Within a few days, therefore, Elizabeth got the better of her humane inclinations and decided against soliciting Mary’s presence at the English court, while determined to keep the fugitive on English soil. Elizabeth, however, would not have been Elizabeth had she acted unequivocally. She showed her usual ambiguity—a quality which always confuses people’s minds and disturbs the world. Now began the period in which Elizabeth Tudor undeniably sinned against Mary Stuart. Fortune gave her the victory she had dreamt of for years. Her rival, regarded as the exemplar of chivalric virtues, had been publicly disgraced by her own misconduct; she who had wished to usurp the crown of England had forfeited that of Scotland; she who had arrogantly proclaimed her rights was now a petitioner for Elizabeth’s aid. Two possibilities were open to Elizabeth. She might heap coals of fire on Mary’s head by generously granting the right of asylum. On the other hand, she might, for political reasons, refuse Mary safe harbourage on English soil. Either course would have been justified. A plea for aid may be granted or denied. Both by divine law and by human, however, it must be accounted base to refuse the petitioned help and yet detain a hapless fugitive. No excuse can be found for Elizabeth’s rejection of Mary’s plea for aid, and for then, under false pledges and by the secret use of force, detaining Mary on English ground. It was this perfidious conduct on Elizabeth’s part, weaving a net round the abased and conquered Queen of Scotland, which drove Mary further and further along the road of despair and crime.
Elizabeth’s behaviour at this juncture was a more grievous offence, and blots the English Queen’s character more darkly than the subsequent sending of Mary to the scaffold. There was not a shadow of pretext for detention. When Napoleon, after taking refuge on the Bellerophon, claimed British hospitality, Britain was entitled to reject his demand as farcical. For, at that juncture, France and Britain were at war; Napoleon was commander of the enemy forces, and had for nigh upon two decades been hounding the war-dogs at Britain’s throat. But when Mary landed at Workington, England and Scotland were not at war. Elizabeth Tudor and Mary Stuart had for years been affectionately addressing one another as friends, cousins and sisters; and when, a day or two before, from Dundrennan, Mary dispatched the ring, the “token of promised friendship and assistance”, she bore in mind Elizabeth’s words that no other person on earth would give her so cordial a hearing. She could rely, moreover, on the knowledge that Elizabeth had granted the right of asylum to Moray and Morton, to the murderers of Rizzio and the murderers of Darnley, their crimes notwithstanding. Only, when Mary came to England, it was not now with a claim to England’s throne, but with the modest request to be allowed to live at peace in England; or, failing this, to be given free passage to France.
It need hardly be said that Elizabeth was well aware of a complete lack of excuse for taking Mary prisoner. So was Cecil, for there is a memorandum in his own handwriting, Pro Regina Scotorum, in which we read: “She must be helped, seeing that she came of her own free will into England, relying upon our Queen.” Thus both Elizabeth and her Lord High Treasurer knew perfectly well, at the bottom of their hearts, that in weaving a net round Mary they were acting unjustly. But what would a statesman be worth if he could not, in ticklish circumstances, fabricate pretexts and procedures, make something out of nothing or nothing out of something? If there was no solid ground for arresting the fugitive, one must be discovered; since Mary had done no wrong to Elizabeth, an offence must be faked up. Caution was needed, since the whole European world was on the watch. The net must be carefully and inconspicuously woven, and then drawn tighter and tighter round the defenceless victim, before she realised what was afoot. Matters must be so arranged that, if she thereupon endeavoured—too late—to escape, her ill-judged movements would only ensnare her more hopelessly.
The weaving of the net began with an exchange of civilities. Two of Elizabeth’s chief advisers, Lord Scrope, the warden of the Western Marshes, and Sir Francis Knollys, the vice-chamberlain, were sent post-haste to Carlisle, whither Mary had now removed. Their mission was manifold and obscure. They were to convey to Mary assurances of their Queen’s distinguished consideration, to deplore the fugitive’s misfortunes—and to allay the Scottish Queen’s fears, lest she should prematurely appeal to the foreign courts for help. The most important part of their mission was secret. They were to keep watch over the woman who was at this time already a prisoner, were to bar the doors against inadvisable visitors, and were to intercept letters. To sustain them in the use of force, should force be needed, fifty halberdiers were ordered to Carlisle. Scrope and Knollys were also commissioned to report whatever Mary Stuart said. For what Cecil and his royal mistress most eagerly awaited was some incautious utterance of Mary’s which might serve as an excuse for openly proclaiming the imprisonment which, in default of it, virtually existed.
