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cast abroad in London, and bruited throughout this realm, and
known to her Majesty’s Council. Her Majesty hath not heard of him
ill of me, so it pleaseth her Majesty to signify unto me by her own
gracious letters, which I must believe, notwithstanding his dealing
against me is otherwise so notoriously known that if he escape sharp
and open punishment dishonour will redound to me. This practice
hath a further meaning than the varlets know of.... For mine own
part I have never thought to allow any title, nor will, otherwise than
as shall please her Majesty to appoint.... How can it be supposed that
I should be disposed to favour this Queen for her claim to succeed
the Queen’s Majesty? My dealing towards her hath shown the
contrary. I know her to be a Stranger, a Papist, and my enemy; what
hope can I have of good of her, either for me or my country? I see I
am by my own friends brought in jealousy, wherefore I wish with all
my heart that I were honourably read, without note or blemish, to
the world of any want in me.”

Though the Earl’s enemy was satisfactorily condemned to the

pillory and the Fleet, the scandal proved many-headed, and again the
poor official (accused, among other things, of being as much of a
credulous fool as a knave in regard to Mary of Scotland) thunders
protest.

“Wherefore as touching that lewd fellow, who hath not only sought
by unlawful libels extant, so much as in him lay, to deface my dutiful
heart and loyalty, but also the rooting up of my house, utter
overthrow and destruction of my lineal posterity, I neither hold him
a subject nor yet account him worthy the name of a man, which with
a watery submission can appease so rigorous a storm;[23] no, if loss of
my life, which he hath pretended would have fully contented him, I
could better have been satisfied than with these, his unspeakable
vilenesses.... I might be thought hard-hearted if, for Christianity’s
sake, I should not freely forgive as cause shall require, and desire
God to make him a better member, being so perilous a caterpillar in
the Commonwealth. For I have not the man anywise in contempt, it
is his iniquity and Judas dealing that I only hate.”
 In other words, “Reptile! But I forgive thee.” It is almost a parallel
to the anecdote of a certain little girl with an over-stern nurse of
gloomy religious tendencies, to whom the child, waking alone in the
dark, called, “Nurse, nurse, come, come! I dreamed that the devil was
here tempting me to call you a duffer—but I resisted the temptation!”
The Corker affair, of course, provided fresh food for the imaginings
and reports of Mary’s adversaries. People thought that it would
necessarily mean the removal of Mary into fresh custody. Mary
herself dreaded this. She did not love Shrewsbury, but she believed
her life to be safe with him, though she may not have entirely trusted
his wife. She heard that poison was to be used against her, and that
there was a suggestion at Court “to make overtures to the Countess of
Shrewsbury.” She was assured that if anyone poisoned her without
Elizabeth’s knowledge, the latter “would be very much obliged to
them for relieving her of so great a trouble.”
There is nothing on the Countess’s side to corroborate this wild
statement. This horrible fear, however, was so implanted in Mary’s
mind that she sent to France for “some genuine terra sigillata, as
antidote.” But she did not apply to her sinister mother-in-law
Catherine De Medici. “Ask M. the Cardinal my uncle,” she writes, “or
if he has none, rather than have recourse to the Queen my mother-
in-law, or to the King, send a bit of fine unicorn’s horn, as I am in
great want of it.”
The year 1574 travelled onward without realisation of her fears.
The “caterpillar,” Corker, had not prevailed in the overthrow of the
Earl’s house or of his “lineal posterity,” and Gilbert Talbot in this
little note writes affectionately enough to his stepmother:—[24]

“My most humble duty remembered unto your good Ladyship, to

fulfil your La. commandment, and in discharge of my duty by
writing, rather than for any matter of importance that I can learn, I
herewith trouble your La. Her Majesty stirreth little abroad, and
since the stay of the navy to sea here hath been all things very
quiet.... I have written to my Lord of the bruit which is here of his
being sick again, which I nothing doubt but it is utterly untrue:
howbeit, because I never heard from my L. nor your La. since I came
up, I cannot choose but be somewhat troubled, and yet I consider the
like hath been often reported most falsely and without cause, as I
beseech God this be. My Lady Cobbam asketh daily how your La.
doth, and yesterday prayed me, the next time I wrote, to do her very
hearty commendation unto your La., saying openly she remaineth
unto your La. as she was wont, as unto her dearest friend. My La.
Lenox hath not been at the Court since I came. On Wednesday next I
trust (God willing) to go hence towards Goodrich; and shortly after
to be at Sheffield. And so most humbly craving your La. blessing with
my wonted prayer, for your honour and most perfect health long to
continue. From the Court at Greenwich this 27th June, 1573.
“Your La. most humble and obedient son,
“Gilbert Talbot.

“To my Lady.

“I received a letter from my Lord since this letter was sealed, and
then I had no time by this messenger to write again unto your La.
which came in a comfortable season unto me.”
 CHAPTER VIII
A CERTAIN JOURNEY

It was now the autumn of the year 1574. The Shrewsburys had for the
time being come triumphantly out of official complications, and
despite their grave responsibilities lived as comfortably as might be,
though they were often separated, because the wife, at any rate, had
other duties besides that of gaolership. What social life was
permitted to them by the restraint entailed by this charge could
obviously be enjoyed only by the Countess, and even she must have
found it difficult to meet her cronies, get her children married and
provided for, and keep a firm hand on domestic expenditure at the
various houses she owned. The guarding of Mary of Scotland
certainly had its interesting, romantic side, and this to some extent
was a set-off against the greyer side of the business and its financial
disadvantages. Just now the chances of Mary were at their lowest.
Bothwell was dying in exile,[25] the Duke of Norfolk had shed his
blood vainly for her, Charles Darnley, “The Young Fool,” as Mr. Lang
most justly calls him, though dead, with all his vanity, treachery, and
vice, could still harm her cause, more latterly perhaps through the
popular stigma which attached to her than by the hatred of his
relatives, the family of Lennox. His family, sorely chastened by
Elizabeth for his marriage with Mary, was, since his death, held in
less odium at the English Court, though it did not suit the Queen’s
gracious meanness to raise it out of poverty. Elizabeth and Darnley’s
mother, poor soul—Countess of Lennox, née the Lady Margaret
Douglas—had buried the hatchet after the boy’s death. For the
benefit of those who forget her story—or ignore it—a word as to this
lady:—
 From a contemporary
picture

