"Is this my last journey?" said Queen Mary, with a strange, sad smile, as she took her seat in the heavy lumbering coach which had been appointed for her conveyance from Chartley, her rheumatism having set in too severely to permit her to ride.
"Say not so; your Grace has weathered many a storm before," said Marie de Courcelles. "This one will also pass over."
"Ah, my good Marie, never before have I felt this foreboding and sinking of the heart. I have always hoped before, but I have exhausted the casket of Pandora. Even hope is flown!"
Jean Kennedy tried to say something of "Darkest before dawn."
"The dawn, it may be, of the eternal day," said the Queen. "Nay, my friends, the most welcome tidings that could greet me would be that my weary bondage was over for ever, and that I should wreck no more gallant hearts. What, mignonne, art thou weeping? There will be freedom again for thee when that day comes."
"O madam, I want not freedom at such a price!" And yet Cicely had never recovered her looks since those seventeen days at Tickhill. She still looked white and thin, and her dark eyebrows lay in a heavy line, seldom lifted by the merry looks and smiles that used to flash over her face. Life had begun to press its weight upon her, and day after day, as Humfrey watched her across the chapel, and exchanged a word or two with her while crossing the yard, had he grieved at her altered mien; and vexed himself with wondering whether she had after all loved Babington, and were mourning for him.
Truly, even without the passion of love, there had been much to shock and appal a young heart in the fate of the playfellow of her childhood, the suitor of her youth. It was the first death among those she had known intimately, and even her small knowledge of the cause made her feel miserable and almost guilty, for had not poor Antony plotted for her mother, and had not she been held out to him as a delusive inducement? Moreover, she felt the burden of a deep, pitying love and admiration not wholly joined with perfect trust and reliance. She had been from the first startled by untruths and concealments. There was mystery all round her, and the future was dark. There were terrible forebodings for her mother; and if she looked beyond for herself, only uncertainty and fear of being commanded to follow Marie de Courcelles to a foreign court, perhaps to a convent; while she yearned with an almost sick longing for home and kind Mrs. Talbot's motherly tenderness and trustworthiness, and the very renunciation of Humfrey that she had spoken so easily, had made her aware of his full worth, and wakened in her a longing for the right to rest on his stout arm and faithful heart. To look across at him and know him near often seemed her best support, and was she to be cut off from him for ever? The devotions of the Queen, though she had been deprived of her almoner had been much increased of late as one preparing for death; and with them were associated all her household of the Roman Catholic faith, leaving out Cicely and the two Mrs. Curlls. The long oft-repeated Latin orisons, such as the penitential Psalms, would certainly have been wearisome to the girl, but it gave her a pang to be pointedly excluded as one who had no part nor lot with her mother. Perhaps this was done by calculation, in order to incline her to embrace her mother's faith; and the time was not spent very pleasantly, as she had nothing but needlework to occupy her, and no society save that of the sisters Curll. Barbara's spirits were greatly depressed by the loss of her infant and anxiety for her husband. His evidence might be life or death to the Queen, and his betrayal of her confidence, or his being tortured for his fidelity, were terrible alternatives for his wife's imagination. It was hard to say whether she were more sorry or glad when, on leaving Chartley, she was forbidden to continue her attendance on the Queen, and set free to follow him to London. The poor lady knew nothing, and dreaded everything. She could not help discussing her anxieties when alone with Cicely, thus rendering perceptible more and more of the ramifications of plot and intrigue—past and present—at which she herself only guessed a part. Assuredly the finding herself a princess, and sharing the captivity of a queen, had not proved so like a chapter of the Morte d'Arthur as it had seemed to Cicely at Buxton.
It was as unlike as was riding a white palfrey through a forest, guided by knights in armour, to the being packed with all the ladies into a heavy jolting conveyance, guarded before and behind by armed servants and yeomen, among whom Humfrey's form could only now and then be detected.
The Queen had chosen her seat where she could best look out from the scant amount of window. She gazed at the harvest-fields full of sheaves, the orchards laden with ruddy apples, the trees assuming their autumn tints, with lingering eyes, as of one who foreboded that these sights of earth were passing from her.
Two nights were spent on the road, one at Leicester; and on the fourth day, the captain in charge of the castle for the governor Sir William Fitzwilliam, who had come to escort and receive her, came to the carriage window and bade her look up. "This is Periho Lane," he said, "whence your Grace may have the first sight of the poor house which is to have the honour of receiving you."
"Perio! I perish," repeated Mary; "an ominous road."
The place showed itself to be of immense strength. The hollow sound caused by rolling over a drawbridge was twice heard, and the carriage crossed two courts before stopping at the foot of a broad flight of stone steps, where stood Sir William Fitzwilliam and Sir Amias Paulett ready to hand out the Queen.
A few stone steps were mounted, then an enormous hall had to be traversed. The little procession had formed in pairs, and Humfrey was able to give his hand to Cicely and walk with her along the vast space, on which many windows emblazoned with coats of arms shed their light—the western ones full of the bright September sunshine. One of these, emblazoned with the royal shield in crimson mantlings, cast a blood-red stain on the white stone pavement. Mary, who was walking first, holding by the arm of Sir Andrew Melville, paused, shuddered, pointed, and said, "See, Andrew, there will my blood be shed."
"Madam, madam! speak not thus. By the help of the saints you will yet win through your troubles."
"Ay, Andrew, but only by one fate;" and she looked upwards.
Her faithful followers could not but notice that there was no eager assurance that no ill was intended her, such as they had often heard from Shrewsbury and Sadler.
Cicely looked at Humfrey with widely-opened eyes, and the half-breathed question, "What does it mean?"
He shook his head gravely and said, "I cannot tell," but he could not keep his manner from betraying that he expected the worst.
