Unknown to History: A Story of the Captivity of Mary of Scotland

Cis's countenance so changed that kind Susan said, "I will make thine excuses to my Lady. Thou art weary and ill at ease, and I cannot have thee set forth at once again."

"The Queen would never have sent such sudden and hasty orders," said Cicely. "Mother, can you not stay with me?—I have so much to say to you, and my time is short."

The Talbots were, however, too much accustomed to obedience to the peremptory commands of their feudal chiefs to venture on such disobedience. Susan's proposal had been a great piece of audacity, on which she would hardly have ventured but for her consciousness that the maiden was no Talbot at all.

Yet to Cis the dear company of her mother Susan, even in the Countess's society, seemed too precious to be resigned, and she had likewise been told that Lady Shrewsbury's mind had greatly changed towards Mary, and that since the irritation of the captive's presence had been removed, she remembered only the happier and kindlier portion of their past intercourse. There had been plenty of quarrels with her husband, but none so desperate as before, and at this present time the Earl and Countess were united against the surviving sons, who, with Gilbert at their head, were making large demands on them. Cicely felt grateful to the Earl for his absence from Fotheringhay, and, though disappointed of her peaceful home evening, declared she would come up to the Lodge rather than lose sight of "mother." The stable people, more considerate than their Lord and Lady, proved to have sent a horse litter for the conveyance of the ladies called out on the wet dark October evening, and here it was that Cis could enjoy her first precious moment of privacy with one for whom she had so long yearned. Susan rejoiced in the heavy lumbering conveyance as a luxury, sparing the maiden's fatigue, and she was commencing some inquiries into the indisposition which had procured this holiday, when Cicely broke in, "O mother, nothing aileth me. It is not for that cause—but oh! mother, I am to go to see Queen Elizabeth, and strive with her for her—for my mother's life and freedom."

"Thou! poor little maid. Doth thy father—what am I saying? Doth my husband know?"

"Oh yes. He will take me. He saith it is my duty."

"Then it must be well," said Susan in an altered voice on hearing this. "From whom came the proposal?"

"I made it," said Cicely in a low, feeble voice on the verge of tears. "Oh, dear mother, thou wilt not tell any one how faint of heart I am? I did mean it in sooth, but I never guessed how dreadful it would grow now I am pledged to it."

"Thou art pledged, then, and canst not falter?"

"Never," said Cicely; "I would not that any should know it, not even my father; but mother, mother, I could not help telling you. You will let no one guess? I know it is unworthy, but—"

"Not unworthy to fear, my poor child, so long as thou dost not waver."

"It is, it is unworthy of my lineage. My mother queen would say so," cried Cis, drawing herself up.

"Giving way would be unworthy," said Susan, "but turn thou to thy God, my child, and He will give thee strength to carry through whatever is the duty of a faithful daughter towards this poor lady; and my husband, thou sayest, holds that so it is?"

"Yea, madam; he craved license to take me home, since I have truly often been ailing since those dreadful days at Tixall, and he hath promised to go to London with me."

"And is this to be done in thine own true name?" asked Susan, trembling somewhat at the risk to her husband, as well as to the maiden.

"I trow that it is," said Cis, "but the matter is to be put into the hands of M. de Chateauneuf, the French Ambassador. I have a letter here," laying her hand on her bosom, "which, the Queen declares, will thoroughly prove to him who I am, and if I go as under his protection, none can do my father any harm."

Susan hoped so, but she trusted to understand all better from her husband, though her heart failed her as much as, or even perhaps more than, did that of poor little Cis. Master Richard had sped on before their tardy conveyance, and had had time to give the heads of his intelligence before they reached the Manor house, and when they were conducted to my Lady's chamber, they saw him, by the light of a large fire, standing before the Earl and Countess, cap in hand, much as a groom or gamekeeper would now stand before his master and mistress.

The Earl, however, rose to receive the ladies; but the Countess, no great observer of ceremony towards other people, whatever she might exact from them towards herself, cried out, "Come hither, come hither, Cicely Talbot, and tell me how it fares with the poor lady," and as the maiden came forward in the dim light— "Ha! What! Is't she?" she cried, with a sudden start. "On my faith, what has she done to thee? Thou art as like her as the foal to the mare."

