mal provenoit de la closture une fistulle que vous aviez dans une jambe: et que son doubte, venant à perdre vos moys, vous mourriez bientost.

“In this she rejoiced on the strength of a vain notion she has long cherished, based on the predictions of one named John Lenton, and upon an old book which foretold your death by violence and the accession of another queen, whom she interpreted to be me. She merely regretted that according to this book it was predicted that the queen who was to succeed you would only reign three years and would die, like you, a violent death. All this was actually represented in a picture in the book, the contents of the last page of which she would never disclose to me.

“She knows that I always looked upon all this as pure nonsense, but she did her utmost to ingratiate herself with me and even to ensure the marriage of my son with my niece Arbella.

“In conclusion I once more swear to you on my faith and honour that all this is perfectly true, and that where your honour is concerned it was never my intention to wrong you by revealing it, and that it should never be known through me, who hold it all to be very false. If I may have an hour’s speech with you I will give more particulars of the names, times, places, and other circumstances to prove to you the truth of this and other things, which I reserve until fully assured of your friendship. This I desire more than ever. Further, if I can this time secure it you will find no relative, friend, nor even subject more loyal and affectionate than myself. For God’s sake, believe the assurance of one who will and can serve you.

“From my bed, forcing my arm and my sufferings to satisfy and obey you.

“MARIE R.”

This letter, of course, is concentrated venom. Mary could embroider with her pen as well as with her clever needle. She could entwine and order her imaginings with magnificent effect. She had heaps of fantasy and romance and could employ them more than puckishly. The document is a _tour de force_ of craft and power. Its double aim is unerring. With this one poisoned shaft the writer seeks to destroy the security of the two Elizabeths—so similar in their autocratic natures, their vitality and joy in intrigue. A fiendish delight lurks behind every suggestion aimed at the person and amours of Elizabeth. Even these, taking into account the ghastly suspense of her imprisonment and the wreckage of her mental balance, might be forgiven to Mary. But the statement suggesting Elizabeth’s betrayal of her State secrets to a mere envoy like the Frenchman Simier, while admitting him to the grossest intimacy, is too wickedly sane in its vindictiveness to be forgivable. In her most impulsive, most overwrought moments Lady Shrewsbury would never have dared to suggest a thing so base or so impossible. The letter condemns itself throughout, and undermines the truth of many of the previous wild complaints by Mary of the Countess’s words and deeds. Naturally, every breath of scandal attaching to the Queen’s intercourse with the innumerable persons of the opposite sex with whom her position brought her into contact was treasured and retailed in all directions, and exaggerated versions of every incident would, of course, be transmitted to Mary. To achieve such a letter she had only to collect the titbits, put them into the mouth of one she hated, profess to expose all the rottenness of Elizabeth’s so-called friends, and serve up the whole gallimaufry with a crowning _bonne bouche_ in the assertion of her own innocence, truth, and loyalty. The Arch-Tempter guided her pen in this hour, and that last plea of weakness and despair, “de mon lit, forçant mon bras et mes douleurs pour vous satis fayre et obéir,” is scarcely convincing. The devil was assuredly in it, and she must have saved up all her energy for such a production. Don Bernardino de Mendoza, when alluding in a letter of 1585 to the release of Shrewsbury from his task and his retirement to his estates, declared that he thanked the Queen for delivering him from two devils, the Scottish Queen and his wife:—

“El conde de Shreubury ha partido para ir en Darbissier siendo lugartheniente de dos condados de Darbi y Stafford. Besso los manos a la Regna de Inglaterra, diziendole, hazello por havelle librado de dos diablos, que heran la Regna de Scozia y su muger.”

This is probably a partial exaggeration. Of course Elizabeth could not free him from his wife. It was her pleasurable business to bring them together again. A lengthy matter and badly begun!