CHAPTER V

MAKE-BELIEVE

All the mighty fuss and preparation aforesaid sufficed only to make Tutbury barely habitable. The airy, pleasant impressions of the French Ambassador were literally castles in the air compared with the fastness itself to which Mary of Scotland travelled. To begin with, her retinue numbered sixty persons, and Heaven knows where they all slept that first night. Mary’s own rooms were small enough, and she complained bitterly of them and of the condition of the whole building. Here is her description in a subsequent letter:—

“I am in a walled enclosure, on the top of a hill, exposed to all the winds and inclemencies of heaven. Within the said enclosure, resembling that of the wood of Vincennes, there is a very old hunting lodge, built of timber and plaster, cracked in all parts, the plaster adhering nowhere to the woodwork and broken in numberless places; the said lodge distant three fathoms or thereabouts from the walls, and situated so low that the rampart of earth which is behind the wall is on a level with the highest point of the building, so that the sun can never shine upon it on that side, nor any fresh air come to it; for which reason it is so damp, that you cannot put any piece of furniture in that part without its being in four days completely covered with mould. I leave you to think how this must act upon the human body; and, in short, the greater part of it is rather a dungeon for base and abject criminals than the habitation fit for a person of my quality, or even of a much lower.... The only apartments that I have for my own person consist—and for the truth of this I can appeal to all those that have been here—of two little rooms, so excessively cold, especially at night, that, but for the ramparts and entrenchments of curtains and tapestry which I have had made, it would not be possible for me to stay in them in the daytime; and out of those who have sat up with me at night during my illnesses, scarcely one has escaped without fluxion, cold, or some disorder.”

As for the gay hunting parties which had been anticipated, the only exercise allowed her was in a palisaded vegetable patch called by courtesy a garden.

The first fortnight of that time must have placed a severe strain on the temper and endurance of the autocratic chatelaine. She was not to have access to the royal prisoner, she must obey the orders of her gaoler-husband, himself constantly on tenter-hooks lest his cranky abode should suffer sudden attack from Mary’s friends, lest sickness should attack her, or quarrels be brewed between her motley household and his own. My Lady Bess—for once—must keep herself well in the background and still contrive provision for that big household. Doubtless it was she who backed the Earl in his determination to secure at once an understanding with the English Queen as to the household expenditure of the prisoner. He put in a claim for £500 as a preliminary, and a weekly allowance of £52 was arranged. Whether he received it remains to be seen. Mary was not yet entirely a prisoner. That is to say she did not realise herself as one. Her sister-queen was too crafty to permit that. Shrewsbury, who found Mary calm and, at the outset, bearing household inconveniences cheerfully—hopeful that they were but temporary—gave her a little leash here and there. She evidently insisted on seeing Bess Shrewsbury. “The Queen continueth daily resort unto my wife’s chamber, where, with the Lady Leviston and Mrs. Seaton, she useth to sit working with the needle, in which she much delighteth, and in devising of works; and her talk is altogether of indifferent and trifling matters without ministering any sign of secret dealing and practice.” So wrote my Lord gaoler to reassure all at Court who might suspect him of insufficient strictness. The fact is, a long and detailed letter to Sir William Cecil from Nicholas White, the first visitor of importance who had spoken at length with Mary at Tutbury, had sounded the alarm. “If I,” says this gentleman, “might give advice there should be very few subjects in this land have access to or conference with this lady. For, beside that she is a goodly personage ... she hath withal an alluring grace, a pretty Scottish accent, and a searching wit crowned with mildness. Fame might move some to relieve her, and glory joined to gain might stir others to adventure much for her sake. Then joy is a lively infective sense, and carrieth many persuasions to the heart which ruleth all the rest. Mine own affection by seeing the Queen’s majesty, our sovereign, is doubled, and thereby I guess what sight might work in others.” This was the impression she made on a young and gallant courtier loyal enough to Elizabeth. Here, again, she is in the form of a veritable problem as viewed by her first warder, Knollys, who delivered her into Shrewsbury’s charge. Knollys also pours out his impressions to Cecil:—