This exclamation disconcerted the visitors, but luckily for them the Earl laughed and declared that he could see no resemblance in Mistress Cicely's dark brows to the arched ones of the Queen of Scots, to which his wife replied testily, "Who said there was? The maid need not be uplifted, for there's nothing alike between them, only she hath caught the trick of her bearing so as to startle me in the dark, my head running on the poor lady. I could have sworn 'twas she coming in, as she was when she first came to our care fifteen years agone. Pray Heaven she may not haunt the place! How fareth she in health, wench?"

"Well, madam, save when the rheumatic pains take her," said Cicely.

"And still of good courage?"

"That, madam, nothing can daunt."

Seats, though only joint stools, were given to the ladies, but Susan found herself no longer trembling at the effects of the Countess's insolence upon Cicely, who seemed to accept it all as a matter of course, and almost of indifference, though replying readily and with a gentle grace, most unlike her childish petulance.

Many close inquiries from the Earl and Countess were answered by Richard and the young lady, until they had a tolerably clear idea of the situation. The Countess wept bitterly, and to Cicely's great amazement began bemoaning herself that she was not still the poor lady's keeper. It was a shame to put her where there were no women to feel for her. Lady Shrewsbury had apparently forgotten that no one had been so virulent against the Queen as herself.

And when it was impossible to deny that things looked extremely ill, and that Burghley and Walsingham seemed resolved not to let slip this opportunity of ridding themselves of the prisoner, my Lady burst out with, "Ah! there it is! She will die, and my promise is broken, and she will haunt me to my dying day, all along of that venomous toad and spiteful viper, Mary Talbot."

A passionate fit of weeping succeeded, mingled with vituperations of her daughter Mary, far more than of herself, and amid it all, during Susan's endeavours at soothing, Cicely gathered that the cause of the Countess's despair was that in the time of her friendship and amity, she had uttered an assurance that the Queen need not fear death, as she would contrive means of safety. And on her own ground, in her own Castle or Lodge, there could be little doubt that she would have been able to have done so. The Earl, indeed, shook his head, but repented, for she laughed at him half angrily, half hysterically, for thinking he could have prevented anything that she was set upon.

And now she said and fully believed that the misunderstanding which had resulted in the removal of the prisoner had been entirely due to the slanders and deceits of her own daughter Mary, and her husband Gilbert, with whom she was at this time on the worst of terms. And thus she laid on them the blame of the Queen's death (if that was really decreed), but though she outwardly blamed every creature save herself, such agony of mind, and even terror, proved that in very truth there must have been the conviction at the bottom of her heart that it was her own fault.

The Earl had beckoned away Master Richard, both glad to escape; but Cicely had to remain, and filled with compassion for one whom she had always regarded previously as an enemy, she could not help saying, "Dear madam, take comfort; I am going to bear a petition to the Queen's Majesty from the captive lady, and if she will hear me all will yet be well."

"How! What? How! Thou little moppet! Knows she what she says, Susan Talbot?"

Susan made answer that she had had time to hear no particulars yet, but that Cicely averred that she was going with her father's consent, whereupon Richard was immediately summoned back to explain.

The Earl and Countess could hardly believe that he should have consented that his daughter should be thus employed, and he had to excuse himself with what he could not help feeling were only half truths.

"The poor lady," he said, "is denied all power of sending word or letter to the Queen save through those whom she views as her enemies, and therefore she longed earnestly either to see her Majesty, or to hold communication with her through one whom she knoweth to be both simple and her own friend."

"Yea," said the Countess, "I could well have done this for her could I but have had speech with her. Or she might have sent Bess Pierrepoint, who surely would have been a more fitting messenger."

"Save that she hath not had access to the Queen of Scots of late," said Richard.

"Yea, and her father would scarcely be willing to risk the Queen's displeasure," said the Earl.

"Art thou ready to abide it, Master Richard?" said the Countess, "though after all it could do you little harm." And her tone marked the infinite distance she placed between him and Sir Henry Pierrepoint, the husband of her daughter.

"That is true, madam," said Richard, "and moreover, I cannot reconcile it to my conscience to debar the poor lady from any possible opening of safety."