LADY MARGARET DOUGLAS,

COUNTESS OF LENNOX

MOTHER OF LORD DARNLEY

Page 120

The daughter of Queen Margaret of Scotland (a Tudor, and sister

of Henry VIII) and of the Earl of Angus, a mere boy, she was born in
a wild moment of flight over the border into England. The very castle
into which her mother crept after the long journey on horseback was
immediately besieged. Thereafter the child Margaret became a bone
of contention between her divorced parents—as history tells. After
three years of babyhood in the shelter of her royal uncle’s English
Court she spent her youth in France and Scotland, often latterly a
wanderer from castle to castle, abhorred by her mother the Scots
Queen because of her devotion to her outlawed father. For years she
had neither house nor pin-money, but was dependent always upon
such hospitality and shelter as her father’s friends would yield her in
their Northern fortresses. Though her mother never forgave her for
her defection, the fortunes of the girl—beautiful and of imposing
personality—mended and brought her at last into the sunshine of
Tudor favours. Henry VIII had compassion on his niece and made
her playmate of Princess Mary, at which time she so won his
affections that he settled an annuity upon her and her father.
Subsequently she was first lady-in-waiting to Anne Boleyn, and was
installed as one of the household of the baby Princess Elizabeth.
While Katherine of Aragon was being divorced and the star of Anne
Boleyn waxed and waned she witnessed strange moments, and
watched the violent changes by which her uncle declared now this
one and now that one of his daughters illegitimate. Her own
fortunes, even as a princess of the blood royal, were—in spite of her
uncle’s genial expressions—nothing too secure, and marriage and a
dowry were still dreams of the future. Possibly the King’s erotic
irregularities allowed him no time for the love affairs of others, but at
any rate he manifestly did not, like some of his successors, intend to
doom his lady wards to perpetual virginity. When Lady Margaret
showed favour to Lord Thomas Howard, kinsman of the Queen
(Boleyn), Henry seemed to have winked at the courtship. So soon,
however, as he killed his second consort and degraded her baby girl
to the ranks of the illegitimate, matters assumed a very different
colour. For the Lady Margaret Douglas was now the nearest heir to
the throne. He married immediately, but no heir was speedily born.
Meanwhile the Lady Margaret’s love affair grew and culminated in a
formal if secret contract—that is to say a solemn betrothal, in every
respect binding. Henry regarded this as a double offence. His blood
niece, his heir apparent, had contracted herself without his
permission; moreover she had pledged herself to a near relative of
the abhorred Boleyn. He behaved in his proper, kingly, melodramatic
way, sent man and maid to the Tower, speedily convicted them of
high treason, and sentence of death followed. The execution of this,
as usual, was delayed. The State document condemning both is, as all
the world knows, one of the most disgracefully illegal concoctions
ever produced by the blundering rage of a ruler and the hypocrisy of
his ministers. In addition it furnished the precedent for the gross
interference of that ruler’s daughter, Elizabeth, in like cases. In
addition to proving the Lady Margaret guilty of treason, it professed
to prove her illegitimacy also, and so cleared the way for Henry’s
future whims. The unhappy Lord Thomas, after a year or two,
succumbed to close confinement and sorrow and died in the Tower.
His lady was removed to Sion House Court, near London, one of the
few religious houses upon which her uncle found it convenient to
smile because it could play a most useful part in his affairs as a polite
place of detention for ladies of quality who drooped under his
displeasure. The birth of his prince—Edward VI—made him relent
towards his niece, and she came about the Court once more, though
her old penchant for the house of Howard, of which a second
member—nephew of her betrothed—now wooed her, thrust her into
shadow again. This was probably a harder blow than the first, though
she was not this time shivering under the fear of the axe. For she had
been fully restored to her old place; she had once more taken part in
that melodramatic domestic merry-go-round of Henry’s consorts.
She was first lady to the new royal Anne of Cleves, she had
apartments assigned to her at Hampton Court, and she was “first
lady” again to Anne’s successor, Katherine Howard. A weary period
of detention at Sion House followed—sharply ended because the
King now wished to shut up Katherine Howard there. So Lady
Margaret was moved on to the care of the Duke of Norfolk on the
East coast. The third Katherine whom Henry wooed—the widowed
Parr—put an end to this banishment, and by her tact and kindness
reconciliations took place all round in the royal house. Lady
Margaret played bridesmaid and lady-in-waiting once more, and her
uncle began to bestir himself about her marriage. The man she
wedded at the age of thirty-two after so much tossing and chasing,
imprisonment and poverty, was the very Matthew, Earl of Lennox,
whose claim to the Scots Crown had by James V of Scotland, on the
death of his two sons, been preferred against those of the Earl of
Arran. Both earls were kinsmen of James, and because of their high
ambitions were engaged in undying feud. The birth of a royal Scots
heir, in Mary, reduced both lords to the same level, but did not
diminish the pertinacity of Lennox, who returned from France to
England with the design of wedding Mary’s mother, Mary of
Lorraine, as soon as her widowhood pointed her out as eligible. He
was a handsome fellow and perfected in the graces of courts after his
long apprenticeship in France, but he did not have his way, and
emissaries from England schemed to throw Lady Margaret Douglas
in his path. England was eager that he should serve her purposes. As
consort of Mary of Lorraine and financed by France he would be the
worst enemy of England. With Lady Margaret England dangled
before him a good dowry. The marriage, adorned by the blessing of
Henry VIII, took place with great éclat in 1544, and the King
flourished his sanction in a speech including the important
declaration, “in case his own issue failed he should be right glad if
heirs of her body succeeded to the crown.” Nevertheless, though her
husband was promised the regency of Scotland, and she was
awarded residence in a royal palace (Stepney), she did not retain the
King’s favour. Quarrels ensued; whether brewed by the spies in her
own household in London or in Yorkshire (where she established
herself in order to be nearer her husband, engaged in Border
invasions), or by her act does not appear. Just before Henry died the
breach was complete, and in spite of her having given birth to three
legitimate Tudor heirs, of whom Henry Darnley was the second, her
rights and those of her offspring from the regal succession in
England were wiped out.
With a strength, as of Antæus, the much-buffeted lady overrode
trouble and travelled to London with her child Henry, now the eldest
(her first-born died in infancy), to pay her respects to her cousin, the
new King, Edward VI. How she faced the situation is a marvel. Her
husband’s Border cruelties had made him unpopular, and she was
coldly looked upon. Her position for some years was most equivocal,
since, in spite of her close relationship to the queen dowager of
Scotland, she could not present to this lady, her sister-in-law, her
husband Earl Lennox, traitor to Scotland, or her sons, in whom the
Tudor blood was tainted by that of Lennox. She lived, however, in
stately fashion in Yorkshire, followed eagerly the ritual of the Romish
Church, and educated her children in it. Quarrels with her father
Angus, discussions as to the disposal of his property, the birth of her
eighth child, and the impaired health of her lord engrossed her now
sufficiently. Then came another subtle and sudden change of
fortunes with the death of Edward VI, the abortive scheme on behalf
of Lady Jane Grey, and the sudden triumph of the claims of Princess
Mary over those of her younger sister Elizabeth.
 During the reign of Mary of England Lady Lennox passed into
calmer waters. She did not abuse her opportunities, but the Queen’s
favour did not make Margaret or her children heirs designate to
Mary’s crown.
Exit Mary, enter Elizabeth, and with Elizabeth a short time of
prosperity! Matthew Lennox secured eventually his regency in
Scotland, and his wife was in waiting upon Elizabeth at Windsor. She
must have felt like a bat emerging from a cellar after the constant
misfortunes and rebuffs of the past. Disfavour, dispeace were,
however, always her portion, and very soon closed in upon her. This
time the occasion of disturbance was France. Its king died. Mary of
Scotland became queen consort. Lady Lennox saw a rich chance of
using influence so puissant for reinstating her husband and herself in
Scotland. She sent one messenger of congratulation and again
another. This seems to have been Henry Darnley, now her eldest son,
who was just fifteen. Thus did she begin to lay the train of
circumstances which exploded in the horrors of the night of Kirk-o’-
Field. From this till the actual Darnley marriage it was the Lady
Lennox even more than her husband who invited intrigue. She, like
other keen aristocratic plotters of the day, employed not only codes,
emissaries, and spies, but conjurors. Little she guessed at the
eavesdroppers who lurked in the corners of her great house at
Settrington, and of the spies whom the Earl of Leicester and Lord
Burghley employed to catch every suspicious word and record every
private interview within her walls. One fine day the Queen’s officers
invaded and seized her household, conjurors included, and she and
her family were summoned sharply to Court. A sorry journey that,
though not the first piece of pitiful travelling she had done. Servants,
children, lord and lady reached the capital, and were disposed of in
various quarters. The Lennoxes were ordered to their own
apartments in Westminster Palace, while some of their retinue were
put into the old Gate House prison close by. How young Lord
Darnley managed to evade watching and quietly lose himself in
London is a mystery. This did not make things easier for his parents,
who were instantly punished by separation and imprisonment, he in
the Tower, and she to strait keeping under the roof of Sir Richard
and Lady Sackville, the Queen’s cousins, at Sheen. Lady Lennox’s
religion and the unjust suggestion that she had been responsible for
the harsh treatment, by the late Queen, of her sister Elizabeth,
seemed to aggravate the case of both prisoners. After sickness,
pleadings, and indignation, husband and wife were permitted to
share confinement at Sheen. It would have been best for them if they
had been kept there indefinitely. How Elizabeth ever came to free
them in the midst of her suspicions and fears in regard to the
marriage of Mary of Scotland is extraordinary. That she should
actually have been prevailed upon to give the Earl and his eldest son
a passport into Scotland is still more so. With the Darnley marriage
began Lady Lennox’s long incarceration in the Tower itself—a more
pitiful imprisonment than any she had experienced. Her children
were far from her; her husband and eldest son were too wise to risk
their fate by obeying Elizabeth’s absurd order to return to Court.
Freedom came hand in hand with the terrible news of Darnley’s
murder. What could the woman do but break forth into loud
complaints and passionate accusation in the royal presence? Was it
strange that, worn with imprisonment, the beauty of her prime gone,
her face disfigured with many sorrows, her dignity and royal blood
degraded, she should address a petition begging the Queen to
commit Mary to trial and secure the speedy execution of justice?
Elizabeth would not have her hand forced. “It was not becoming,”
said she, “to fix a charge so heinous upon the princess and her
kinswoman without producing the clearest evidence.” She would not
actually accuse, but she would not clear her enemy.
Thus there was reason enough for Elizabeth’s later clemency
towards the Lennoxes. It suited the purpose of queen and prisoner
that they should now join issue against the murderess, “the hure,”
against “Bothwell’s wench.” It suited Lennox well that he should be
installed guardian of the future James I, and Lady Lennox, as his
grandmother, was now accorded a far more important position than
she could have taken had her daughter-in-law been above suspicion.
It is true that financially she was never unembarrassed. A mansion at
Hackney, formerly the property of the ruined family of Percy, was
awarded to her as a residence, but it does not seem to have been
much of a home, or at least, her manner of living there seems to have
been anything but luxurious. She does not appear to have been much
at Court. Gilbert Talbot alludes to her in a letter already quoted, and
written in this summer of 1574: “My Lady of Lennox hath not been at
the Court since I came.” Up to the present her attitude towards Mary
was unchanged. When Lord and Lady Burghley visited Chatsworth in
1570, Margaret Lennox thought it necessary to flog a dead horse and
add by letter her exhortations to the warnings of Elizabeth that Mr.
Secretary should be on his guard against the wiles of Mary. Even
Margaret—a woman—knew the force of the personal equation in this
case. She is careful to add: “Not for any fear you should be won,
which as her Majesty tells me she did speak to you at your departing,
but to let you understand how her Majesty hath had some talks with
me touching my Lord.... Her Majesty says that Queen works many
ways—I answered her Majesty was a good lady to her and better I
thought than any other prince would have been if they were in her
case, for she staid publishing abroad her wickedness which was
manifestly known.” In the self-same summer from Chatsworth Mary,
the daughter-in-law, writes to her. The content and tone of the letters
is pitiful enough.