“This lady and princess is a notable woman; she seemeth to regard no ceremonious honour beside the acknowledging of her estate regal; she sheweth a disposition to speak much, to be bold, to be pleasant, and to be very familiar. She sheweth a great desire to be avenged of her enemies, she sheweth a readiness to expose herself to all perils in hope of victory, she delighteth much to hear of hardiness and valiancy, commending by name all approved hardy men of her country, although they be her enemies, and she concealeth no cowardice even in her friends. The thing that most she thirsteth after is victory, and it seemeth to be indifferent to her to have her enemies diminished either by the sword of her friends, or by the liberal promises and rewards of her purse, or by division and quarrels raised among themselves: so that for victory’s sake pain and peril seemeth pleasant unto her: and in respect of victory, wealth and all things seemeth to her contemptible and vile. Now what is to be done with such a lady and a princess, or whether such a princess and lady to be nourished in one’s bosom? or whether it be good to halt and dissemble with such a lady I refer to your judgment.”

It did not take Shrewsbury and his lady long to realise what they had undertaken to nourish in their bosom. The great thing was to distract her with light and little things. Of these she had sufficient at first to prevent her from much brooding in the intervals of writing her vivid and endless letters to France, to Scotland, to Burghley, and to the English Queen. Gentleman visitors being practically taboo, there remained only the Countess of Shrewsbury as a set-off from Mary’s own ladies. These were few—Mrs. Bruce and Lady Livingston, who was ailing, while of the “four Maries,” whose beauty and grace helped to weave the romantic legend of the vanished Court at Holyrood, there remained in the royal service but one, Mary Seton. Her Queen took a special interest in her, and was very dependent on her. Mary Seton surely knew her mistress through and through. Her post must at times have been one of great risk and mental torture. She was constantly in personal attendance, dealing with the Queen’s wardrobe and dressing her hair—for in this, history says, she was as clever as any skilled perruquier. Mary at first scarcely had a rag to cover her. Two bits of black velvet and some darned underclothing had been doled out to her, by Elizabeth, on her arrival in England. Much scorn and merriment they surely caused in the Scotch Queen’s closet! Clothing to wrap her, hangings—that veritable “rampart” of tapestries of which Mary spoke in the letter quoted—were necessary for her existence, and she would have her environment gracious and artistic even if the tapestries were of sacking. With the aid, no doubt, of Bess the chatelaine, some appearance of regality was contrived and maintained—so the letters of the day show—as best might be. The Shrewsburys had no objection to that. Everyone entered apparently on the surface into the little game of make-believe which “this Queen here” (as she is constantly described in letters from the houses in which she was immured) played throughout the fifteen years of her life under the Earl’s roof. For Mary was ever an arch-romanticist. This sense of romance constituted two-thirds of her attraction. Both Queens were playing waiting games, but Mary was determined to play hers effectively in spite of all conditions. And thus we have that vivid picture of her pretence court carried on under the eye of Bess Shrewsbury. The Scots Queen, seated on her dais under her canopy bearing the elusive legend “En ma fin est mon commencement,” issued her orders touching her household, received eagerly all scraps of news which filtered through to her and any visitors that were permitted. But the more interesting part was that of the Earl’s lady, who stood as the social barrier between the outer world, so full of stirring incident, and the mock court indoors. How much to tell her Scottish majesty and how little, what gossip to retail and what to suppress, was no light task for a talkative, energetic lady, who knew the ins and outs not only of the English Court but the character of its mistress. Mary was always good company. Elizabeth gave her subjects plenty to talk about. One wonders, in the light of a certain letter which Mary afterwards wrote to the Queen, how far[15] Bess Shrewsbury allowed her tongue at this juncture to trip out of sheer vivacity and desire to please her prisoner-guest. Just now, however, it is too early to imagine intrigue in this direction. The women could safely discuss clothes and the new fashion of doing the hair. Mary Seton was acknowledged to be the best “busker of hair in any country,” “and every other day she had a new device of head-dressing, without any cost, and yet setteth forth a woman gaily well.” Mary loved her wigs, her headdresses, embroidery, her little pets, and the contriving of presents of needlework. With these Bess could sympathise. On occasion she wanted French silks, and when Mary wrote to France a list of goods which she desired, she would send for a length of silk for my Lady, and a friendly transaction took place between the two. Truly a charming relationship! And all the time Mary was not too bored, for she was writing love letters to her new suitor—the Duke of Norfolk.

