Knollys was filled with pity for the Queen of Scots who was so surely at the mercy of the Queen of England; he was even sorrier for himself. He had offended Elizabeth, and who could know where that would end! How could he have guessed that she would have taken such a view of his attempt to marry his nephew to Mary? George Carey was a kinsman of hers, and she had always favored her relations—particularly those on her mother’s side, for those on her father’s might imagine they had more right to the throne than she had.

There was a postscript to the letter. He was not to leave Bolton until he did so with the Queen of Scots. It would be his duty to conduct her to Tutbury and place her in the hands of the Shrewsburys.

He thought of Catherine, his wife, who was so sick and asking for him.

He let the letter drop from his hands and sat staring ahead of him; then he noticed that Scrope was as agitated as he was himself.

He tried to thrust aside his personal grief and said: “But Tutbury . . . in this weather! We could not travel there while the blizzards last. It is too dangerous.”

“Tutbury . . . ” said Scrope as though repeating a lesson.

“Yes, I suppose she tells you what she tells me . . . that we are to be relieved of this task, and that it is to be handed to the Shrewsburys?”

“Yes,” said Scrope as though dazed, “she tells me that. But . . . how can I move her? How could she go now?”

“We shall have to wait until the weather has improved a little,” said Knollys. “She will be reluctant. Remember how difficult it was to remove her from Carlisle.”

“I was thinking of Margaret . . . .”

“Margaret!”

Scrope tapped Elizabeth’s letter. “The Queen orders that Margaret is to leave Bolton without delay. She expects to hear that she has gone before Christmas.”

“But in her condition!”

Anger blazed in Scrope’s eye. “She suspects Margaret of meddling to make a match between the Queen of Scots and Norfolk; therefore she says, pregnant or no, Margaret is to leave Bolton without delay.”

“But where . . . ” began Knollys.

Scrope spread his hands in desperation. “I do not know. I cannot think. But unless I am to displease the Queen still further I must set about finding a lodging for Margaret without delay.”

Outside the wind howled. Knollys was thinking of his wife, who was dangerously ill and asking for him; Scrope was thinking of his, who would very shortly bear their child. Elizabeth was telling them that their personal affairs must not be put before their duty to her. Not that they needed to be reminded of how implacable could be the wrath of a Tudor!

They did not return to the birthday party.

Knollys said quietly: “There is no need to tell her tonight that she is to be moved to Tutbury. Tomorrow will suffice.”

“TUTBURY!” cried Mary, looking from Scrope to Knollys. “I cannot go to Tutbury in weather like this!”

“Those are our Queen’s orders,” said Scrope. Mary noticed that his expression was blank, his face gray, and she believed that he was afraid because this meant that he had failed and for this reason the charge of her was being transferred to others.

“I shall refuse,” retorted Mary. “I think there are occasions when your Queen forgets that I am the Queen of Scotland.”

Knollys looked at her dully. What did rank matter to Elizabeth! All she cared was that her desires be gratified.

“We can make the excuse of the bad weather for a while,” answered Scrope. “But we should begin to make our preparations.”

“I have heard that Tutbury is one of the bleakest places in England and that Bolton is full of comfort in comparison.”

“Doubtless much will be done to make Your Majesty comfortable.”

“I refuse to consider making the journey until the winter is over,” said the Queen.

Neither Scrope nor Knollys attempted to advise her; they were both thinking of their personal problems.

Later that day Mary discovered the reason why, when one of Lady Scrope’s attendants came to her and asked if she would go to her ladyship’s apartment as she was too unwell to come to her.

Her pains cannot have started yet, Mary thought. It is too soon.

She hurried to Lady Scrope’s bedchamber and there found her lying on her bed.

“Margaret!” cried Mary. “Is it indeed . . . ?”

“No,” said Margaret. “But I have bad news. I have displeased Elizabeth and . . . for my punishment I am to be banished from Bolton.”

“Banished! But you cannot go from here in weather like this . . . in your state.”

“Those are her orders. I am to leave at once.”

“For where?”

“We do not know. But Her Majesty insists that I am to go . . . presumably because he does not wish us to be together. She has heard of our friendship and . . . ”

Mary clenched her hands together. “Has she no pity!” she cried. And it was characteristic of her that she could feel more angry over the harsh treatment of Margaret Scrope than over any injustice that had been done to herself.

“No,” answered Margaret. “She has no pity when she feels that her subjects have worked against her. She must have learned that I have been giving you news of my brother . . . .”

“But this is monstrous. I’ll not endure it. You are to stay here, Margaret. You are to have your baby here, as you have arranged.”

Margaret put up a slim hand to touch her neck. She smiled grimly. “I am in no mind to lose my head,” she said.

“Oh Margaret, Margaret, how can she be so cruel!”

“You do not know her, if you can ask that,” replied Margaret bitterly. “But I am being foolish. I have to go.” She had suddenly become calm with the serenity of pregnant women. “I’ll swear the child will be born as easily elsewhere as here.”

“But the journey! I have heard the roads are almost impassable.”

“Still, it must be, Your Majesty.”

“Then we must say goodbye, Margaret?”

“I fear so.”

“You know I am to go to Tutbury.”

“I do. And that means that you will pass into the care of the Shrewsburys. But we shall meet again . . . soon. My brother will not forget, and one day . . . ”

Mary did not answer. She was looking at Margaret’s swollen body, and her indignation was so great that she could not trust herself to speak. She thought of all the mistakes she had made as ruler of Scotland; and she thought of wily Elizabeth who was shrewd and, if ever she found herself in a delicate situation, managed to extricate herself with the genius of a born statesman.

They accuse me of murder and adultery, thought Mary. Yet I would not care to have her sins on my conscience.

HOW WRETCHED were those days before Christmas! Mary missed Margaret Scrope who had been moved to a lodging only two miles from the castle, but the bad weather and her condition made it impossible for her to visit the Queen. It was some comfort, though, that Lord Scrope had managed to find a lodging that was not too far away.

What was happening in Westminster she had no means of knowing, for the bad weather held up messengers and it might have been that those of her friends who knew were reluctant to tell her that the damning “casket” letters had been produced and that the case was going against her—since it was the will of Elizabeth that it should.

There was only one episode that lightened those dark days. That was when a messenger did get through to bring her letters from the Earl of Northumberland.

Northumberland had been converted to the Catholic faith and, having heard rumors that there was a plan to marry Mary to Norfolk who was Protestant, he had become busy trying to prevent this. Mary’s recent flirtation with the Protestant religion had alarmed him; but that had not been of long duration and he had said on more than one occasion that he believed every man should worship God according to his conscience, and when she returned to rule her country she would endeavor to see that this was the law.