“Madame,—If the wrong and false reports of enemies well known

as traitors to you, alas! too much trusted by me, by your advice, had
not so far stirred you against my innocence (and I must say against
all kindness) that you have not only as it were condemned me
wrongfully, but cherished, as your words and deeds have testified to
all the world, a manifest misliking against your own blood, I would
not have omitted this long ago duty in writing to you, excusing me
for those untrue reports made of me, but hoping with God’s grace
and time to have my innocence confirmed, as I trust it is already,
even to the most indifferent persons. I thought best not to trouble
you for a time till now another matter is moved that toucheth us
both, which is the transporting of your little son, and my only child,
to the which I were never so willing, yet I would be glad to have your
advice therein, as in all other things touching him. I have borne him,
and God knoweth with what danger to him and to me, and of you he
is descended. So I mean not to forget my duty to you in showing
therein any unkindness to you notwithstanding how unkindly you
have dealt with me, but will love you as my aunt and respect you as
my mother-in-law. And if it please you to know further of my mind,
in that and all things betwixt us, my ambassador, the Bishop of Ross,
shall be ready to confer with you.
“And so after my hearty commendations, remitting you to the said
ambassador and your better consideration, I commit you to the
protection of Almighty God, whom I pray to preserve you, and my
brother Charles, and cause you to know my part better than you do—
By your loving daughter-in-law.
“(To my Lady Lennox, my mother-in-law.)”[26]

