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

"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.

No sooner did Mr. Talbot mention the name Cicely than Master Heatherthwayte looked up and said—"Methinks it was I who spake that name over this young lady in baptism."

"Even so," said Richard. "She knoweth all, but she hath ever been our good and dutiful daughter, for which we are the more thankful that Heaven hath given us none other maid child."

He knew Master Heatherthwayte was inclined to curiosity about other people's affairs, and therefore turned the discourse on the doings of his sons, hoping to keep him thus employed and avert all further conversation upon Cicely and the cause of the journey. The good man was most interested in Edward, only he exhorted Mr. Talbot to be careful with whom he bestowed the stripling at Cambridge, so that he might shed the pure light of the Gospel, undimmed by Popish obscurities and idolatries.

He began on his objections to the cross in baptism and the ring in marriage, and dilated on them to his own satisfaction over the tankard of ale that was placed for him and his guest, and the apples and nuts wherewith Cicely was surreptitiously feeding Oil-of-Gladness and Dust-and-Ashes; while the old woman bustled about, and at length made her voice heard in the announcement that the chamber was ready, and the young lady was weary with travel, and it was time she was abed, and Oil likewise.

Though not very young children, Oil and Dust, at a sign from their father, knelt by his chair, and uttered their evening prayers aloud, after which he blessed and dismissed them—the boy to a shake-down in his own room, the girl to the ecstasy of assisting the guest to undress, and admiring the wonders of the very simple toilette apparatus contained in her little cloak bag.

Richard meantime was responding as best he could to the inquiries he knew would be inevitable as soon as he fell in with the Reverend Master Heatherthwayte. He was going to London in the Mastiff on some business connected with the Queen of Scots, he said.

Whereupon Mr. Heatherthwayte quoted something from the Psalms about the wicked being taken in their own pits, and devoutly hoped she would not escape this time. His uncharitableness might be excused by the fact that he viewed it as an immediate possibility that the Prince of Parma might any day enter the Humber, when he would assuredly be burnt alive, and Oil-of-Gladness exposed to the fate of the children of Haarlem.

Then he added, "I grieved to hear that you and your household were so much exposed to the witchcrafts of that same woman, sir."

"I hope she hath done them little hurt," said Richard.

"Is it true," he added, "that the woman hath laid claim to the young lady now here as a kinswoman?"

"It is true," said Richard, "but how hath it come to your knowledge, my good friend? I deemed it known to none out of our house; not even the Earl and Countess guess that she is no child of ours."

"Nay, Mr. Talbot, is it well to go on in a deceit?"

"Call it rather a concealment," said Richard. "We have doubted it since, but when we began, it was merely that there was none to whom it seemed needful to explain that the babe was not the little daughter we buried here. But how did you learn it? It imports to know."

"Sir, do you remember your old servant Colet, Gervas's wife? It will be three years next Whitsuntide that hearing a great outcry as of a woman maltreated as I passed in the street, I made my way into the house and found Gervas verily beating his wife with a broomstick. After I had rebuked him and caused him to desist, I asked him the cause, and he declared it to be that his wife had been gadding to a stinking Papist fellow, who would be sure to do a mischief to his noble captain, Mr. Talbot. Thereupon Colet declares that she had done no harm, the gentleman wist all before. She knew him again for the captain's kinsman who was in the house the day that the captain brought home the babe."

"Cuthbert Langston!"

"Even so, sir. It seems that he had been with this woman, and questioned her closely on all she remembered of the child, learning from her what I never knew before, that there were marks branded on her shoulders and a letter sewn in her clothes. Was it so, sir?"

"Ay, but my wife and I thought that even Colet had never seen them."

"Nothing can escape a woman, sir. This man drew all from her by assuring her that the maiden belonged to some great folk, and was even akin to the King and Queen of Scots, and that she might have some great reward if she told her story to them. She even sold him some three or four gold and ivory beads which she says she found when sweeping out the room where the child was first undressed."

"Hath she ever heard more of the fellow?"

"Nay, but Gervas since told me that he had met some of my Lord's men who told him that your daughter was one of the Queen of Scots' ladies, and said he, 'I held my peace; but methought, It hath come of the talebearing of that fellow to whom my wife prated.'"

"Gervas guessed right," said Richard. "That Langston did contrive to make known to the Queen of Scots such tokens as led to her owning the maiden as of near kin to her by the mother's side, and to her husband on the father's; but for many reasons she entreated us to allow the damsel still to bear our name, and be treated as our child."

"I doubt me whether it were well done of you, sir," said Mr. Heatherthwayte.

"Of that," said Richard, drawing up into himself, "no man can judge for another."

"She hath been with that woman; she will have imbibed her Popish vanities!" exclaimed the poor clergyman, almost ready to start up and separate Oil-of-Gladness at once from the contamination.

"You may be easy on that score," said Richard drily. "Her faith is what my good wife taught her, and she hath constantly attended the preachings of the chaplains of Sir Amias Paulett, who be all of your own way of thinking."

"You assure me?" said Mr. Heatherthwayte, "for it is the nature of these folk to act a part, even as did the parent the serpent."