"Thou art a good man, Richard," said the Earl, and therewith both he and the Countess became extremely, nay, almost inconveniently, desirous to forward the petitioner on her way. To listen to them that night, they would have had her go as an emissary of the house of Shrewsbury, and only the previous quarrel with Lord Talbot and his wife prevented them from proposing that she should be led to the foot of the throne by Gilbert himself.

Cicely began to be somewhat alarmed at plans that would disconcert all the instructions she had received, and only her old habits of respect kept her silent when she thought Master Richard not ready enough to refuse all these offers.

At last he succeeded in obtaining license to depart, and no sooner was Cicely again shut up with Mistress Susan in the litter than she exclaimed, "Now will it be most hard to carry out the Queen's orders that I should go first to the French Ambassador. I would that my Lady Countess would not think naught can succeed without her meddling."

"Thou shouldst have let father tell thy purpose in his own way," said Susan.

"Ah! mother, I am an indiscreet simpleton, not fit for such a work as I have taken in hand," said poor Cis. "Here hath my foolish tongue traversed it already!"

"Fear not," said Susan, as one who well knew the nature of her kinswoman; "belike she will have cooled to-morrow, all the more because father said naught to the nayward."

Susan was uneasy enough herself, and very desirous to hear all from her husband in private. And that night he told her that he had very little hope of the intercession being availing. He believed that the Treasurer and Secretary were absolutely determined on Mary's death, and would sooner or later force consent from the Queen; but there was the possibility that Elizabeth's feelings might be so far stirred that on a sudden impulse she might set Mary at liberty, and place her beyond their reach.

"And hap what may," he said, "when a daughter offereth to do her utmost for a mother in peril of death, what right have I to hinder her?"

"May God guard the duteous!" said Susan. "But oh! husband, is she worthy, for whom the child is thus to lead you into peril?"

"She is her mother," repeated Richard. "Had I erred—"

"Which you never could do," broke in the wife.

"I am a sinful man," said he.

"Yea, but there are deeds you never could have done."

"By God's grace I trust not; but hear me out, wife. Mine errors, nay, my crimes, would not do away with the duty owed to me by my sons. How, then, should any sins of this poor Queen withhold her daughter from rendering her all the succour in her power? And thou, thou thyself, Susan, hast taken her for thine own too long to endure to let her undertake the matter alone and unaided."

"She would not attempt it thus," said Susan.

"I cannot tell; but I should thus be guilty of foiling her in a brave and filial purpose."

"And yet thou dost hold her poor mother a guilty woman?"

"Said I so? Nay, Susan, I am as dubious as ever I was on that head."

"After hearing the trial?"

"A word in thine ear, my discreet wife. The trial convinced me far more that place makes honest men act like cruel knaves than of aught else."

"Then thou holdest her innocent?"

"I said not so. I have known too long how she lives by the weaving of webs. I know not how it is, but these great folks seem not to deem that truth in word and deed is a part of their religion. For my part, I should distrust whatever godliness did not lead to truth, but a plain man never knows where to have them. That she and poor Antony Babington were in league to bring hither the Spaniards and restore the Pope, I have no manner of doubt on the word of both, but then they deem it—Heaven help them—a virtuous act; and it might be lawful in her, seeing that she has always called herself a free sovereign unjustly detained. What he stuck at and she denies, is the purpose of murdering the Queen's Majesty."

"Sure that was the head and front of the poor young man's offending."

"So it was, but not until he had been urged thereto by his priests, and had obtained her consent in a letter. Heaven forgive me if I misjudge any one, but my belief is this—that the letters, whereof only the deciphered copies were shown, did not quit the hands of either the one or the other, such as we heard them at Fotheringhay. So poor Babington said, so saith the Queen of Scots, demanding vehemently to have them read in her presence before Nau and Curll, who could testify to them. Cis deemeth that the true letter from Babington is in a packet which, on learning from Humfrey his suspicion that there was treachery, the Queen gave her, and she threw down a well at Chartley."

"That was pity."

"Say not so, for had the original letter been seized, it would only have been treated in the same manner as the copy, and never allowed to reach Queen Elizabeth."