Meanwhile Mary was conducted on to her apartments, up a stair as usual, and forming another side of the inner court at right angles to the Hall. There was no reason to complain of these, Mary's furniture having as usual been sent forward with her inferior servants, and arranged by them. She was weary, and sat down at once on her chair, and as soon as Paulett had gone through his usual formalities with even more than his wonted stiffness, and had left her, she said, "I see what we are come here for. It is that yonder hall may be the place of my death."
Cheering assurances and deprecations of evil augury were poured on her, but she put them aside, saying, "Nay, my friends, trow you not that I rejoice in the close of my weary captivity?"
She resumed her usual habits very calmly, as far as her increased rheumatism would permit, and showed anxiety that a large piece of embroidery should be completed, and thus about a fortnight passed. Then came the first token of the future. Sir Amias Paulett, Sir Walter Mildmay, and a notary, sought her presence and presented her with a letter from Queen Elizabeth, informing her that there were heavy accusations against her, and that as she was residing under the protection of the laws of England, she must be tried by those laws, and must make answer to the commissioners appointed for the purpose. Mary put on all her queenly dignity, and declared that she would never condescend to answer as a subject of the Queen of England, but would only consent to refer their differences to a tribunal of foreign princes. As to her being under the protection of English law, she had come to England of her own free will, and had been kept there a prisoner ever since, so that she did not consider herself protected by the law of England.
Meanwhile fresh noblemen commissioned to sit on the trial arrived day by day. There was trampling of horses and jingling of equipments, and the captive suite daily heard reports of fresh arrivals, and saw glimpses of new colours and badges flitting across the court, while conferences were held with Mary in the hope of inducing her to submit to the English jurisdiction. She was sorely perplexed, seeing as she did that to persist in her absolute refusal to be bound by English law would be prejudicial to her claim to the English crown, and being also assured by Burghley that if she refused to plead the trial would still take place, and she would be sentenced in her absence. Her spirit rose at this threat, and she answered disdainfully, but it worked with her none the less when the treasurer had left her.
"Oh," she cried that night, "would but Elizabeth be content to let me resign my rights to my son, making them secure to him, and then let me retire to some convent in Lorraine, or in Germany, or wherever she would, so would I never trouble her more!"
"Will you not write this to her?" asked Cicely.
"What would be the use of it, child? They would tamper with the letter, pledging me to what I never would undertake. I know how they can cut and garble, add and take away! Never have they let me see or speak to her as woman to woman. All I have said or done has been coloured."
"Mother, I would that I could go to her; Humfrey has seen and spoken to her, why should not I?"
"Thou, poor silly maid! They would drive Cis Talbot away with scorn, and as to Bride Hepburn, why, she would but run into all her mother's dangers."
"It might be done, and if so I will do it," said Cicely, clasping her hands together.
"No, child, say no more. My worn-out old life is not worth the risk of thy young freedom. But I love thee for it, mine ain bairnie, mon enfant a moi. If thy brother had thy spirit, child—"
"I hate the thought of him! Call him not my brother!" cried Cicely hotly. "If he were worth one brass farthing he would have unfurled the Scottish lion long ago, and ridden across the Border to deliver his mother."
"And how many do you think would have followed that same lion?" said Mary, sadly.
"Then he should have come alone with his good horse and his good sword!"
"To lose both crowns, if not life! No, no, lassie; he is a pawky chiel, as they say in the north, and cares not to risk aught for the mother he hath never seen, and of whom he hath been taught to believe strange tales."
The more the Queen said in excuse for the indifference of her son, the stronger was the purpose that grew up in the heart of the daughter, while fresh commissioners arrived every day, and further conversations were held with the Queen. Lord Shrewsbury was known to be summoned, and Cicely spent half her time in watching for some well-known face, in the hope that he might bring her good foster-father in his train. More than once she declared that she saw a cap or sleeve with the well-beloved silver dog, when it turned out to be a wyvern or the royal lion himself. Queen Mary even laughed at her for thinking her mastiff had gone on his hind legs when she once even imagined him in the Warwick Bear and ragged staff.
At last, however, all unexpectedly, while the Queen was in conference with Hatton, there came a message by the steward of the household, that Master Richard Talbot had arrived, and that permission had been granted by Sir Amias for him to speak with Mistress Cicely. She sprang up joyously, but Mrs. Kennedy demurred.
"Set him up!" quoth she. "My certie, things are come to a pretty pass that any one's permission save her Majesty's should be speired for one of her women, and I wonder that you, my mistress, should be the last to think of her honour!"
"O Mrs. Kennedy, dear Mrs. Jean," entreated Cicely, "hinder me not. If I wait till I can ask her, I may lose my sole hope of speaking with him. I know she would not be displeased, and it imports, indeed it imports."
"Come, Mrs. Kennett," said the steward, who by no means shared his master's sourness, "if it were a young gallant that craved to see thy fair mistress, I could see why you should doubt, but being her father and brother, there can surely be no objection."
"The young lady knows what I mean," said the old gentlewoman with great dignity, "but if she will answer it to the Queen—"
"I will, I will," cried Cicely, whose colour had risen with eagerness, and she was immediately marshalled by the steward beyond the door that closed in the royal captive's suite of apartments to a gallery. At the door of communication three yeomen were always placed under an officer. Humfrey was one of those who took turns to command this guard, but he was not now on duty. He was, however, standing beside his father awaiting Cicely's coming.
