Fotheringhay





"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."





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