This letter was delivered to Lady Lennox in the Queen’s presence

some months after it was written, and Elizabeth was still at work
defaming the writer to her mother-in-law. That was during the close
of 1570. In 1574 their relations were in no wise altered. Lady Lennox
evidently still believed her son’s wife guilty, while she pathetically
insisted upon her rights as the grandmother of a king. In this
capacity she applied to the Queen for a safe-conduct to her northern
house of Settrington—now restored to her—whither she wished to
repair with her son Charles because she had been informed of a plot
to carry off her royal grandson and bring him to England. This seems
to have been a rather well-worn excuse and was mistrusted by
Elizabeth, who about this time began to entertain doubts of her
lady’s real attitude towards the imprisoned “dowager of Scotland.”
She and Lady Shrewsbury were old acquaintances at Court. The
latter heard of the projected long journey, and invited the party to
break it at one of the Shrewsbury “places.” Chatsworth offered itself
as most suitable, but she was right in her surmise that this choice
would only appear in a suspicious light to Elizabeth, who anticipated
it in the admonition she bestowed on Lady Lennox before her
departure. Her Ladyship showed a fine indignation at such a
suggestion, but one wonders whether this was not merely a piece of
“bluff,” for the complicity of Mary had been repeatedly denied by
Bothwell and by other Scottish lords implicated in the dark business
at Kirk-o’-Field. At any rate this northern journey gave colour to all
kinds of imputations. It was suggested that Lady Lennox’s ultimate
aim was simply a visit of tender enquiry and that she was bound
actually for Scotland to assure herself of the welfare of the boy
James. It was thought, again, that she herself would kidnap the child
and bring him into England for her own purposes or for those of her
daughter-in-law. At all events she had her way and started. Lady
Shrewsbury also knew that Chatsworth was much too near Sheffield
Castle to allow of the reception of this guest without literally
disobeying orders from Court. She decided, therefore, upon Rufford
Abbey as the most suitable place. Unhappily the scheme which lay
behind this hospitality has not descended to posterity in the form of
letters. But gradually the motives underlying the invitation show
themselves clearly enough. Lady Shrewsbury had still one unmarried
daughter for whom she was exerting herself to find a good match.
She had her eye upon a certain young Bertie, a son of the Duchess of
Suffolk by a second marriage. This affair could not be accomplished,
and she therefore worked upon the Duchess’s sympathy so as to
secure her co-operation in a new direction. Lady Lennox and her son
Charles on their journey halted first at the gates of the Duchess’s
house. Six miles away was Rufford, where Lady Shrewsbury had
taken her daughter and made all ready for goodly entertainment. To
the Duchess’s house she sent a messenger, and backed up the
invitation by a personal visit. Lady Lennox accepted the invitation,
and with her son, coach, baggage-carts, mules, and attendants
arrived at the Abbey. Previous to this there must surely have taken
place an interesting three-cornered interview between the three great
ladies. Though the Duchess of Suffolk may have been genuinely
interested in helping to find a husband for wistful young Elizabeth
Cavendish, one cannot acquit her of a certain malice. Her part in the
transaction wears a very innocent air. Nothing happened under her
roof for which she could be called to book by the Queen. At the same
time she was a hot Protestant and could not have felt any very great
sympathy for the Lady Lennox, nor for Lady Shrewsbury, who, as
regards mere creed, must always have been a religious opportunist.
At Rufford Lady Lennox fell ill. There was excuse enough after the
exposure to cold and flood in the uncertain autumn weather during
which she undertook her journey. She was forced to keep her room.
Nothing could have fallen out more happily to assist the plot of the
hostess. Her hands were occupied with her friend’s ailments. Their
children must amuse one another. In five days the close
companionship between Charles and Elizabeth could not but grow,
fostered by the cleverness of the girl’s mother. Free to go and come in
gardens and woodland, young and lithe, eager to escape from rules
and duties and tutors, to forget sad things—Elizabeth Cavendish, the
grim details of Sheffield Castle, its alarums and excursions, Charles
Stuart, the tragedies of his family—they wooed each other readily.
Glimpses of their courtship are visualised for the reader in imaginary
dialogue following.
 CHAPTER IX
LOVE AND THE WOODMAN

Scene: A parlour in Rufford Abbey, October, 1574. Elizabeth

Cavendish bending over her embroidery frame. The Countess of
Shrewsbury seated writing.
A man’s voice [calling outside the window]. Mistress! Mistress
Elizabeth! Come out!
[Elizabeth Cavendish starts, rises, looks at her mother.

Countess [apparently stern]. Say that I have set you a task. Now
do not go to the window!
Elizabeth [checking herself half-way to the window]. Nay, my
Lord, I cannot come indeed. [Drops her voice.] Oh! mother, if it were
one of the grooms or only my brother!
Countess. Little fool! It is the voice of Lennox. Mark you—play him
wisely.
Lennox [calling again]. Mistress, there is no “cannot” when the
sun calls!
Elizabeth. My Lord, lady mother says she ... needs me.
Lennox. It is not true. She is brewing a hot posset for my mother. I
saw her shoulders in the buttery.
Countess [her shoulders shaking]. Oho! it was Mrs. Glasse he saw.
I gave her once an old gown of mine to wear.
Elizabeth [moving to the window]. No, no, my Lord, she says it
was Mrs. Gl.... [The Countess springs up, catches her sharply by the
wrist, and gives her a little rap with her fan.]
Countess. S-s-t! Let him think I am not here. Play him, play him!
Lennox. What is that you say, mistress?
 Elizabeth [embarrassed and miserable]. Nothing....
[Lennox throws his cap in at the window. It falls at her feet.]
Countess. Girl, do not touch it.
Lennox. Oh, mistress, how the sun calls! It has called my cap.
Some magic has given wings to it and it is gone.
Elizabeth. It is here!
Countess. Hush! Not yet—not yet.
[Enter at back a maid with a bowl of posset.]

Lennox. Mistress, is my cap flown in at your window perchance?