Eagerly she moved up to Master Richard, bent her knee for his blessing, and raised her face for his paternal kiss with the same fond gladness as if she had been his daughter in truth. He took one hand, and Humfrey the other, and they followed the steward, who had promised to procure them a private interview, so difficult a matter, in the fulness of the castle, that he had no place to offer them save the deep embrasure of a great oriel window at the end of the gallery. They would be seen there, but there was no fear of their being heard without their own consent, and till the chapel bell rang for evening prayers and sermon there would be no interruption. And as Cicely found herself seated between Master Richard and the window, with Humfrey opposite, she was sensible of a repose and bien etre she had not felt since she quitted Bridgefield. She had already heard on the way that all was well there, and that my Lord was not come, though named in the commission as being Earl Marshal of England, sending his kinsman of Bridgefield in his stead with letters of excuse.
"In sooth he cannot bear to come and sit in judgment on one he hath known so long and closely," said Richard; "but he hath bidden me to come hither and remain so as to bring him a full report of all."
"How doth my Lady Countess take that?" asked Humfrey.
"I question whether the Countess would let him go if he wished it. She is altogether changed in mind, and come round to her first love for this Lady, declaring that it is all her Lord's fault that the custody was taken from them, and that she could and would have hindered all this."
"That may be so," said Humfrey. "If all be true that is whispered, there have been dealings which would not have been possible at Sheffield."
"So it may be. In any wise my Lady is bitterly grieved, and they send for thy mother every second day to pacify her."
"Dear mother!" murmured Cis; "when shall I see her again?"
"I would that she had thee for a little space, my wench," said Richard; "thou hast lost thy round ruddy cheeks. Hast been sick?"
"Nay, sir, save as we all are—sick at heart! But all seems well now you are here. Tell me of little Ned. Is he as good scholar as ever?"
"Verily he is. We intend by God's blessing to bring him up for the ministry. I hope in another year to take him to Cambridge. Thy mother is knitting his hosen of gray and black already."
Other questions and answers followed about Bridgefield tidings, which still evidently touched Cicely as closely as if she had been a born Talbot. There was a kind of rest in dwelling on these before coming to the sadder, more pressing concern of her other life. It was not till the slow striking of the Castle clock warned them that they had less than an hour to spend together that they came to closer matters, and Richard transferred to Cicely those last sad messages to her Queen, which he had undertaken for Babington and Tichborne.
"The Queen hath shed many tears for them," she said, "and hath writ to the French and Spanish ambassadors to have masses said for them. Poor Antony! Did he send no word to me, dear father?"
The man being dead, Mr. Talbot saw no objection to telling her how he had said he had never loved any other, though he had been false to that love.
"Ah, poor Antony!" said Cis, with her grave simplicity. "But it would not have been right for me to be a hindrance to the marriage of one who could never have me."
"While he loved you it would," said Humfrey hastily. "Yea," as she lifted up her eyes to him, "it would so, as my father will tell you, because he could not truly love that other woman."
Richard smiled sadly, and could not but assent to his son's honest truth and faith.
"Then," said Cis, with the same straightforwardness, sprung of their old fraternal intercourse, "you must quit all love for me save a brother's, Humfrey; for my Queen mother made me give her my word on my duty never to wed you."
"I know," returned Humfrey calmly. "I have known all that these two years; but what has that to do with my love?"
"Come, come, children," said Richard, hardening himself though his eyes were moist; "I did not come here to hear you two discourse like the folks in a pastoral! We may not waste time. Tell me, child, if thou be not forbidden, hath she any purpose for thee?"
"O sir, I fear that what she would most desire is to bestow me abroad with some of her kindred of Lorraine. But I mean to strive hard against it, and pray her earnestly. And, father, I have one great purpose. She saith that these cruel statesmen, who are all below in this castle, have hindered Queen Elizabeth from ever truly hearing and knowing all, and from speaking with her as woman to woman. Father, I will go to London, I will make my way to the Queen, and when she hears who I am—of her own blood and kindred—she must listen to me; and I will tell her what my mother Queen really is, and how cruelly she has been played upon, and entreat of her to see her face to face and talk with her, and judge whether she can have done all she is accused of."
"Thou art a brave maiden, Cis," exclaimed Humfrey with deep feeling.
"Will you take me, sir?" said Cicely, looking up to Master Richard.
"Child, I cannot say at once. It is a perilous purpose, and requires much to be thought over."
"But you will aid me?" she said earnestly.
"If it be thy duty, woe be to me if I gainsay thee," said Richard; "but there is no need to decide as yet. We must await the issue of this trial, if the trial ever take place."
"Will Cavendish saith," put in Humfrey, "that a trial there will be of some sort, whether the Lady consent to plead or not."
"Until that is ended we can do nothing," said his father. "Meantime, Cicely child, we shall be here at hand, and be sure that I will not be slack to aid thee in what may be thy duty as a daughter. So rest thee in that, my wench, and pray that we may be led to know the right."
And Richard spoke as a man of high moral courage in making this promise, well knowing that it might involve himself in great danger. The worst that could befall Cicely might be imprisonment, and a life of constraint, jealously watched; but his own long concealment of her birth might easily be construed into treason, and the horrible consequences of such an accusation were only too fresh in his memory. Yet, as he said afterwards to his son, "There was no forbidding the maiden to do her utmost for her own mother, neither was there any letting her run the risk alone."
To which Humfrey heartily responded.
"The Queen may forbid her, or the purpose may pass away," added Richard, "or it may be clearly useless and impossible to make the attempt; but I cannot as a Christian man strive to dissuade her from doing what she can. And as thou saidst, Humfrey, she is changed. She hath borne her modestly and discreetly, ay and truly, through all. The childishness is gone out of her, and I mark no lightness of purpose in her."
On that afternoon Queen Mary announced that she had yielded to Hatton's representations so far as to consent to appear before the Commissioners, provided her protest against the proceedings were put on record.