Let us take in the political situation for a moment. It was the spring of 1569—just two years since the murder of Darnley, since when Mary had the impression of a procession of violent events to wipe out of her mind. Events since that horrible night had travelled at a wild speed. Her abasement before Bothwell, her desperate game of bluff—that is to say, her mad marriage with him, in spite of the opposition of all her friends, while she yet wore her discreet mourning for the wretched Darnley—her sudden awakening to bare realities, and the shock of the knowledge that she had given herself wholly to a mere adventurer, and a brutal one at that—these were some of the sinister facts over which, in this solitude and stillness of her English life, she had time enough to brood. Then came the final revelation of the almost wholesale perfidy of her Scottish noblemen, and the three weeks of her ghastly third honeymoon, which amounted to nothing but a preliminary imprisonment, ending in the gross insults of the populace, which drove her distracted on her way to the fortress of Lochleven. The detection and flight of Bothwell, her Scottish imprisonment, her escape and her flight to England—all these were part of the crimson pageant from which she had emerged, shattered in body, soul-worn, to face the problem of her life. Her baby boy was far from her in the hands of her brother and worst enemy, Earl Moray, the traitor to whom the power of Elizabeth gave approval as regent. But Moray himself had executed a _volte-face_. For his own purposes he now assumed a highly moral and affectionate tone towards his kinswoman. He advised this, her fourth marriage, on the score that it was the best chance of wiping out the stigma which clung to her in connection with her passion for Bothwell and her illegal union with him. “Take a suitable and godly person to be your spouse and you will at once assume a very high place in my excellent esteem” was practically his attitude. Mary knew his power. Was not the villain in constant intercourse with Cecil, Elizabeth’s right hand? She knew also that marriage was the only way out of prison and back to her throne. Three husbands had failed her. Even Moray conceded that she “had been troubled in times past with children, young, proud fools, and furious men”—the anæmic Francis II, Darnley, and Bothwell. As a woman she could attract any man she chose. And the Duke of Norfolk was one of the premier gentlemen of England, inclined to espouse her faith, and had powerful friends among the nobles near the Border. The plan was exciting. France and Spain must back her up in it. It was very difficult to send and receive letters. No wonder that the strain of this secret, with the bad weather and the difficulties under which the Tutbury household laboured of securing sufficient provisions and sufficient fuel to warm the cranky building, resulted in the illness of the prisoner.

After much letter-writing there came from Court the permission for removal for which the Earl and Mary longed. The household was to take up its abode now at Wingfield Manor. Away went my Lady ahead to put up the curtains and see to the carpets and pallets and other upholstery, and a week or two later away went the cavalcade after her. Her chatelaine’s art and dexterity had freer play here. Wingfield Manor, in its ruins, suggests a house of grace, comfort, and importance, well proportioned, and soundly built in a stately manner. Even Mary, aware of its tolerably fortified nature, its guardroom and dungeons, its massive keep and earthworks, conscious of the nightly sentinels under her windows, could call it “a fair palace.” And my Lady was surely in her element. It was not exactly the rich domestic peace, the family life for which she or her husband had bargained. They were forced to isolate themselves from their children to a great extent, lest the comings and goings connected with their own family should entice strangers or messengers of doubtful character. But the eyes of England were upon the Earl and his lady. Where Mary was there abounded romance, intrigue, and mystery. Spain, France, Scotland, all were watchful, waiting for the least news. And possibly the Queen’s command and the distinction conferred on the Shrewsburys carried them far along the painful task on which they had embarked. There is no doubt that Bess had a better time of it in the bargain than her lord. The ultimate responsibility was his. Moreover, his was a nature conscientious almost to a morbid degree. He was forced to receive attacks without and within and to keep his head cool. He must report himself in long letters to Mr. Treasurer, he must bear with the complaints and entreaties of his captive. Mary was not so much of a prisoner that she could not rush to his suite of rooms and upbraid the authority by which her Scottish messengers were detained and her letters examined. Her abuse and lamentation, defiance and tears were shared alike by husband and wife. In reporting all this in detail to the Court, he insists upon the necessity of his wife’s co-operation. In the same breath he makes it piteously clear that the matter is not one for diversion or satisfaction to either of them. In this picture he draws of their joint life in such letters, Tutbury or Wingfield shelters not one prisoner, but three. The royal lady is scarcely a moment out of their sight or hearing. The only advantage of her constant invasion of my Lady’s chamber is that the latter may watch her the more closely and report more minutely upon her looks and words.

