“You are commanding me to leave you?”

Mary turned away, desperately afraid of weakness.

“There will be our letters, Seton. You must write to me regularly. I must know all that happens to you.”

Seton was staring out of that window where, not long ago, the lifeless body of a man had hung.

SURELY THE PARTING with Seton was the most bitter tragedy that had happened since her imprisonment. It had been useless for Seton to plead; Mary had been adamant. She had written to her aunt and asked her to care for Seton, to nurse her back to health for her dear sake; and she knew that Renee would do it.

“At last,” she whispered when she embraced her dearest and most faithful friend for the last time, “I shall know that you are enjoying some comfort, and that must give me pleasure. Oh, dearest Seton, you cannot guess how it has grieved me to see you growing more and more infirm.”

Seton’s mouth was set in pain. “You know that my place is with you.”

“No, Seton. You have lived my life too long. Do you realize that that is what you have done from the very moment when you were brought to my nursery—the dearest of my four Marys? If you wish to comfort me, write to me that you sleep in a warm and comfortable bed, that you take fresh air; that your pains grow less. That is what I ask of you now: and you have never denied me what I wanted—save that you refused to leave me long ago when I told you that you should.”

When the moment of parting had come they had clung together and Seton had cried out that she would never leave her mistress. Only Mary knew how near she had come to agreeing, for she could not conceive how dreary the days would be without this loving companion.

But she would not say it; and she restrained her tears until from her turret window she saw that Seton and the little party which accompanied her were too far off to notice how she wept when they turned to wave the last farewell.

NOW JANE KENNEDY and Elizabeth Curle had become her constant companions, trying to take the place of Seton. Mary turned to them, although she knew that there could never be another Seton. They would sit over their needlework and talk of what the future might hold; and this was a cheerless occupation, for tension still brooded over the castle.

“Yet,” said Mary, “I do not think we should despair. I am sure Sir Ralph would never allow me to be the victim of foul play while I am under his care.”

“He hanged the dead body of Rowland Kitchyn opposite Your Majesty’s window,” Jane reminded her.

“Because he hopes to make a Protestant of me,” answered Mary. “It is true he is a fanatic on matters of religion. But in all else I feel him to be a just man. That is why I am going to ask him if I may not have a friend to replace dear Seton. The Countess of Atholl has written to me asking me to take her into my service. I think I will speak to Sir Ralph now. Jane, go and ask him to come to me.”

Jane did as she was bid, and in a short time Sir Ralph entered the apartment.

“Sir Ralph,” said Mary, “the Countess of Atholl asks if she may come and stay with me. As you know, I have lost one of my closest friends. Do you think you might use your influence to bring this about?”

Sir Ralph was silent for a while, then he said: “I have to tell Your Majesty that I shall not be with you much longer. I have had orders from my Queen to retire from this post. She is sending another of her servants to take my place. This request of yours is therefore one which you must make to him.”

Mary was startled. She had not known that change was contemplated. She was alarmed. Sir Ralph had scarcely been a generous guardian but there could be many worse.

“May I know the name of the man who is to succeed you?”

“Your Majesty, it is Sir Amyas Paulet.”

Mary was stunned. She knew the man to be the fiercest of Puritans, a man who, because she was a Catholic, would believe her to be the wickedest of sinners.

She had not been mistaken. Harsher measures were going to be taken; her prison was to become more rigorous than ever.

Sadler, watching her, read her thoughts. Since he had been guarding her and had suffered so much himself from the lack of comfort and had been aware of the deterioration of his own health, he had softened toward her.

Her life with him had been cheerless; he knew, as she did, that it would be worse with Paulet.

He said gently: “Your Majesty, if you ask for the Countess of Atholl to be allowed to come here, your request will almost certainly be refused, for the Atholls are known to be your friends, and Catholics. If you were to ask for the company of a Protestant lady, I doubt not that your request would be granted; and I have heard that there are Protestants in Scotland who are your friends.”

Mary did not answer; she had sunk into a chair; rarely had she felt so deeply submerged in despair.

THE SPRING HAD COME and with the warmer weather Tutbury was always more bearable, even though Sir Amyas had arrived at the castle and he proved to be as stern and forbidding as Mary had feared. There were new rules to be observed; the guards received strict instructions that on no account was Mary to leave the castle; if any attempt at escape were made, Mary was to be killed rather than allowed to go free. Sir Amyas was shocked because she had tried to bring a little color to her dreary apartments with the bright tapestries she and her women had worked and hung on the walls. He told her that she would be well advised to pass her time in prayer rather than in sewing fancy silks and playing the lute. He offered to instruct her in the Protestant religion, and when she refused this invitation he muttered that she was heading for eternal damnation.

When during May Sir Ralph and Somers left—they had stayed some weeks until Sir Amyas was accustomed to the routine of the castle—Mary felt she would be ready to try any foolhardy scheme to escape from Paulet’s rule. Never in all the years of captivity had the days seemed so long and dreary.

Then two newcomers arrived at the castle, and their coming lightened the gloom and brought a little change to the dull days.

The arrivals were two charming girls, Barbara and Gillies Mowbray, the younger daughters of Sir John Mowbray, the Protestant Laird of Barnbougal. Mary welcomed the two girls with great warmth, for she was always touched that anyone should wish to leave a luxurious home to share her prison life, and she knew that Barbara and Gilles had begged to be allowed to do so.

On the day the girls arrived, Mary staged a gay gathering in her apartment, because she did not want them to find their new life too gloomy. She need not have worried; they were sprightly creatures, very fresh and lovely, particularly Barbara; and as soon as Mary saw them she loved them.

So it was a merry party which took place in her apartment, and it pleased her to see the young people dancing. As Bessie was there, dancing with Jacques, she had invited her other secretary, Gilbert Curle, to join the dance. She was very fond of Gilbert, who was Elizabeth Curle’s brother and a Scotsman devoted to her interests. He might not be so dashing and handsome as the French Jacques, but she trusted Gilbert; and as she herself played the lute and watched Bessie trip her measure with Jacques, and Barbara with Gilbert Curle, she thought that at all the grand balls of the past she had never seen four such handsome young people so happy together.

WITH GILBERT CURLE and Barbara Mowbray it was love at first sight. They made no secret of it; and indeed had they tried they would have been unable.

Everyone was talking about the lightning courtship and what a difference it had made to the little community of Tutbury Castle. How much more pleasant it was to contemplate a love affair than wonder whether an attempt was being considered to remove one from this world! thought the Queen. She concentrated on the one, and refused to dwell on the other.