"Nay, blame me not, good Melville," she said. "I am wearied out with their arguments. What matters it how they do the deed on which they are bent? It was an ill thing when King Harry the Eighth brought in this fashion of forcing the law to give a colour to his will! In the good old times, the blow came without being first baited by one and another, and made a spectacle to all men, in the name of justice, forsooth!"
Mary Seaton faltered something of her Majesty's innocence shining out like the light of day.
"Flatter not thyself so far, ma mie," said Mary. "Were mine innocence clearer than the sun they would blacken it. All that can come of this same trial is that I may speak to posterity, if they stifle my voice here, and so be known to have died a martyr to my faith. Get we to our prayers, girls, rather than feed on vain hopes. De profundis clamavi."
Who would be permitted to witness the trial? As small matters at hand eclipse great matters farther off, this formed the immediate excitement in Queen Mary's little household, when it was disclosed that she was to appear only attended by Sir Andrew Melville and her two Maries before her judges.
The vast hall had space enough on the ground for numerous spectators, and a small gallery intended for musicians was granted, with some reluctance, to the ladies and gentlemen of the suite, who, as Sir Amias Paulett observed, could do no hurt, if secluded there. Thither then they proceeded, and to Cicely's no small delight, found Humfrey awaiting them there, partly as a guard, partly as a master of the ceremonies, ready to explain the arrangements, and tell the names of the personages who appeared in sight.
"There," said he, "close below us, where you cannot see it, is the chair with a cloth of state over it."
"For our Queen?" asked Jean Kennedy.
"No, madam. It is there to represent the Majesty of Queen Elizabeth. That other chair, half-way down the hall, with the canopy from the beam over it, is for the Queen of Scots."
Jean Kennedy sniffed the air a little at this, but her attention was directed to the gentlemen who began to fill the seats on either side. Some of them had before had interviews with Queen Mary, and thus were known by sight to her own attendants; some had been seen by Humfrey during his visit to London; and even now at a great distance, and a different table, he had been taking his meals with them at the present juncture.
The seats were long benches against the wall, for the Earls on one side, the Barons on the other. The Lord Chancellor Bromley, in his red and white gown, and Burghley, the Lord Treasurer, with long white beard and hard impenetrable face, sat with them.
"That a man should have such a beard, and yet dare to speak to the Queen as he did two days ago," whispered Cis.
"See," said Mrs. Kennedy, "who is that burly figure with the black eyes and grizzled beard?"
"That, madam," said Humfrey, "is the Earl of Warwick."
"The brother of the minion Leicester?" said Jean Kennedy. "He hath scant show of his comeliness."
"Nay; they say he is become the best favoured," said Humfrey; "my Lord of Leicester being grown heavy and red-faced. He is away in the Netherlands, or you might judge of him."
"And who," asked the lady, "may be yon, with the strangely-plumed hat and long, yellow hair, like a half-tamed Borderer?"
"He?" said Humfrey. "He is my Lord of Cumberland. I marvelled to see him back so soon. He is here, there, and everywhere; and when I was in London was commanding a fleet bearing victuals to relieve the Dutch in Helvoetsluys. Had I not other work in hand, I would gladly sail with him, though there be something fantastic in his humour. But here come the Knights of the Privy Council, who are to my mind more noteworthy than the Earls."
The seats of these knights were placed a little below and beyond those of the noblemen. The courteous Sir Ralf Sadler looked up and saluted the ladies in the gallery as he entered. "He was always kindly," said Jean Kennedy, as she returned the bow. "I am glad to see him here."
"But oh, Humfrey!" cried Cicely, "who is yonder, with the short cloak standing on end with pearls, and the quilted satin waistcoat, jewelled ears, and frizzed head? He looks fitter to lead off a dance than a trial."
"He is Sir Christopher Hatton, her Majesty's Vice-Chamberlain," replied Humfrey.
"Who, if rumour saith true, made his fortune by a galliard," said Dr. Bourgoin.
"Here is a contrast to him," said Jean Kennedy. "See that figure, as puritanical as Sir Amias himself, with the long face, scant beard, black skull-cap, and plain crimped ruff. His visage is pulled into so solemn a length that were we at home in Edinburgh, I should expect to see him ascend a pulpit, and deliver a screed to us all on the iniquities of dancing and playing on the lute!"
"That, madam," said Humfrey, "is Mr. Secretary, Sir Francis Walsingham."
Here Elizabeth Curll leant forward, looked, and shivered a little. "Ah, Master Humfrey, is it in that man's power that my poor brother lies?"
"'Tis true, madam," said Humfrey, "but indeed you need not fear. I heard from Will Cavendish last night that Mr. Curll is well. They have not touched either of the Secretaries to hurt them, and if aught have been avowed, it was by Monsieur Nau, and that on the mere threat. Do you see old Will yonder, Cicely, just within Mr. Secretary's call—with the poke of papers and the tablet?"
"Is that Will Cavendish? How precise and stiff he hath grown, and why doth he not look up and greet us? He knoweth us far better than doth Sir Ralf Sadler; doth he not know we are here?"
"Ay, Mistress Cicely," said Dr. Bourgoin from behind, "but the young gentleman has his fortune to make, and knows better than to look on the seamy side of Court favour."
"Ah! see those scarlet robes," here exclaimed Cis. "Are they the judges, Humfrey?"
"Ay, the two Chief-Justices and the Chief Baron of the Exchequer. There they sit in front of the Earls, and three more judges in front of the Barons."
"And there are more red robes at that little table in front, besides the black ones."
"Those are Doctors of Law, and those in black with coifs are the Attorney and Solicitor General. The rest are clerks and writers and the like."
"It is a mighty and fearful array," said Cicely with a long breath.