"I am glad poor Cicely's mother can stand clear of that guilt," said Susan. "I served her too long, and received too much gentle treatment from her, to brook the thought that she could be so far left to herself."

"Mind you, dame," said Richard, "I am not wholly convinced that she was not aware that her friends would in some way or other bring about the Queen's death, and that she would scarce have visited it very harshly, but she is far too wise—ay, and too tender-hearted, to have entered into the matter beforehand. So I think her not wholly guiltless, though the wrongs she hath suffered have been so great that I would do whatever was not disloyal to mine own Queen to aid her to obtain justice."

"You are doing much, much indeed," said Susan; "and all this time you have told me nothing of my son, save what all might hear. How fares he? is his heart still set on this poor maid?"

"And ever will be," said his father. "His is not an outspoken babbling love like poor Master Nau, who they say was so inspired at finding himself in the same city with Bess Pierrepoint that he could talk of nothing else, and seemed to have no thought of his own danger or his Queen's. No, but he hath told me that he will give up all to serve her, without hope of requital; for her mother hath made her forswear him, and though she be not always on his tongue, he will do so, if I mistake not his steadfastness."

Susan sighed, but she knew that the love, that had begun when the lonely boy hailed the shipwrecked infant as his little sister, was of a calm, but unquenchable nature, were it for weal or woe. She could not but be thankful that the express mandate of both the parents had withheld her son from sharing the danger which was serious enough even for her husband's prudence and coolness of head.

By the morning, as she had predicted, the ardour of the Earl and Countess had considerably slackened; and though still willing to forward the petitioner on her way, they did not wish their names to appear in the matter.

They did, however, make an important offer. The Mastiff was newly come into harbour at Hull, and they offered Richard the use of her as a conveyance. He gladly accepted it. The saving of expense was a great object; for he was most unwilling to use Queen Mary's order on the French Ambassador, and he likewise deemed it possible that such a means of evasion might be very useful.

The Mastiff was sometimes used by some of the Talbot family on journeys to London, and had a tolerably commodious cabin, according to the notions of the time; and though it was late in the year, and poor Cis was likely to be wretched enough on the voyage, the additional security was worth having, and Cicely would be under the care of Goatley's wife, who made all the voyages with her husband. The Earl likewise charged Richard Talbot with letters and messages of conciliation to his son Gilbert, whose estrangement was a great grief to him, arising as it did entirely from the quarrels of the two wives, mother and daughter. He even charged his kinsman with the proposal to give up Sheffield to Lord and Lady Talbot and retire to Wingfield rather than continue at enmity. Mr. Talbot knew the parties too well to have much hope of prevailing, or producing permanent peace; but the commission was welcome, as it would give a satisfactory pretext for his presence in London.

A few days were spent at Bridgefield, Cicely making herself the most loving, helpful, and charming of daughters, and really basking in the peaceful atmosphere of Susan's presence; and then,—with many prayers and blessings from that good lady,—they set forth for Hull, taking with them two servants besides poor Babington's man Gillingham, whose superior intelligence and knowledge of London would make him useful, though there was a dark brooding look about him that made Richard always dread some act of revenge on his part toward his master's foes.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

MASTER TALBOT AND HIS CHARGE

The afternoon on which they were to enter the old town of Kingston-upon-Hull closed in with a dense sea-fog, fast turning to drizzling rain. They could see but a little distance on either side, and could not see the lordly old church tower. The beads of dew on the fringes of her pony's ears were more visible to Cicely than anything else, and as she kept along by Master Richard's side, she rejoiced both in the beaten, well-trodden track, and in the pealing bells which seemed to guide them into the haven; while Richard was resolving, as he had done all through the journey, where he could best lodge his companion so as to be safe, and at the same time free from inconvenient curiosity.

The wetness of the evening made promptness of decision the more needful, while the bad weather which his experienced eye foresaw would make the choice more important.

Discerning through the increasing gloom a lantern moving in the street which seemed to him to light a substantial cloaked figure, he drew up and asked if he were in the way to a well-known hostel. Fortune had favoured him, for a voice demanded in return, "Do I hear the voice of good Captain Talbot? At your service."

"Yea, it is I—Richard Talbot. Is it you, good Master Heatherthwayte?"