The two emissaries discharged their mission to the best of their ability, and it is to their report that we owe some of the most vivid of the extant characterisations of Mary. Again and again we find that she inspired respect and admiration in the most unlikely quarter. Sir Francis Knollys wrote to Cecil: “Surely she is a rare woman, for as no flattery can abuse her, so no plain speech seems to offend her, if she think the speaker an honest man.” Reporting to Queen Elizabeth, Lord Scrope and Sir Francis wrote: “We found her in her answers to have an eloquent tongue and a discreet head, and it seemeth by her doings she hath stout courage and a liberal heart adjoined thereunto.” But, they went on to say, she was extremely proud, that victory was what she had most at heart, and that, in comparison with this, wealth and everything else in the world were of little importance to her. Such a description was hardly calculated to placate the jealous and suspicious Elizabeth, whose heart could only thereby be hardened against her rival.
Mary Stuart, likewise, had quick apprehensions. She speedily realised that the condolences and courtesies of these envoys were empty words, and that their friendly conversation was intended to mask some hidden purpose. Only by degrees, and sugared with compliments, did they administer the bitter medicine they had brought—the news that Elizabeth would not receive the fugitive until she had purged herself of the murder charge. This formula had been excogitated in London to mask the blunt determination that Mary should be kept prisoner, and to provide a moral justification for her imprisonment. It may be that Mary took these perfidious assurances at their face value, and failed to see the net that was closing round her; or it may be that she thought it expedient to assume ignorance. Anyhow she declared that she would have no difficulty in exculpating herself, but that of course she would only do so before someone of equal rank with herself, namely before the Queen of England. The sooner the better. She would like to go to Elizabeth at once and confidently fling herself into her sister’s arms. She urgently desired to make her way to London forthwith, in order to refute the calumnies that were levelled against her honour. She gladly offered to accept Elizabeth as arbiter—no one else in the world.
The implications were sufficient for Elizabeth. By admitting that her guilt was open to discussion, Mary provided Elizabeth with a pretext for involving the refugee in a tedious trial. Of course the proceedings must not be begun hastily, in such a way as to induce Mary to alarm the world prematurely. Her senses must be lulled by honeyed assurances, so that she might unresistingly uncover her throat to the knife. Elizabeth wrote in moving terms, concealing the fact that the Privy Council had already decided upon Mary’s imprisonment, and wrapping up in honeyed phrases the refusal to receive the Scottish Queen at the English court. “Madam,” wrote Elizabeth, “I learn by your letter and by my Lord Herries your desire to justify yourself in my presence of the things charged against you. Oh, madam, there is no creature living more desirous to hear it than I, or who will more readily lend her ears to such answer as shall acquit your honour. But, whatever my regard for you, I can never be careless of my own reputation. I am held suspect for rather wishing to defend you herein, than opening my eyes to see the things these people condemn
you in.” After this skilfully phrased repudiation, there comes a yet more refined allurement. Elizabeth went on (the wording should be carefully noted): “And I promise on the word of a prince, that no persuasion of your subjects or advice of others shall ever induce me to move you to anything dangerous to you or your honour.” The letter grows more eloquent and more urgent: “If you find it strange not to see me, you must put yourself in my place, and then you will understand it would be difficult for me to receive you before your justification. But once honourably acquitted of this crime, I swear to you before God, that among all worldly pleasures that will hold the first rank.”
These are gentle, consolatory, cordial words. But they are the wrappings of a hard kernel. Henry Middlemore, the envoy who brought the epistle, was further commissioned to make it clear to Mary that what was in prospect for her was not an opportunity for a personal justification to Elizabeth, but a judicial or quasi-judicial investigation into what had happened in Scotland, although the true nature of the proceedings was, for the time being, to be decorously veiled by styling them a “conference”.