Countess [mimicking Elizabeth’s voice]. Indeed, no.
Elizabeth. Oh—lady mother!
[The maid with the posset giggles, and receives a frown and a box
on the ear for her pains.]
Maid. Will your la’ship’s grace be pleased to taste?
Countess. Nay, nay, I cannot abide tansy, but it is good for the
joints and for rheumy distillations, and will serve the Lady Margaret
finely. Go you and wait for me at her door with the bowl.
Lennox. Elizabeth, I know you have my cap. Without it I cannot
walk abroad. The wind is cool.
Elizabeth [softly]. Oh, mother, he will have the rheum too!
Countess. Then shall he stay longer and be well nursed and
physicked also.
Lennox. Bring me my cap, fair mistress.
Bess [in Elizabeth’s voice]. Come and fetch it, my Lord.
Lennox. That I will, if you will come out with me. But not till you
promise.
Bess [to Elizabeth]. Say no—say no.
Elizabeth. I cannot, because ... because ... I have much work to do,
enough for ... many days.
Lennox. It can tarry, lady. In two days I shall be over the Border.
Elizabeth [agonised]. Oh, mother!
Bess [in the feigned voice]. Not without your cap, I trust, my Lord.
 Lennox. What if you give it me back?
Elizabeth [in tears]. Mother, why does he not come to fetch it?
Bess. Sh-sh. I scolded him well but half an hour ago, and bid him
leave you alone and keep out of my parlour.
Elizabeth [with dignity]. Nay, lady mother, he shall have his cap.
[Picks it up.]
Bess [taking it from her]. He shall, young impudence, but he shall
fetch it. Play him, Bet, play him well, and if he should ask you go into
the meadows ... say “Yes.” But not in haste, mark you!
Elizabeth [on her knees, clinging to her mother’s gown]. Lady
mother ... I mislike it....
Bess [disengaging herself]. “It,” “it”? What is “it”? He is a pretty
young man, and his blood runs high like Darnley’s. But God be
thanked ’tis a wiser fool than his brother. Now remember to carry
yourself as a Cavendish should. Be cautious! Make no false step. I go
to cosset and posset the mother. S’death, I would I were in your
shoes, Bet, to run into the woods instead of tiptoe round a sick-
chamber.
Elizabeth [springing up]. May I indeed go into the woods?
Bess [at the door]. Sh-sh.... Cavendo tutus![27]
Elizabeth [half runs to the window with the cap, stops, smiles].
My Lord!
Lennox. Are you alone, mistress?
Elizabeth. Yes.... No....
Lennox. Who is there?
Elizabeth. Your cap! [Looks laughing out of the window.]
Lennox. Coming, coming! [A minute later he bursts open the door
and greets her, walks to the embroidery frame, pushes it into a
corner, and holds out his hand.] Into the sun, Elizabeth.
Elizabeth [shyly]. I have not my hood, my Lord.
Lennox. Charles, Elizabeth!
Elizabeth. Charles ... my Lord.
Lennox. Into the woods, my Lady. What matters your hood? The
sun cannot fire your hair if you wear a hood! [Draws her down the
stairway. At the foot of it she slips her hand from his, and they pass
demurely across the courtyard and out into the meadows, talking of
light and little things. From time to time Lennox sings snatches of
song. The larks trill overhead. They plunge into the woods.]
Elizabeth. Oh, Charles, I feel as though I had grown lark’s wings ...
like your cap.
Lennox. No, no. If you would grow into a bird, then I shall needs
become a fowler.
Elizabeth. Nay, you shall have wings too.
Lennox. Why have we not wings, Elizabeth?
Elizabeth [looking up into the sky between the branches]. God is
wise, Charles. And we have the beautiful warm earth and all the
flowers to joy us. Meseems it is more comfortable to talk upon the
earth than in the branches.... And to build our mansions on the
earth, too. Charles....
Lennox. Mansions? I hate them. Great chambers in which one
must shiver in cold state because one is poor, great chairs in which
one must sit very straight and look wise, great windows where the
snow and rain beat and trickle in, or little ones which bar the sun. In
Scotland they are like that, little and narrow in the great castles. I
hate them.
Elizabeth [proudly]. In England we have great windows secure
against storms. You should see my mother’s house at Hardwick,
Charles. It has high windows. And so fair the house. And she says she
will build one there still greater and fairer.
Lennox. But I desire no great house. You are little, I am not
great.... I want a little house, a bower....
Elizabeth. My Lord....
Lennox [with his arm about her]. A bower with you, which I would
build out of the trees, my own self, like the knight who loved the lady.
Elizabeth. Ah? Who was she?
Lennox. A lady, like you, Elizabeth, and not much taller, so I take
it. I read of her in a little book. See ... here it is. [Pulls a volume out of
the bosom of his jerkin.] My brother Darnley gave it me once. It is a
love tale, all in French, and very curious.
Elizabeth. Read it to me, Charles.
 Lennox. Sweetheart, I cannot read it all because the words are so
strange, but my brother writ portions of the rightful meanings on the
margins.... Come ... let us sit.... [He draws her to a place under the
trees.]
Elizabeth. Charles ... I am afraid....
Lennox. Not with me....
Elizabeth. There are woodmen.... They go to and fro.
Lennox. What of that? There are woodmen in the story—many.
[Opens the book.]
Elizabeth. Listen, I hear their axes—chip, chop. They are cutting
into pieces the lovely trees they felled in the spring. It is very sad.
Lennox. Dear, you are sweetly foolish. They cannot hurt you.
Elizabeth [sadly]. So do they cut down the happy trees.
Lennox. Happy to be cut down to build bowers for you and me....
Listen.... [Turns over the leaves.] She was a fairy maiden.
Elizabeth [shocked]. Oh! Then she said no prayers.
Lennox. Her foster-father took her from the fairies, and what
prayers she missed she learnt at the feet of love.
Elizabeth. Where did she first see her lover...?
Lennox. How can I tell? He loved her from the beginning ... as I
love you.
Elizabeth.... The beginning?
Lennox. Two days ago.
Elizabeth [starting up]. A woodman comes. [He pulls her down
again.]
Lennox. How can I tell the story if you run away?
Elizabeth. Indeed ... I love to listen.
Lennox [goes on rapidly]. Well ... thus was it. These two loved ...
oh, terribly! And the father of the knight, a great count, parted them,
since the boy would not go fight against his country’s enemies except
he wedded the lady ... and the Count bid her foster-father shut her in
a prison so that she should weave no spells about him more.
Elizabeth. This is too sad a story. [Wipes her eyes.]
 Lennox. It was a very fair prison in a great castle, dearest.... And
she quickly escaped from it by her art.
Elizabeth. Good, good!
Lennox. But her love knew not where she went.... And he said to
his father, “If I trounce your foes in battle, let me but kiss my lady.”
To which the lord said “Yes.” But he kept not his word, and put the
knight in prison when he came home bruised and weary after battle.
Elizabeth. Alack!
Lennox. But she—she found the prison and sang through the
window, and cut her hair to throw into the chamber that he might
remember her.
Elizabeth [slyly]. Like your cap, but just now, Charles.
Lennox. Yes, yes.... And they called courage to one another till the
soldiers came and she hid for fear they should kill her.... And then
she walked far till she came to a great wood.... [A woodman passes
with his axe.]
Elizabeth. There is the axe, again. It minds me of—of death,
Charles!
Lennox. Dearest, it is only a foolish axe to chop your lady mother’s
fuel.
Elizabeth. And how did the knight find his lady?
Lennox. When the Count deemed the fairy lady gone for ever he let
his son the knight come out of the tower where he was, and feasted
him. But the lady dwelt in the woods and he knew it not.
Elizabeth [indignant]. He stayed to feast while she wandered in a
strange wood?
Lennox. He stayed but little. And when he could he took his horse
and rode out and came to five roads which met.... Stay ... my brother
writ of these cross-roads. It is a pretty conceit he made. The one was
called “The World,” and another “The Wars,” a third was “Power,”
and the fourth ... see, can you read this?
Elizabeth. “Riches.” And the next word is “Poverty.”
Lennox. There he waited—perplexed.
Elizabeth. Quick, quick! Which did he choose?
 Lennox. Faith, he tried them all save “Poverty.”... Yet when he
would travel down one or the other her voice called him back, and his
horse stood like stone till the knight trembled in the twilight and
feared she was all a fairy and no woman, but mocked him. And then
from his bosom there fell a sheaf of her hair. When he stooped to
gather it, it grew into a fine chain, the end whereof he could not see,
and it closed about his wrist like a bracelet and drew him to the road
called “Poverty.”
Elizabeth. Then, surely, he rode fast?
Lennox. Horse and man were exceeding glad—so says the book ...
because of the noble road which opened before them.... And the
moon and the sun shone together upon them till at last they were
come to a little house of boughs twined with lilies.... Over the door
was written, “Her Heart and My Desire” ... and there he found his
lady, singing fairy songs because she knew that he was faithful....
[Closes the book and bends over her.]
Elizabeth [softly]. And there they stayed surely a little while.
Lennox.... To the end of the world....
Elizabeth.... But the woodman came by with his axe to cut down
the bower.
Lennox. Not in this tale.
Elizabeth. The lilies faded.
Lennox. They were fadeless.
Elizabeth. They grew old ... and ... could not feel the sun....
Lennox. Never, never.
Elizabeth. I would it were true, Charles. [The sound of the axe
again interrupts them. There is laughter from men, who pass and
repass and point out the lovers to each other.] There! They have
seen us—the rude woodmen. We have no bower any more. [Hurries
away from the tree.]
Lennox [in pursuit]. What mean you by this “woodman”...?
Elizabeth [holding out her hands for protection]. I mean there ...
is no for ever.... They died, and the lilies and the branches died. Let
us go home ... Charles, hide me ... from the woodman!
Lennox. Always, always! Elizabeth, stay with me. Do not ever go
from me. You ... you shall never die!
 [He puts his cloak about her and they walk, closely knit, through
the meadows till they reach the Abbey. At the gates they slip
apart and go in demurely as before. The Countess looks through
a window on to the court over which they pass.]
Countess. Bet, come instantly to your chamber!
Lennox [saluting]. My Lady, she cannot leave me. For so has she
promised.
Countess. Lord, Lord! What have you done?
Elizabeth. Lady mother, I ...
Countess. Come in, come in, you sad fools. Every scullion will hear
you. [The three meet on the staircase and the Countess motions
them austerely into the parlour.]
Countess [to Lennox]. I bid you stay far from Elizabeth.
Elizabeth. Oh, mother, make no more feints. He loves me. If he
goes from me ... [Her voice breaks.]
Lennox. My Lady, she will go to the Border with me and into the
world.
Countess [with a cry of dismay]. So, so.... “He loves me.”... “I will
go over the Border.”... And how shall a poor woman permit such
naughty contrivings!
Elizabeth. Mother.... We are not naughty. I did not know he loved
me till ... till we spoke of a story.... And then ... it was very sweet,
mother ... till the woodmen came.... And I was frightened and ran,
and ... Charles bid me come home.... He says the woodman ... [Turns
to Lennox for protection.]
Countess [with a cry of anger]. The woodmen. What is this of the
woodmen?
Elizabeth. They mocked, and....
Countess. Lord, Lord!... What is to be done now...? You should
both be whipped. The woodmen to see you kissing and cozening
under the trees? The woodmen? And you a Cavendish! Stay you here
till I have told the Lady Lennox. Oh, oh, oh! that I should have such a
tale for her....
[At the sound of her voice Lady Lennox, roused, comes down the
corridor in her bedgown.]
 Countess. My Lady!
Lennox. Mother....
Lady Lennox.... I was affrighted. I thought you wept, my Lady.
Countess. Matter for weeping, in truth. [Points to Elizabeth and
Lennox, who stand together.]
Lady Lennox. But ... how? [Sinks into a chair.]
Countess [vehemently].... My Lady, ... these naughty children have
carried themselves no better than a pair of turtle-doves; and all in
the woods.... And the whole world knows it. My very woodmen ... low
fellows ... laughed!... Your son plots to carry my Elizabeth over the
Border an if she were a truss of hay! And she, the wretch, too,
content to be bundled that way ... any way ... so long as it be on his
road! Oh! my Lady, help us all, lest shame fall on my house.
Lennox [defiant]. No shame to love well, my Lady. Are there no
priests? And this an Abbey!
Lady Lennox. Boy, go you to your room and leave me talk with my
Lady here.
Lennox. I go with Elizabeth to the gallery. When you call, mother,
we will come.... [Kisses her hand and goes out with Elizabeth.]
Lady Lennox. A priest! There is time enough....
Countess. How do I know if they will not fly like birds together if
we say them “Nay”?
Lady Lennox.... The saints forbid!...
Countess [quickly]. The boy is wild ... for love makes wildlings of
men.... It is the only word of wisdom he has said ... that of the priest.
Lady Lennox. Great Heaven!...
Countess. Young fools.... Yet, if we part them ... shall not our
consciences give us everlasting punishment?
Lady Lennox. True, true.... The girl is very gentle, my Lady....
There is a look in her eye that.... And he is very ripe for love. [The
Countess punctuates her speeches with sympathetic gestures.] And I
have seen much sorrow, and the House of Lennox dies ... with
Charles.
Countess. Come ... let us not talk of death ... but look properly
upon this matter and devise, instead of funerals, weddings. Come,
my sweet friend, dear Lady ... to your chamber.... Rest, and let us
comfort one another.... Come! [She supports Lady Lennox out of the
room.]
 CHAPTER X
AFTERMATH

