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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yea, and her father would scarcely be willing to risk the Queen’s displeasure,” said the Earl.

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