Often as Richard had thought so himself, he was offended now, and rose, "If you think I have brought a serpent into your house, sir, we will take shelter elsewhere. I will call her."

Mr. Heatherthwayte apologised and protested, and showed himself willing to accept the assurance that Cicely was as simple and guileless as his own little maid; and Mr. Talbot, not wishing to be sent adrift with Cicely at that time of night, and certainly not to put such an affront on the good, if over-anxious father, was pacified, but the cordial tone of ease was at an end, and they were glad to separate and retire to rest.

Richard had much cause for thought. He perceived, what had always been a perplexity to him before, how Langston had arrived at the knowledge that enabled him to identify Cicely with the babe of Lochleven.

Mr. Talbot heard moanings and wailings of wind all night, which to his experience here meant either a three days' detention at Hull, or a land journey. With dawn there were gusts and showers. He rose betimes and went downstairs. He could hear his good host praying aloud in his room, and feeling determined not to vex that Puritan spirit by the presence of Queen Mary's pupil, he wrapped his cloak about him and went out to study the weather, and inquire for lodgings to which he might remove Cicely. He saw nothing he liked, and determined on consulting his old mate, Goatley, who generally acted as skipper, but he had first to return so as not to delay the morning meal. He found, on coming in, Cicely helping Oil-of-Gladness in making griddle cakes, and buttering them, so as to make Mr. Heatherthwayte declare that he had not tasted the like since Mistress Susan quitted Hull.

Moreover, he had not sat down to the meal more than ten minutes before he discovered, to his secret amusement, that Cicely had perfectly fascinated and charmed the good minister, who would have shuddered had he known that she did so by the graces inherited and acquired from the object of his abhorrence. Invitations to abide in their present quarters till it was possible to sail were pressed on them; and though Richard showed himself unwilling to accept them, they were so cordially reiterated, that he felt it wiser to accede to them rather than spread the mystery farther. He was never quite sure whether Mr. Heatherthwayte looked on the young lady as untainted, or whether he wished to secure her in his own instructions; but he always described her as a modest and virtuous young lady, and so far from thinking her presence dangerous, only wished Oil to learn as much from her as possible.

Cicely was sorely disappointed, and wanted to ride on at once by land; but when her foster-father had shown her that the bad weather would be an almost equal obstacle, and that much time would be lost on the road, she submitted with the good temper she had cultivated under such a notable example. She taught Oil-of-Gladness the cookery of one of her mothers and the stitchery of the other; she helped Dust-and-Ashes with his accidence, and enlightened him on the sports of the Bridgefield boys, so that his father looked round dismayed at the smothered laughter, when she assured him that she was only telling how her brother Diccon caught a coney, or the like, and in some magical way smoothed down his frowns with her smile.

Mistress Cicely Talbot's visit was likely to be an unforgotten era with Dust-and-Ashes and Oil-of-Gladness. The good curate entreated that she and her father would lodge there on their return, and the invitation was accepted conditionally, Mr. Talbot writing to his wife, by the carriers, to send such a load of good cheer from Bridgefield as would amply compensate for the expenses of this hospitality.

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE FETTERLOCK COURT

People did not pity themselves so much for suspense when, instead of receiving an answer in less than an hour, they had to wait for it for weeks if not months. Mrs. Talbot might be anxious at Bridgefield, and her son at Fotheringhay, and poor Queen Mary, whose life hung in the balance, more heartsick with what old writers well named 'wanhope' than any of them; but they had to live on, and rise morning after morning without expecting any intelligence, unable to do anything but pray for those who might be in perils unknown.

After the strain and effort of her trial, Mary had become very ill, and kept her bed for many days. Humfrey continued to fulfil his daily duties as commander of the guards set upon her, but he seldom saw or spoke with any of her attendants, as Sir Andrew Melville, whom he knew the best of them, had on some suspicion been separated from his mistress and confined in another part of the Castle.

Sir Amias Paulett, too, was sick with gout and anxiety, and was much relieved when Sir Drew Drury was sent to his assistance. The new warder was a more courteous and easy-mannered person, and did not fret himself or the prisoner with precautions like his colleague; and on Sir Amias's reiterated complaint that the guards were not numerous enough, he had brought down five fresh men, hired in London, fellows used to all sorts of weapons, and at home in military discipline; but, as Humfrey soon perceived, at home likewise in the license of camps, and most incongruous companions for the simple village bumpkins, and the precise retainers who had hitherto formed the garrison. He did his best to keep order, but marvelled how Sir Amias would view their excesses when he should come forth again from his sick chamber.

The Queen was better, though still lame; and on a fine November noontide she obtained, by earnest entreaty, permission to gratify her longing for free air by taking a turn in what was called the Fetterlock Court, from the Yorkist badge of the falcon and fetterlock carved profusely on the decorations. This was the inmost strength of the castle, on the highest ground, an octagon court, with the keep closing one side of it, and the others surrounded with huge massive walls, shutting in a greensward with a well. There was a broad commodious terrace in the thickness of the walls, intended as a station whence the defenders could shoot between the battlements, but in time of peace forming a pleasant promenade sheltered from the wind, and catching on its northern side the meridian rays of this Martinmas summer day, so that physician as well as jailer consented to permit the captive there to take the air.