There was, as the two mothers agreed, but one way out of it all—a
speedy marriage. No time to invite the blessing of the bride’s
stepfather, no time for signing of deeds, or for collecting bride-gear,
or for endowing boy and girl with house and lands. These things
would as well be done afterwards as now, and a pompous family
wedding in the Shrewsbury household would just now have been
attended with all sorts of difficulties. Without more ado the matter
was settled, and the actual wedding seems to have taken place at
Rufford in the presence of only a very few persons. Indeed, in the
words of one historian, the pair “married almost as soon as Lady
Lennox was able to leave her bedroom.” It has been suggested by the
same writer that the two dowagers, in aiding and abetting the
marriage, were at cross purposes. It is certain that Lady Shrewsbury
had met her match in character, purpose, and ability in intrigue. She
could not have been able to persuade Margaret Lennox in the affair
against her will and conscience. Henderson elaborates the suggestion
thus: “The motive of Lady Lennox was probably reconciliation with
the Queen of Scots, through the new connection formed with the
Shrewsburys. If Elizabeth died—and there was a general impression
that she would not live long—Mary might very possibly succeed her;
and though Lady Lennox thought it prudent to assert to Elizabeth
that she never could have dealings with the Queen of Scots, since,
being flesh and blood, she could not forget the murder of her child,
yet she did not wish to debar herself from all further favour from the
possible Queen of England, who was also the mother of her
grandchild (i.e. James of Scotland). As for Mary, nothing could suit
her better than a reconciliation with Lady Lennox, since it would
mean the renewal of support from many Catholics who had been
estranged from her by the circumstances attending the death of
Darnley. In any case, whatever Mary’s part in the accomplishment of
the marriage, and whether any understanding was then arrived at by
her with Lady Lennox or not, Mary, after the death of Lady Lennox
in 1578, affirmed that she had been reconciled to her for five or six
years, and that Lady Lennox sent her letters expressing regret at the
wrong she had done her in the accusations she had been induced to
make against her, at the instance of Elizabeth and her Council.”[28]
This is, however, a part of future history. The facts show that Mary
seems to have had no hand in the marriage, and we cannot imagine
that after carefully balancing all possibilities Lady Shrewsbury would
have invited her interest. The whole thing would have been revealed
and exaggerated by spies, and thus assume the form of a very serious
plot. Lady Lennox certainly trusted to Elizabeth’s credence in her old
enmity against her daughter-in-law to clear her from blame. Lady
Shrewsbury doubtless pretended to herself that she could not be
justly accused of a grab at royal rights, on behalf of her family, since
Scotland had already its King and it was open to England to name a
successor. La Mothe Fénélon, the French Ambassador, feared that
the Lennox intimacy would estrange the Shrewsburys from Mary,
and so make her case harder. The very contrary happened, as the
correspondence reveals.
For the moment we are concerned with the days immediately
following that sudden ceremony at Rufford. Details of the itinerary of
the bridal pair are not forthcoming, neither does it appear where the
older Lady Lennox went after her momentous visit, nor whether
young Elizabeth and her husband took shelter with her mother or
his. News of the event did not reach the Queen till fully a month
later. Instantly she scented treason. Here was a chance for her to
behave once more after the pattern of her autocratic father. She
belaboured the Earl of Shrewsbury, and despatched to both
dowagers and the bride and bridegroom a summons to Court.
Lord Shrewsbury, who in these days scarcely ever put pen to paper
except to expostulate, explain, and apologise, wrote three separate
letters on the subject—to the Queen, to Burghley, and to Lord
Leicester. It will suffice to quote the two first:—
 “May it please your excellent Majesty,