"A mighty comedy wherewith to mock at justice," said Jean.
"Prudence, madam, and caution," suggested Dr. Bourgoin. "And hush!"
A crier here shouted aloud, "Oyez, oyez, oyez! Mary, Queen of Scotland and Dowager of France, come into the Court!"
Then from a door in the centre, leaning on Sir Andrew Melville's arm, came forward the Queen, in a black velvet dress, her long transparent veil hanging over it from her cap, and followed by the two Maries, one carrying a crimson velvet folding-chair, and the other a footstool. She turned at first towards the throne, but she was motioned aside, and made to perceive that her place was not there. She drew her slender figure up with offended dignity. "I am a queen," she said; "I married a king of France, and my seat ought to be there."
However, with this protest she passed on to her appointed place, looking sadly round at the assembled judges and lawyers.
"Alas!" she said, "so many counsellors, and not one for me."
Were there any Englishmen there besides Richard Talbot and his son who felt the pathos of this appeal? One defenceless woman against an array of the legal force of the whole kingdom. It may be feared that the feelings of most were as if they had at last secured some wild, noxious, and incomprehensible animal in their net, on whose struggles they looked with the unpitying eye of the hunter.
The Lord Chancellor began by declaring that the Queen of England convened the Court as a duty in one who might not bear the sword in vain, to examine into the practices against her own life, giving the Queen of Scots the opportunity of clearing herself.
At the desire of Burghley, the commission was read by the Clerk of the Court, and Mary then made her public protest against its legality, or power over her.
It was a wonderful thing, as those spectators in the gallery felt, to see how brave and how acute was the defence of that solitary lady, seated there with all those learned men against her; her papers gone, nothing left to her but her brain and her tongue. No loss of dignity nor of gentleness was shown in her replies; they were always simple and direct. The difficulty for her was all the greater that she had not been allowed to know the form of the accusation, before it was hurled against her in full force by Mr. Serjeant Gawdy, who detailed the whole of the conspiracy of Ballard and Babington in all its branches, and declared her to have known and approved of it, and to have suggested the manner of executing it.
Breathlessly did Cicely listen as the Queen rose up. Humfrey watched her almost more closely than the royal prisoner. When there was a denial of all knowledge or intercourse with Ballard or Babington, Jean Kennedy's hard-lined face never faltered; but Cicely's brows came together in concern at the mention of the last name, and did not clear as the Queen explained that though many Catholics might indeed write to her with offers of service, she could have no knowledge of anything they might attempt. To confute this, extracts from their confessions were read, and likewise that letter of Babington's which he had written to her detailing his plans, and that lengthy answer, brought by the blue-coated serving-man, in which the mode of carrying her off from Chartley was suggested, and which had the postscript desiring to know the names of the six who were to remove the usurping competitor.
The Queen denied this letter flatly, declaring that it might have been written with her alphabet of ciphers, but was certainly none of hers. "There may have been designs against the Queen and for procuring my liberty," she said, "but I, shut up in close prison, was not aware of them, and how can I be made to answer for them? Only lately did I receive a letter asking my pardon if schemes were made on my behalf without my privity, nor can anything be easier than to counterfeit a cipher, as was lately proved by a young man in France. Verily, I greatly fear that if these same letters were traced to their deviser, it would prove to be the one who is sitting here. Think you," she added, turning to Walsingham, "think you, Mr. Secretary, that I am ignorant of your devices used so craftily against me? Your spies surrounded me on every side, but you know not, perhaps, that some of your spies have been false and brought intelligence to me. And if such have been his dealings, my Lords," she said, appealing to the judges and peers, "how can I be assured that he hath not counterfeited my ciphers to bring me to my death? Hath he not already practised against my life and that of my son?"
Walsingham rose in his place, and lifting up his hands and eyes declared, "I call God to record that as a private person I have done nothing unbeseeming an honest man, nor as a public person have I done anything to dishonour my place."
Somewhat ironically Mary admitted this disavowal, and after some unimportant discussion, the Court adjourned until the next day, it being already late, according to the early habits of the time.
Cicely had been entirely carried along by her mother's pleading. Tears had started as Queen Mary wept her indignant tears, and a glow had risen in her cheeks at the accusation of Walsingham. Ever and anon she looked to Humfrey's face for sympathy, but he sat gravely listening, his two hands clasped over the hilt of his sword, and his chin resting on them, as if to prevent a muscle of his face from moving. When they rose up to leave the galleries, and there was the power to say a word, she turned to him earnestly.
"A piteous sight," he said, "and a right gallant defence."
He did not mean it, but the words struck like lead on Cicely's heart, for they did not amount to an acquittal before the tribunal of his secret conviction, any more than did Walsingham's disavowal, for who could tell what Mr. Secretary's conscience did think unbecoming to his office?
Cicely found her mother on her couch giving a free course to her tears, in the reaction after the strain and effort of her defence. Melville and the Maries were assuring her that she had most bravely confuted her enemies, and that she had only to hold on with equal courage to the end. Mrs. Kennedy and Dr. Bourgoin came in to join in the same encouragements, and the commendation evidently soothed her. "However it may end," she said, "Mary of Scotland shall not go down to future ages as a craven spirit. But let us not discuss it further, my dear friends, my head aches, and I can bear no farther word at present."
Dr. Bourgoin made her take some food and then lie down to rest, while in an outer room a lute was played and a low soft song was sung. She had not slept all the previous night, but she fell asleep, holding the hand of Cicely, who was on a cushion by her side. The girl, having been likewise much disturbed, slept too, and only gradually awoke as her mother was sitting up on her couch discussing the next day's defence with Melville and Bourgoin.
"I fear me, madam, there is no holding to the profession of entire ignorance," said Melville.
