“They had to give in,” Shrewsbury was telling her now, “when the well was poisoned.”

“Kirkcaldy would never have surrendered otherwise,” said Mary. And she thought of Kirkcaldy who was now her firm ally yet who had stood remorselessly against her and, more than any, had helped to win the day for Moray at Carberry Hill.

“Kirkcaldy will never be on any side again,” replied Shrewsbury grimly. “He was hanged with his brother in Market Cross when the castle was taken.”

“Oh, my lord,” cried Mary, “why are you always the bringer of evil tidings?”

“If there were aught good to bring you, I would bring it,” Shrewsbury answered gruffly.

“Then as you can bring me no good, I pray you leave me alone with my grief.”

Shrewsbury bowed and left her. He was thinking that in some respects this might not be such bad news for her.

With Edinburgh Castle lost she was no longer a formidable enemy. Her importance to Elizabeth had waned with its capture. Might it be that now the watch on her would be relaxed a little? Her supporters in Scotland were defeated; the English were still talking in horror of the St. Bartholomew massacre. Elizabeth would have little to fear now from Mary Queen of Scots. Surely she would relent a little.

“HOW DID SHE TAKE the news?” Bess demanded of her husband.

“She has heard so much bad news that even this leaves her numb.”

“Poor creature! I pity her. It is sad that she should be so confined as she has been these last months. I am sick unto death of Sheffield. How I long for the beauty of my beloved Chatsworth!”

“What have you in mind?”

“She has become almost an invalid in these last months. She is in need of a change. I shall ask the Queen if we may not visit Chatsworth; and who knows, if we do I might take the Queen of Scots to the Buxton baths. They did you good. I’m sure they would be equally beneficial to her.”

“You think the Queen would listen to your request?”

“Are you a fool, Shrewsbury? Now is the time for her to show her leniency. Never have the fortunes of your romantic Queen been so low. I will write to Elizabeth. I’ll swear that very soon we shall be leaving Sheffield for Chatsworth . . . and it may well be Buxton too.”

XIII

Chatsworth and Buxton

AS SOON AS MARY WAS BACK in Chatsworth she felt happier. How delighted she was to go once more to her garden at the top of the tower and there, with Seton and Jane Kennedy, find pleasure in seeing that those plants, which she had tended with such care, were still flourishing.

Shrewsbury had been right when he had believed that she would not be allowed more liberty. Attended by guards she would walk from her apartments to the lake, and cross the bridge. She could leave them surrounding the lake, for there was no possibility of her escape; and although, when she looked over the balustrade, she could always see some of them, at least she was free to enjoy the fresh air.

Bess talked to her continually of what the Buxton Baths had done for Shrewsbury, and both Queen and Countess wrote to Elizabeth begging her to allow Mary to seek a like benefit.

It was now August, and the season for taking the waters would be over with the end of the month. Mary despaired of ever being allowed to visit Buxton, and the desire to go there became a passion with her. She talked perpetually of going.

“I know, if I can but take the baths, I shall be well again,” she declared.

Seton encouraged her. Sometimes now a whole day would pass without her mentioning the death of Norfolk or the valor of the defenders of Edinburgh Castle. She still yearned for little James, but that was something she would do all her life; she still showed anxiety as to the fate of George and Willie Douglas and all those whom she called her poor wandering sheep. But her desire to visit Buxton was doing much to rouse her from her melancholy; and, thought Seton, if we could but go there, I am certain she would be well again through her very faith in the baths.

It was the end of August when Elizabeth granted permission, maliciously commenting as she did so that, since the season was well nigh over, the visit would doubtless do the Queen of Scots more harm than good.

But when Mary received word that she might go—late as it was—she was jubilant.

She looked young again as preparations were made for her to be taken from Chatsworth to Buxton.

THE JOURNEY FROM CHATSWORTH to Buxton was not a long one, being of some thirteen or fourteen miles; merely to be on that beautiful road which led over the hill made Mary feel almost happy.

Already the color was returning to her cheeks and Seton was delighted to see this change in her. How ironical, she thought, that they, who had once had such lofty ideas of regaining the throne, could now be so uplifted by the prospect of a visit to Buxton.

The climate seemed more benign than even at Chatsworth and especially so when compared with bleak Sheffield.

Shrewsbury’s house in Buxton was called Low Buxton and it was here that Mary stayed. It was a charming house protected from winds by the hill at the foot of which it stood, while it benefited from the mountain air.

Shrewsbury had given orders that all visitors must leave the Spa before Mary arrived, so there could be no opportunities for making plans for her escape; thus all the social activities of that gay little town ceased immediately; and the Queen was never allowed to go anywhere unless surrounded by her guards.

She had not dared hope that it would be otherwise, but so great was her faith in the baths, so delighted was she to be in such congenial surroundings, that her health began to improve.

She made Shrewsbury tell her about the remarkable cure he had enjoyed at Buxton; and nothing loath to talk of illness, he never tired of explaining how weak he had been before taking the baths, how strong afterward.

“You owe your recovery to your Countess,” Mary reminded him. “If she had not been strong and risked Elizabeth’s displeasure, you would not be the man you are today.”

Shrewsbury nodded somberly. It was true he owed a great deal to Bess, but he did not care to be reminded of this. It made his conduct with Eleanor seem more reprehensible than ever. What he needed was to make excuses for it. He had told himself that no man cared to have a woman behaving like his commanding officer, however efficient she was; a man wanted sympathy, particularly when he was engaged in such an exacting task as guarding the most dangerous state prisoner of all time. He was telling himself that any man in his position would have looked for relaxation elsewhere. A man would have to be a saint not to take the comfort and pleasure Eleanor offered.

She was not with him now; he could not insist that she accompany them to Buxton, for fear Bess should begin to suspect. It was enough that she moved with them back and forth between Sheffield and Chatsworth; he consoled himself that the visit to Buxton must necessarily be brief.

So while he indulged in a morbid pleasure with Mary, dwelling on that illness which had brought him near to death, he was making excuses for himself: I was brought low because of the anxieties which weighed so heavily upon me. They are still with me. I need some form of relaxation; I need to forget my cares now and then; and how could I forget more easily than in the arms of Eleanor?

Bess joined them and he saw the smile play about her lips.

When they were alone she said to him: “I see you found a sympathetic listener in your Queen.”

“She asked me to tell her of the benefit I had received from the baths.”

“And you did so with relish. You will never be completely well, Shrewsbury, while you dwell so fondly on your ailments.”