"It is verily, sir. Well do I remember you, good trusty Captain, and the goodly lady your wife. Do I see her here?" returned the clergyman, who had heartily grasped Richard's hand.

"No, sir, this is my daughter, for whose sake I would ask you to direct me to some lodging for the night."

"Nay, if the young lady will put up with my humble chambers, and my little daughter for her bedfellow, I would not have so old an acquaintance go farther."

Richard accepted the offer gladly, and Mr. Heatherthwayte walked close to the horses, using his lantern to direct them, and sending flashes of light over the gabled ends of the old houses and the muffled passengers, till they came to a long flagged passage, when he asked them to dismount, bidding the servants and horses to await his return, and giving his hand to conduct the young lady along the narrow slippery alley, which seemed to have either broken walls or houses on either aide.

He explained to Richard, by the way, that he had married the godly widow of a ship chandler, but that it had pleased Heaven to take her from him at the end of five years, leaving him two young children, but that her ancient nurse had the care of the house and the little ones.

Curates were not sumptuously lodged in those days. The cells which had been sufficient for monks commissioned by monasteries were no homes for men with families; and where means were to be had, a few rooms had been added without much grace, or old cottages adapted—for indeed the requirements of the clergy of the day did not soar above those of the farmer or petty dealer. Master Heatherthwayte pulled a string depending from a hole in a door, the place of which he seemed to know by instinct, and admitted the newcomers into a narrow paved entry, where he called aloud, "Here, Oil! Dust! Goody! Bring a light! Here are guests!"

A door was opened instantly into a large kitchen or keeping room, bright with a fire and small lamp. A girl of nine or ten sprang forward, but hung back at the sight of strangers; a boy of twelve rose awkwardly from conning his lessons by the low, unglazed lamp; an old woman showed herself from some kind of pantry.

"Here," said the clergyman, "is my most esteemed friend Captain Talbot of Bridgefield and his daughter, who will do us the honour of abiding with us this night. Do thou, Goody Madge, and thou, Oil-of-Gladness, make the young lady welcome, and dry her garments, while we go and see to the beasts. Thou, Dust-and-Ashes, mayest come with us and lead the gentleman's horse."

The lad, saddled with this dismal name, and arrayed in garments which matched it in colour though not in uncleanliness, sprang up with alacrity, infinitely preferring fog, rain, and darkness to his accidence, and never guessing that he owed this relaxation to his father's recollection of Mrs. Talbot's ways, and perception that the young lady would be better attended to without his presence.

Oil-of-Gladness was a nice little rosy girl in the tightest and primmest of caps and collars, and with the little housewifely hospitality that young mistresses of houses early attain to. There was no notion of equal terms between the Curate's daughter and the Squire's: the child brought a chair, and stood respectfully to receive the hood, cloak, and riding skirt, seeming delighted at the smile and thanks with which Cicely requited her attentions. The old woman felt the inner skirts, to make sure that they were not damp, and then the little girl brought warm water, and held the bowl while her guest washed face and hands, and smoothed her hair with the ivory comb which ladies always carried on a journey. The sweet power of setting people at ease was one Cis had inherited and cultivated by imitation, and Oil-of-Gladness was soon chattering away over her toilette. Would the lady really sleep with her in her little bed? She would promise not to kick if she could help it. Then she exclaimed, "Oh! what fair thing was that at the lady's throat? Was it a jewel of gold? She had never seen one; for father said it was not for Christian women to adorn themselves. Oh no; she did not mean—" and, confused, she ran off to help Goody to lay the spotless tablecloth, Cis following to set the child at peace with herself, and unloose the tongue again into hopes that the lady liked conger pie; for father had bought a mighty conger for twopence, and Goody had made a goodly pie of him.

By the time the homely meal was ready Mr. Talbot had returned from disposing of his horses and servants at a hostel, for whose comparative respectability Mr. Heatherthwayte had answered. The clergyman himself alone sat down to supper with his guests. He would not hear of letting either of his children do so; but while Dust-and-Ashes retired to study his tasks for the Grammar School by firelight, Oil-of-Gladness assisted Goody in waiting, in a deft and ready manner pleasant to behold.