"They have no letters from Babington to me to show," said the Queen. "I took care ofthatby the help of this good bairn. I can defy them to produce the originals out of all my ransacked cabinets."
"They have the copies both of them and of your Majesty's replies, and Nan and Curll to verify them."
"What are copies worth, or what are dead and tortured men's confessions worth?" said Mary.
"Were your Majesty a private person they would never be accepted as evidence," said Melville; "but—"
"But because I am a Queen and a Catholic there is no justice for me," said Mary. "Well, what is the defence you would have me confine myself to, my sole privy counsellors?"
Here Cis, to show she was awake, pressed her mother's hand and looked up in her face, but Mary, though returning the glance and the pressure, did not send her away, while Melville recommended strongly that the Queen should continue to insist on the imperfection of the evidence adduced against her, which he said might so touch some of the lawyers, or the nobles, that Burghley and Walsingham might be afraid to proceed. If this failed her, she must allow her knowledge of the plot for her own escape and the Spanish invasion, but strenuously deny the part which concerned Elizabeth's life.
"That it is which they above all desire to fix on me," said the Queen.
Cicely's brain was in confusion. Surely she had heard those letters read in the hall. Were they false or genuine? The Queen had utterly denied them there. Now she seemed to think the only point was to prove that these were not the originals. Dr. Bourgoin seemed to feel the same difficulty.
"Madame will pardon me," he said; "I have not been of her secret councils, but can she not, if rightly dealt with, prove those two letters that were read to have been forged by her enemies?"
"What I could do is this, my good Bourgoin," said Mary; "were I only confronted with Nau and Curll, I could prove that the letter I received from Babington bore nothing about the destroying the usurping competitor. The poor faithful lad was a fool, but not so great a fool as to tell me such things. And, on the other hand, hath either of you, my friends, ever seen in me such symptoms of midsummer madness as that I should be asking the names of the six who were to do the deed? What cared I for their names? I—who only wished to know as little of the matter as possible!"
"Can your Majesty prove that you knew nothing?" asked Melville.
Mary paused. "They cannot prove by fair means that I knew anything," said she, "for I did not. Of course I was aware that Elizabeth must be taken out of the way, or the heretics would be rallying round her; but there is no lack of folk who delight in work of that sort, and why should I meddle with the knowledge? With the Prince of Parma in London, she, if she hath the high courage she boasteth of, would soon cause the Spanish pikes to use small ceremony with her! Why should I concern myself about poor Antony and his five gentlemen? But it is the same as it was twenty years ago. What I know will have to be, and yet choose not to hear of, is made the head and front of mine offending, that the real actors may go free! And because I have writ naught that they can bring against me, they take my letters and add to and garble them, till none knows where to have them. Would that we were in France! There it was a good sword-cut or pistol-shot at once, and one took one's chance of a return, without all this hypocrisy of law and justice to weary one out and make men double traitors."
"Methought Walsingham winced when your Majesty went to the point with him," said Bourgoin.
"And you put up with his explanation?" said Melville.
"Truly I longed to demand of what practices Mr. Secretary in his office,—not as a private person—would be ashamed; but it seemed to me that they might call it womanish spite, and to that the Queen of Scots will never descend!"
"Pity but that we had Babington's letter! Then might we put him to confusion by proving the additions," said Melville.
"It is not possible, my good friend. The letter is at the bottom of the Castle well; is it not, mignonne? Mourn for it not, Andrew. It would have been of little avail, and it carried with it stuff that Mr. Secretary would give almost his precious place to possess, and that might be fatal to more of us. I hoped that there might have been safety for poor Babington in the destruction of that packet, never guessing at the villainy of yon Burton brewer, nor of those who set him on. Come, it serves not to fret ourselves any more. I must answer as occasion serves me; speaking not so much to Elizabeth's Commission, who have foredoomed me, as to all Christendom, and to the Scots and English of all ages, who will be my judges."
Her judges? Ay! but how? With the same enthusiastic pity and indignation, mixed with the same misgiving as her own daughter felt. Not wholly innocent, not wholly guilty, yet far less guilty than those who had laid their own crimes on her in Scotland, or who plotted to involve her in meshes partly woven by herself in England. The evil done to her was frightful, but it would have been powerless had she been wholly blameless. Alas! is it not so with all of us?
The second day's trial came on. Mary Seaton was so overpowered with the strain she had gone through that the Queen would not take her into the hall, but let Cicely sit at her feet instead. On this day none of the Crown lawyers took part in the proceedings; for, as Cavendish whispered to Humfrey, there had been high words between them and my Lord Treasurer and Mr. Secretary; and they had declared themselves incapable of conducting a prosecution so inconsistent with the forms of law to which they were accustomed. The pedantic fellows wanted more direct evidence, he said, and Humfrey honoured them.
Lord Burghley then conducted the proceedings, and they had thus a more personal character. The Queen, however, acted on Melville's advice, and no longer denied all knowledge of the conspiracy, but insisted that she was ignorant of the proposed murder of Elizabeth, and argued most pertinently that a copy of a deciphered cipher, without the original, was no proof at all, desiring further that Nau and Curll should be examined in her presence. She reminded the Commissioners how their Queen herself had been called in question for Wyatt's rebellion, in spite of her innocence. "Heaven is my witness," she added, "that much as I desire the safety and glory of the Catholic religion, I would not purchase it at the price of blood. I would rather play Esther than Judith."
Her defence was completed by her taking off the ring which Elizabeth had sent to her at Lochleven. "This," she said, holding it up, "your Queen sent to me in token of amity and protection. You best know how that pledge has been redeemed." Therewith she claimed another day's hearing, with an advocate granted to her, or else that, being a Princess, she might be believed on the word of a Princess.