“The commandment your Majesty once gave me, that I should

sometimes write to you, although I had little to write of, boldeneth
me thus to presume, rather to avoid blame of negligence than dare
tarry long for any matter worthy your Majesty’s hearing; only this I
may write; it is greatly to my comfort to hear your Majesty passed
your progress in perfect health and so do continue. I pray to
Almighty God to hold it many years, and long after my days ended;
so shall your people find themselves most happy.
“This Lady, my charge, is safe at your Majesty’s commandment.
“And, may it further please your Majesty, I understood of late your
Majesty’s displeasure is sought against my wife, for marriage of her
daughter to my Lady Lennox’s son. I must confess to your Majesty,
as true it is, it was dealt in suddenly, and without my knowledge; but
as I dare undertake and ensure to your Majesty, for my wife, she,
finding her daughter disappointed of young Barté, where she hoped
that the other young gentleman was inclined to love with a few days’
acquaintance, did her best to further her daughter in this match;
without having therein any other intent or respect than with
reverend duty towards your Majesty she ought. I wrote of this matter
to my Lord Leicester a good while ago at great length. I hid nothing
from him that I knew was done about the same, and thought not
meet to trouble your Majesty therewith, because I took it to be of no
such importance as to write of, until now that I am urged by such as I
see will not forbear to devise and speak what may procure any
suspicion, or doubtfulness of my service here. But as I have always
found your Majesty my good and gracious Sovereign, so do I comfort
myself that your wisdom can find out right well what causes move
them thereunto, and therefore am not afraid of any doubtful opinion,
or displeasure to remain with your Majesty of me, or of my wife,
whom your highness and your council have many ways tried in times
of most danger. We never had any thought or respect but as your
Majesty’s most true and faithful servants; and so do truly serve and
faithfully love and honour your Majesty, ever praying to Almighty
God for your Majesty, as we are in duty bounden.
“Sheffield, 2nd of December, 1574.”
 The other letter is headed:—

“To My Lord Tre....,

“My very good Lord, for that I am advertised the late marriage of
my wife’s daughter is not well taken in the Court, and thereupon are
some conjectures more than well, brought to her Majesty’s ears, in ill
part against my wife; I have a little touched the same in my letters
now to her Majesty, referring further knowledge thereof to letters I
sent my Lord of Leicester a good while since, wherein I made a long
discourse of that matter; and if your Lordship meet with anything
thereof that concerns my wife or me, and sounds in ill part against
us, let me crave of your Lordship so much favour as to speak your
knowledge and opinion of us both. No man is able to say so much as
your Lordship of our service because you have so carefully searched
it, with great respect to the safe keeping of my charge. So I take leave
of your Lordship.
“Sheffield, 2nd December, 1574.”