At the words “trial”, “investigation”, “judicial inquiry”, Mary Stuart’s anger found vent: “I have none other judge than God!” she exclaimed. “Marry, I know mine own estate and degree, although, according to the good trust I have reposed in the Queen, my good sister, I have offered to make her the judge of my cause. But how can that be, when she will not suffer me to come at her?” Threateningly she declared (a true word!) that Elizabeth would gain no advantage by holding her fast in England. Then she took up her pen: “Prithee, madam, abandon the thought that I came hither in order to save my life. Neither the world nor Scotland has repudiated me. I came hither to win back my honour, and to find support that would enable me to chastise those that have falsely accused me; but not in order to answer them as if they were my equals. For among all princes I chose you as my next of kin and my ‘perfaite amye’, that before you I might accuse my accusers, because I believed you would regard it as an honour to yourself to be called upon to help in re-establishing the honour of a queen unjustly accused.” She had not fled from a prison in Scotland in order to be confined “quasi en un autre”—almost in another—on English soil. In conclusion she demanded, what it was always futile to demand from Elizabeth, namely plain speaking and unambiguous behaviour; either to be helped, or else to be set at liberty. She would “de bonne voglia”—with a good will—justify herself before Elizabeth, but would not do so in the form of a trial by the mightiest of her subjects, unless these were brought before her with bound hands; being fully aware of her position as a ruler by divine right, she would not meet any subject on equal terms; she would rather die.
Mary Stuart’s attitude was legally incontestable. The Queen of England could exercise no jurisdiction over the Queen of Scotland; Elizabeth had no right to institute an inquiry concerning a murder which had taken place in another kingdom; she possessed no right to intervene in a conflict between a foreign princess and the latter’s subjects. Of course Elizabeth was aware of this, and therefore redoubled her cajoleries in order to lure Mary Stuart out of an impregnable position onto the slippery ground of a quasi-judicial inquiry. It was not, she said, as a judge, but as a friend and sister that she desired these dark matters to be cleared up; the exculpation was an indispensable preliminary to the gratification of her dearest wish to see Mary face to face and to enjoy the knowledge that Mary had been restored to her queenship. In order to gain the end she had in view, Elizabeth gave one important pledge after another, implying that never for a moment did she doubt the Scottish Queen’s innocence, that the proposed conferences had nothing whatever to do with Mary Stuart, but were simply directed against Moray and the other rebels. One lie followed hard upon the heels of another. She gave a binding pledge (we shall see later how it was kept) that nothing should be disclosed at the inquiry which could tarnish Mary Stuart’s honour. As a further deception, Elizabeth explained to those who were to hold the conferences that, whatever the result of the inquiry, Mary Stuart’s royal position would be unaffected.
While Elizabeth was being thus prodigal of friendly assurances and undertakings, Cecil was quietly pursuing a different path. To make Moray consent to the investigation, the regent was assured that there was not the remotest thought of his sister’s reinstatement. (We see that double tongues and double faces are not the invention of latter-day statesmen!) Mary was not deceived by the manoeuvres of her “dear sister and cousin”. She strenuously defended herself, writing letter after letter, sweet and bitter by turns. In London, however, the net was drawn closer all the time. By degrees measures were taken to intensify spiritual pressure upon the captive, to show her that, if she persisted in her refusal, force would be used. Such amenities as she had been allowed were withdrawn. She was no longer permitted to receive visitors from Scotland. If she left Carlisle Castle to take the air, she was accompanied (that is to say watched and guarded) by a hundred riders. Carlisle was too near the coast, from which rescue by boat was possible. Thus, in the middle of July, despite her protests, she was removed to Bolton Castle in the North Riding of Yorkshire—her new prison being described as a “very strong, very fayre and very stately house”.
Even now the iron hand was velvet-gloved. The Queen of Scotland was assured that the removal was only due to Elizabeth’s kindness and consideration, that correspondence between the pair might be accelerated. Mary would have more liberty at Bolton, and would be better protected from the risk of attack on the part of her enemies. What was possible to Mary beyond empty protest? She could not effectively resist. Return to Scotland was impossible; she could not make her way to France; and her position grew more sordid day by day. She lived upon the bread of charity, and the very clothing she wore was borrowed from Elizabeth. Utterly alone, cut off from communication with her friends, surrounded by her adversary’s subjects, she gradually became more pliable.