This completed her defence, except so far that when Burghley responded in a speech of great length, she interrupted, and battled point by point, always keeping in view the strong point of the insufficient evidence and her own deprivation of the chances of confuting what was adduced against her.
It was late in the afternoon when he concluded. There was a pause, as though for a verdict by the Commissioners. Instead of this, Mary rose and repeated her appeal to be tried before the Parliament of England at Westminster. No reply was made, and the Court broke up.
"Mother, dear mother, do but listen to me."
"I must listen, child, when thou callest me so from your heart; but it is of no use, my poor little one. They have referred the matter to the Star Chamber, that they may settle it there with closed doors and no forms of law. Thou couldst do nothing! And could I trust thee to go wandering to London, like a maiden in a ballad, all alone?"
"Nay, madam, I should not go alone. My father, I mean Mr. Talbot, would take me."
"Come, bairnie, that is presuming overmuch on the good man's kindness."
"I do not speak without warrant, madam. I told him what I longed to do, and he said it might be my duty, and if it were so, he would not gainsay me; but that he could not let me go alone, and would go with me. And he can get access for me to the Queen. He has seen her himself, and so has Humfrey; and Diccon is a gentleman pensioner."
"There have been ventures enough for me already," said Mary. "I will bring no more faithful heads into peril."
"Then will you not consent, mother? He will quit the castle to-morrow, and I am to see him in the morning and give him an answer. If you would let me go, he would crave license to take me home, saying that I look paler than my wont."
"And so thou dost, child. If I could be sure of ever seeing thee again, I should have proposed thy going home to good Mistress Susan's tendance for a little space. But it is not to be thought of. I could not risk thee, or any honest loving heart, on so desperate a stake as mine! I love thee, mine ain, true, leal lassie, all the more, and I honour him; but it may not be! Ask me no more."
Mary was here interrupted by a request from Sir Christopher Hatton for one of the many harassing interviews that beset her during the days following the trial, when judgment was withheld, according to the express command of the vacillating Elizabeth, and the case remitted to the Star Chamber. Lord Burghley considered this hesitation to be the effect of judicial blindness—so utterly had hatred and fear of the future shut his eyes to all sense of justice and fair play.
Cicely felt all youth's disappointment in the rejection of its grand schemes. But to her surprise at night Mary addressed her again, "My daughter, did that true-hearted foster-father of thine speak in sooth?"
"He never doth otherwise," returned Cicely.
"For," said her mother, "I have thought of a way of gaining thee access to the Queen, far less perilous to him, and less likely to fail. I will give thee letters to M. De Chateauneuf, the French Ambassador, whom I have known in old times, with full credentials. It might be well to have with thee those that I left with Mistress Talbot. Then he will gain thee admittance, and work for thee as one sent from France, and protected by the rights of the Embassy. Thus, Master Richard need never appear in the matter at all, and at any rate thou wouldst be secure. Chateauneuf would find means of sending thee abroad if needful."
"Oh! I would return to you, madam my mother, or wait for you in London."
"That must be as the wills above decree," said Mary sadly. "It is folly in me, but I cannot help grasping at the one hope held out to me. There is that within me that will hope and strive to the end, though I am using my one precious jewel to weight the line I am casting across the gulf. At least they cannot do thee great harm, my good child."
The Queen sat up half the night writing letters, one to Elizabeth, one to Chateauneuf, and another to the Duchess of Lorraine, which Cis was to deliver in case of her being sent over to the Continent. But the Queen committed the conduct of the whole affair to M. De Chateauneuf, since she could completely trust his discretion and regard for her; and, moreover, it was possible that the face of affairs might undergo some great alteration before Cicely could reach London. Mr. Talbot must necessarily go home first, being bound to do so by his commission to the Earl. "And, hark thee," said the Queen, "what becomes of the young gallant?"
"I have not heard, madam," said Cicely, not liking the tone.
"If my desires still have any effect," said Mary, "he will stay here. I will not have my damosel errant squired by a youth under five-and-twenty."
"I promised you, madam, and he wots it," said Cicely, with spirit.
"He wots it, doth he?" said the Queen, in rather a provoking voice. "No, no, mignonne; with all respect to their honour and discretion, we do not put flint and steel together, when we do not wish to kindle a fire. Nay, little one, I meant not to vex thee, when thou art doing one of the noblest deeds daughter ever did for mother, and for a mother who sent thee away from her, and whom thou hast scarce known for more than two years!"
Cicely was sure to see her foster-father after morning prayers on the way from the chapel across the inner court. Here she was able to tell him of the Queen's consent, over which he looked grave, having secretly persuaded himself that Mary would think the venture too great, and not hopeful enough to be made. He could not, however, wonder that the unfortunate lady should catch at the least hope of preserving her life; and she had dragged too many down in the whirlpool to leave room for wonder that she should consent to peril her own daughter therein. Moreover, he would have the present pleasure of taking her home with him to his Susan, and who could say what would happen in the meantime?
"Thou hast counted the cost?" he said.
"Yea, sir," Cis answered, as the young always do; adding, "the Queen saith that if we commit all to the French Ambassador, M. De Chateauneuf, who is her very good friend, he will save you from any peril."
"Hm! I had rather be beholden to no Frenchman," muttered Richard, "but we will see, we will see. I must now to Paulett to obtain consent to take thee with me. Thou art pale and changed enough indeed to need a blast of Hallamshire air, my poor maid."
So Master Richard betook him to the knight, a man of many charges, and made known that finding his daughter somewhat puling and sickly, he wished having, as she told him, the consent of the Queen of Scots, to take her home with him for a time.