Already by this time the Shrewsburys could enter into the feelings of Sir Francis Knollys when he longed to shake off his irksome duties. Had the Earl foreseen the extent of the burden thrust upon him he would have followed the example of his comrade-in-arms and begged for instant release. All he could and did do, however, was to endure, while protesting his loyalty.

There was excitement enough in store for everyone when Mary’s adviser, the Bishop of Ross, was actually permitted to join the Wingfield household. This was the signal for the crowding of Scottish folk to the vicinity. These came constantly to pay their court to Mary, thereby increasing all the domestic complications of Earl and lady, to say nothing of the added cost in catering and stabling entailed by such “traffic.” Nor did it help them that Mary should fall ill. After delays two physicians were sent from Court, and besides insisting upon a thorough ventilation and cleaning of her apartments they advised her removal to yet another of the family mansions.

This time it was to Chatsworth that the cavalcade travelled. The busy Countess had not yet completed her great scheme of building. Yet a part of the then “new house” was sufficiently completed for use, and though there was as yet no stately presence chamber here, nor ballroom, nor great dining-hall, as at Wingfield, the surroundings were sylvan and reassuring, and the little raised and moated garden where Mary would take the air was far more agreeable than the tangled garden patch at Tutbury. In May the change to the meadows by the Derwent must have been delicious. By June 1st the visit was ended and away went the cortège again, my Lady Bess included, back to Wingfield. The Earl, for the first time since Mary’s arrival, took a few days’ leave of absence and again went to Chatsworth. This brief absence immediately gave rise to trouble and suspicious reports. While struggling with indisposition he hurried back, and had just time to report that all was well at Wingfield when ague and fever laid him low. His wife took command of the situation. His condition was so critical that she wrote to Cecil asking that some arrangement “for this charge” should be made in case he should grow worse. Cecil took action at once, but before any change in the command at Wingfield could be made the Earl was recovering, and his wife wrote to reassure the Queen, through Cecil, and put in a word for her own loyalty:—

“Of my duty in all respects, God, that is my witness of my doings and meanings, will defend me, I trust, against the evil that malice would unto me. No enemy would I willingly refuse to be my judge in this case, that hath power to think and speak truly, but most heartily do I thank you for your right friendly admonition, knowing that I cannot too much remember my duty, like as I would be no less sorry if I were not persuaded that you did write only of good will, without all cause of suspicion. I have hitherto found you to be my singular good friend, and so I trust you will continue, which God grant I may requite to my desire.”

Poor Shrewsbury did not recover quickly. He suffered mentally as much as bodily all through this summer of 1569, and begged a few days’ grace to visit the baths at Buxton. This was withheld and delayed, and, in despair, he went without permission. Immediately the Queen was told of it and instructed Burghley to pounce on him in a letter. Naturally he hurried home full of abject apology, and, though he found the household at Wingfield tranquil, was much annoyed at the insanitary state of the manor in consequence of the number of people in and about it. A little crowd of no less than two hundred and fifty persons now constituted the entourage of prisoner, Earl, and Countess. In order to wipe off all undesirables, he recommended another change of domicile—this time to his estate of Sheffield.

The Earl possessed two manors here—the Lodge or Manor on the hill, and the Castle in the valley above the meadows—now built over—where the Dun and Sheaf joined their waters. This move was regarded as a most excellent method for change and expansion. Both houses were habitable, there was good fishing, and plenty of ground for exercise without going out of bounds. Nothing was lacking now to hasten the departure save the royal permission.