At length, as Cecil had hoped and planned, she made the great mistake for which he and Elizabeth had been so impatiently waiting. In a moment of fatigue and weakness she acquiesced in the scheme of an inquiry. This was the greatest blunder of her life. Her position had so far been invincible; as long as she insisted that Elizabeth had no jurisdiction, had no right to deprive her of her freedom—that, as the Queen’s and as England’s guest, no one could compel her to submit to alien jurisdiction—nothing could be undertaken against her. Mary’s courage, however, great though it was, came only in flashes, and she lacked the stamina essential to a sovereign ruler. Having once consented, it was vain for her to impose conditions. She felt that the ground had been cut from under her feet. “There is nothing,” she wrote on 28th June, “which I would not undertake upon your word, for I have never doubted your honour and your royal good faith.”
But one who has surrendered unconditionally cannot, thereafter, attempt to make terms. The conqueror insists upon his rights, while the conquered have no rights whatever. Vae vic-tis!—Woe to the vanquished!
Chapter Eighteen
The Net Closes Round Her
(July 1568 to January 1569)
AS SOON AS MARY STUART foolishly consented to an investigation by an “unbiased conference”, the English government devoted itself to ensuring that there should be the bias it wanted. Whereas the Scottish lords would be allowed to appear before the tribunal, equipped with all their proofs, Mary was to be represented only by two confidential agents. Solely from a distance and through intermediaries could she levy her counter-accusation against the rebel lords who, for their part, could speak freely with their own voices, and could form cabals among themselves. By this perfidious arrangement the captured Queen was at one stroke reduced from the offensive to the defensive. The fine pledges which were previously given her might now be ignored. Elizabeth, who had declared it incompatible with her honour to receive Mary Stuart until the proceedings were over, did not hesitate to admit the rebel Moray to her presence. This little matter did not trouble her “honour”. N
o doubt the determination to force Mary into the dock was still carefully veiled, for appearances must be kept up before the eyes of the foreign world. The Scottish lords, it was said, would have to “justify” their rebellion. But this justification, which Elizabeth sanctimoniously demanded, meant nothing more than that they would have to state the reasons why they had taken up arms against their Queen. That implied a request to them to disclose “the whole truth” about Darnley’s murder, giving them a weapon of which the point was to be directed against Mary Stuart. If the Scottish lords would be strenuous enough in their accusations, legal reasons could be excogitated in London for continuing to keep the Scottish Queen in prison, and a specious excuse would be provided for what was really an unwarrantable detention.
Conceived as a huge piece of humbug, this conference (which cannot be called a judicial procedure without libelling justice) unexpectedly degenerated into a comedy of a very different character from that which Cecil and Elizabeth had designed. For hardly had the parties to the affair been brought together round a table that they might accuse one another, when it appeared they had very little desire to produce documents and state facts, and both sides knew perfectly well why. As a unique feature of this trial, accusers and accused had been confederates in the same crime. The murder of Darnley was a thorny matter for them all. Both would prefer to maintain silence about it since both had had “art and part” therein. If Morton, Lethington and Murray should produce the Casket documents and maintain, on the strength of these, that Mary Stuart was a confederate in the murder or at least an accessory before the fact, the honourable lords would, no doubt, have been right in their deductions. Mary Stuart would also have been right in showing that those who accused her had likewise been accessories before the fact, and had at least approved the murder by their silence. If the accusers put the letters in as evidence, Mary, who had learnt from Bothwell the names of the signatories to the bond for murder, and perhaps had the document in her possession, could tear the mask from the faces of the posthumous royalists. Nothing was more natural, therefore, than the lukewarmness of both parties to the action; nothing could be plainer than their common interest in settling the matter out of court, and allowing poor Henry Darnley to rest quietly in his tomb. “Requiescat in pace!” was the pious prayer of everyone concerned.