"You do well, Mr. Talbot," said Sir Amias. "In sooth, I have only marvelled that a pious and godly man like you should have consented to let her abide so long, at her tender age, among these papistical, idolatrous, and bloodthirsty women."
"I think not that she hath taken harm," said Richard.
"I have done my poor best; I have removed the priest of Baal," said the knight; "I have caused godly ministers constantly to preach sound doctrine in the ears of all who would hearken; and I have uplifted my testimony whensoever it was possible. But it is not well to expose the young to touching the accursed thing, and this lady hath shown herself greatly affected to your daughter, so that she might easily be seduced from the truth. Yet, sir, bethink you is it well to remove the maiden from witnessing that which will be a warning for ever of the judgment that falleth on conspiracy and idolatry?"
"You deem the matter so certain?" said Richard.
"Beyond a doubt, sir. This lady will never leave these walls alive. There can be no peace for England nor safety for our blessed and gracious Queen while she lives. Her guilt is certain; and as Mr. Secretary said to me last night, he and the Lord Treasurer are determined that for no legal quibbles, nor scruples of mercy from our ever-pitiful Queen, shall she now escape. Her Majesty, however her womanish heart may doubt now, will rejoice when the deed is done. Methinks I showed you the letter she did me the honour to write, thanking me for the part I took in conveying the lady suddenly to Tixall."
Richard had already read that letter three times, so he avowed his knowledge of it.
"You will not remove your son likewise?" added Sir Amias. "He hath an acquaintance with this lady's people, which is useful in one so thoroughly to be trusted; and moreover, he will not be tampered with. For, sir, I am never without dread of some attempt being made to deal with this lady privily, in which case I should be the one to bear all the blame. Wherefore I have made request to have another honourable gentleman joined with me in this painful wardship."
Richard had no desire to remove his son. He shared Queen Mary's feelings on the inexpediency of Humfrey forming part of the escort of the young lady, and thought it was better for both to see as little of one another as possible.
Sir Amias accordingly, on his morning visit of inspection, intimated to the Queen that Mr. Talbot wished his daughter to return home with him for the recovery of her health. He spoke as if the whole suite were at his own disposal, and Mary resented it in her dignified manner.
"The young lady hath already requested license from us," she said, "and we have granted it. She will return when her health is fully restored."
Sir Amias had forbearance enough not to hint that unless the return were speedy, she would scarcely find the Queen there, and the matter was settled. Master Richard would not depart until after dinner, when other gentlemen were going, and this would enable Cicely to make up her mails, and there would still be time to ride a stage before dark. Her own horse was in the stables, and her goods would be bestowed in cloak bags on the saddles of the grooms who had accompanied Mr. Talbot; for, small as was the estate of Bridgefield, for safety's sake he could not have gone on so long an expedition without a sufficient guard.
The intervening time was spent by the Queen in instructing her daughter how to act in various contingencies. If it were possible to the French Ambassador to present her as freshly come from the Soissons convent, where she was to have been reared, it would save Mr. Talbot from all risk; but the Queen doubted whether she could support the character, so English was her air, though there were Scottish and English nuns at Soissons, and still more at Louvaine and Douay, whomighthave brought her up.
"I cannot feign, madam," said Cicely, alarmed. "Oh, I hope I need only speak truth!" and her tone sounded much more like a confession of incapacity than a moral objection, and so it was received: "Poor child, I know thou canst not act a part, and thy return to the honest mastiffs will not further thee in it; but I have bidden Chateauneuf to do what he can for thee—and after all the eyes will not be very critical."
If there still was time, Cicely was to endeavour first of all to obtain of Elizabeth that Mary might be brought to London to see her, and be judged before Parliament with full means of defence. If this were no longer possible, Cicely might attempt to expose Walsingham's contrivance; but this would probably be too dangerous. Chateauneuf must judge. Or, as another alternative, Queen Mary gave Cicely the ring already shown at the trial, and with that as her pledge, a solemn offer was to be made on her behalf to retire into a convent in Austria, or in one of the Roman Catholic cantons of Switzerland, out of the reach of Spain and France, and there take the veil, resigning all her rights to her son. All her money had been taken away, but she told Cicely she had given orders to Chateauneuf to supply from her French dowry all that might be needed for the expenses that must be incurred.
Now that the matter was becoming so real, Cicely's heart quailed a little. Castles in the air that look heroic at the first glance would not so remain did not they show themselves terrible at a nearer approach, and the maiden wondered, whether Queen Elizabeth would be much more formidable than my Lady Countess in a rage!
And what would become of herself? Would she be detained in the bondage in which the poor sisters of the Grey blood had been kept? Or would her mother carry her off to these strange lands?.... It was all strange, and the very boldness of her offer, since it had been thus accepted, made her feel helpless and passive in the grasp of the powers that her simple wish had set moving.
The letters were sewn up in the most ingenious manner in her dress by Mary Seaton, in case any search should be made; but the only woman Sir Amias would be able to employ in such a matter was purblind and helpless, and they trusted much to his implicit faith in the Talbots.
There was only just time to complete her preparations before she was summoned; and with an almost convulsive embrace from her mother, and whispered benedictions from Jean Kennedy, she left the dreary walls of Fotheringhay.
Humfrey rode with them through the Chase. Both he and Cicely were very silent. When the time came for parting, Cicely said, as she laid her hand in his, "Dear brother, for my sake do all thou canst for her with honour."
"That will I," said Humfrey. "Would that I were going with thee, Cicely!"
"So would not I," she returned; "for then there would be one true heart the less to watch over her."
"Come, daughter!" said Richard, who had engaged one of the gentlemen in conversation so as to leave them to themselves. "We must be jogging. Fare thee well, my son, till such time as thy duties permit thee to follow us."