The Captive Queen of Scots - Plaidy Jean - Страница 43
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An eager look had come into George’s face. He believed her; and if he could serve her best by being denied the joy of her presence he was willing enough to accept the sacrifice.
“I shall give you no letters to take to them, but I am writing through the French ambassador to tell them of your coming. So they will be expecting you; and when you are there, George, I know that you will plead my cause as few others could, because all you do for me is done for love of me and not hope of any honors I might one day be in a position to give you. Willie shall remain with me. Have no fear that I shall not reward him when the opportunity arises. Never, never shall I forget those days in Lochleven and all I owe you two.”
George knelt before her to hide his emotion. He wanted to tell her how he adored her, to repeat again and again that he longed to give his life for her.
She understood and, making him rise, kissed him tenderly.
“You do not have to speak, George,” she said. “I understand. And it is friendship such as yours that makes it possible for me to endure my misfortunes with a good heart.”
George said: “Once Your Majesty gave me an earring, I treasure it always. Shall it still be a symbol, should the need arise to send it?”
He took the earring from a small pouch which hung on a chain under his doublet and showed it to her.
“Ah yes, I remember it well. I have its fellow, and think of all you have done for me every time I see it.”
She wanted to give him the other earring—a present for his bride. But no, that would be to tell him the real reason why she was sending him away. He must not be allowed to guess that. Later, perhaps, she thought, when he is betrothed, when he realizes that a man needs more from life than the love between us two.
“I will give you something else, George, to set beside that earring. A memento of me.” She went into the ante-chamber and came out with a portrait of herself. It was a charming picture, a good likeness in which she looked serene and beautiful; diaphanous material falling from her coif draped her shoulders; her ruff was of finest lace and the delicate white fingers of her right hand fingered the jewel which hung about her neck.
George was so moved that he could not speak; as for Mary, she was finding it difficult to control her emotions. Impulsive as she knew herself to be she believed that if he did not go she would throw herself into his arms and beg him to stay, to say to him: Why should we think of the future . . . either of us? What has the future for us? You are young and I am not much older.
She turned away from him and as she looked toward the Scottish hills, she thought of the guards about this castle and the plans to move her to a stronger fortress. She thought too of other men who had loved her—of her three husbands, whom tragedy had overtaken. To only one had she brought happiness—to little Francois, delicate, clinging Francois to whom she had been nurse and playmate. But that had been a childhood friendship rather than marriage. Then Darnley who, after their brief and stormy union, had been the victim of murder. Had he not married Mary Stuart he would certainly not have met violent death in Kirk o’ Field. And Bothwell . . . what fate could be more unendurable to him than that of a prisoner! And this had befallen him because he had married Mary Stuart.
I bring ill luck to those who love me, she thought. But it shall not be so with George. George was innocent as none of the others had been—except perhaps Francois. No, she knew she was an impulsive woman, governed by her emotions rather than sound common sense. But she could learn some lessons; and she had learned this one.
I could only bring suffering to him if I kept him with me to become my lover. I will not do it. You must fly away, George . . . to freedom and a life that is not too closely entwined with that of ill-fated Mary Stuart.
“Take this picture of me, George,” she said steadily, “and go now. Make preparations for your departure. I shall see you before you leave.”
He bowed, and she did not look at him as he went from the room.
SIR FRANCIS KNOLLYS came to her apartment and asked for an audience.
He looked harassed and she guessed that he had bad news.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “I regret that I have orders here. You are to prepare to leave at once for Bolton Castle.”
“Whence come these orders?” she asked.
“From the Queen’s ministers, Your Majesty.”
“May I see them?”
Knollys handed them to her.
“I do not see the signature of the Queen of England.”
“Secretary Cecil signs for her.”
“I will not be commanded by the Queen’s ministers,” retorted Mary. “Without your Queen’s express warrant I shall not stir from Carlisle.”
Knollys sighed and went to consult with Scrope, while Mary sat down and wrote one of her passionate letters to Elizabeth, explaining that she was sure Elizabeth would not order her to go where she did not wish, and imploring her to remember that, as Queen of Scotland, she was an equal of the Queen of England.
BUT MARY KNEW that she was in Elizabeth’s power when word came from her that the Queen of England was sending her own litter and horses to convey the Queen of Scots from Carlisle to Bolton.
There was also a letter from Elizabeth for Mary, which the latter seized on with eagerness.
My lord Herries has told me two things which seem to me very strange. One, that you would not answer before anyone but myself; the other, that without force you would not stir from the place where you are, unless you had license to come to me! Your innocence being such as I hope it is, you have no need to refuse to answer to some noble personage, whom I shall send to you, not to answer judicially, but only to assure me upon it by your answers; not making them to your subjects which would not be considered proper, but sending to lay before me your defense, that I might publish it to the world, after having satisfied myself, which is my principal desire. Then as to the place I have ordained for your honor and safekeeping, I beg you not to give me cause to think all the promises you have made were but as wind, when you sent word to me that you would do whatsoever might seem best to me . . . .
The letter dropped from Mary’s hand. She knew, without reading further, that she would be obliged to obey the wishes of Elizabeth.
“It is my intention,” continued Elizabeth, “to keep Lord Herries here till I shall receive an answer on both these points . . . .”
SO UNTIL SHE LEFT Carlisle she would be deprived of the services of one of her most faithful friends.
Mary put aside the letter and covered her face with her hands.
It was two months since she had fled from the battlefield of Langside, so full of hope, certain that she could rely on Elizabeth’s help.
Now had come that Queen’s orders. From Carlisle to Bolton—from that refuge, whose windows looked on the bonny hills of Scotland, to Bolton to which she had heard Sir Francis Knollys refer as “the highest walled castle I ever did see.”
Why? What did the future hold for the captive Queen?
V
Bolton
GREAT WERE MARY’S MISGIVINGS when she first saw Bolton Castle. Set in beautiful Wensleydale in the North Riding of Yorkshire, it was indeed a fortress; and she was not surprised that Knollys had remarked that it was the highest walled castle he had ever seen.
It had been three days ago that, most reluctantly, she had left Carlisle. How happily she would have done so had she been going south to the Court of the Queen of England! But she knew the reason for this move. She was going farther away from Scotland, out of reach of those loyal lairds who were planning how to set up her standard again and bring her back to her own.
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