These letters did not help matters in the slightest. The two
Countesses were obliged to go to Court for chastisement, and
apparently Bess Shrewsbury repaired thither before any interview
could be secured with her husband. Nor have any letters from her
been found to show whether she was awestruck or defiant, though
correspondence must have passed between wife and husband upon a
matter so urgent.
The fateful northern journey took place about October 9th. Queen
Elizabeth’s summons was dated November 17th, and reached the
delinquents within a few days. Lady Lennox, who, in her royal
capacity and as mother of the bridegroom, may legally be regarded as
the prime offender, followed Lord Shrewsbury’s example of
explanation and expostulation. She, too, wrote promptly to Lords
Burghley and Leicester:—[29]

“My very good Lord,

 “Assuring myself of your friendship I will use but few words at this
present, other than to let you understand of my wearisome journey
and the heavy burden of the Queen’s Majesty’s displeasure, which I
know well I have not deserved, together with a letter of small comfort
that I received from my Lord of Leicester, which being of your
Lordship read, I shall desire to be returned to me again. I also send
unto your Lordship, here enclosed, the copy of my letter now sent to
my Lord of Leicester; and I beseech you to use your friendship
towards me as you see time. Thus with my hearty commendations, I
commit you to Almighty God, whom I beseech to send you long life
to your heart’s desire. Huntingdon this 3 of December.
“Your Lordship’s assured loving friend,
“Margaret Lennox.

“To the Right Honourable my very good Lord and friend, the Lord-
Treasurer of England.”

It is unfortunate that one of the enclosures, the letter from

Leicester, is not to be found, for it would have been interesting to
read that gentleman for once in a mood that was not suave and
reassuring.
The letter to Leicester gives a graphic description of her
uncomfortable journey across flooded country:—[30]

“Huntingdon, December 3, 1574.

“My very good Lord,—The great unquietness and trouble that I

have had with passing these dangerous waters, which hath many
times enforced me to leave my way, which hath been some hindrance
to me that hitherto I have not answered your Lordship’s letters
chiefly on that point wherein your Lordship, with other my friends
(as your Lordship says) seems ignorant how to answer for me. And
being forced to stay this present Friday in Huntingdon, somewhat to
refresh myself, and my overlaboured mules, that are both crooked
and lame with their extreme labour by the way, I thought good to lay
open to your Lordship, in these few lines, what I have to say for me,
touching my going to Rufford to my Lady of Shrewsbury, both being
thereunto very earnestly requested, and the place not one mile
distant out of my way. Yea, and a much fairer way, as is well to be
proved; and my Lady meeting me herself upon the way, I could not
refuse, it being near XXX miles from Sheffield. And as it was well
known to all the country thereabouts that great provision was there
made both for my Lady of Suffolk and me—who friendly brought me
on the way to Grantham, and so departed home again, neither she
nor I knowing any such thing till the morning after I came to
Newark. And so I meant simply and well, so did I least mistrust that
my doings should be taken in evil part, for, at my coming from her
Majesty, I perceived she misliked of my Lady of Suffolk being at
Chatsworth, I asked her Majesty if I were bidden thither, for that had
been my wonted way before if I might go. She prayed me not, lest it
should be thought I should agree with the Queen of Scots. And I
asked her Majesty, if she could think so, for I was made of flesh and
blood, and could never forget the murder of my child. And she said,
‘Marry, by her faith she could not think so that ever I could forget it,
for if I would I were a devil.’ Now, my Lord, for that hasty marriage
of my son, Charles, after that he had entangled himself so that he
could have none other, I refer the same to your Lordship’s good
consideration, whether it was not most fitly for me to marry them, he
being mine only son and comfort that is left me. And your Lordship
can bear me witness how desirous I have been to have had a match
for him other than this. And the Queen’s Majesty, much to my
comfort, to that end gave me good words at my departure.”

There were other letters from her repeating the statements about
her careful avoidance of Chatsworth and Sheffield, the helpless
position in which she was placed by “the sudden affection” of her
son, and begging for the Queen’s compassion “on my widowed
estate, being aged and of many cares.”
She reached Court on December 12th, and was accorded such a
reception that La Mothe Fénélon thought it worth while to include,
in his despatches to France, her fears and apprehensions. He records
her dread of her old prison, the Tower, and her hope that she may
escape at least that indignity through the influence of good friends.
She went meekly to her house at Hackney, with Charles and
Elizabeth Lennox, who had scarcely learnt the meaning of the word
honeymoon. There the three, forbidden to leave the precincts of the
house, spent a joyless Christmas, while, in lieu of a royal festival
greeting, Christmas Eve brought them Elizabeth’s orders that they
were to have intercourse only with such persons as were named by
the Privy Council. Immediately after Christmas the door of the Tower
gaped and swallowed the Lennox dowager. To the Tower also, it
seems, was sent her confederate. The comments of Bess of
Shrewsbury have not been chronicled. But she probably remembered
keenly enough the days when as “Sentlow” she had the sense to keep
out of any active participation in the marriage of Lady Catherine
Grey. Her thoughts in retrospect could not have been very pleasant,
and genuine fears for the fate of her young and easily-led daughter
must have jostled fears for her own skin.
As for Lady Lennox, her sensations were still more poignant.
“Thrice have I been cast into prison,” said she, “not for matters of
treason, but for love matters. First, when Thomas Howard, son to
Thomas first Duke of Norfolk, was in love with myself; then for the
love of Henry Darnley, my son, to Queen Mary of Scotland; and lastly
for the love of Charles, my younger son, to Elizabeth Cavendish.”
It was just after Christmas that Lord Shrewsbury again bestirred
himself and applied to Burghley, though he ostensibly does it less on
behalf of his wife than of Lady Lennox.

“My very good Lord,

“Upon my Lady Lennox’s earnest request, as to your Lordship I am

sure shall appear, I have written to my Lords of the Council all I can
find out of her behaviour towards this Queen and dealing when she
was in these north parts; and if some disallowed of my writing (as I
look they will, because they would have it thought that I should have
enough to do to answer for myself) let such ...[31] reprove, or find
any ...[31] respect to her Majesty in me or my wife is sought for, and
then there is some cause to reprehend me, and for them to call out
against me as they do. I take that Lady Lennox be a subject in all
respects worthy the Queen’s Majesty’s favour, and for the duty I bear
to her Majesty I am bound, methinks, to commend her so as I find
her; yea, and to intreat you, and all of my Lords of the Council for
her, to save her from blemish, if no offence can be found in her
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