The Captive Queen of Scots - Plaidy Jean - Страница 52
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“Would you not marry the Queen of Scots,” asked Elizabeth artfully, “if you knew it would tend to the tranquillity of the realm and the safety of my person?”
Norfolk, feeling he was being led to betray a desire for Mary and the marriage, replied vehemently: “Your Majesty, that woman shall never be my wife who has been your competitor, and whose husband cannot sleep in security on his pillow.”
This remark appeared to satisfy the Queen, and she dismissed Norfolk with a smile. She even allowed him to resume his presidency of the Conference.
Norfolk was in a cold sweat when he left her presence. He had decided not to dabble in dangerous affairs again. He must be careful during the Conference not to give an impression that he cherished tender feelings for Mary.
KNOLLYS WAS ALARMED. Mary sensed it. And it was not only his wife’s illness which disturbed him. Margaret Scrope had told her that he had had a sharp reprimand from the Queen because he had been too ambitious for his nephew George Carey. Knollys was afraid he was out of favor, and that could be a dangerous thing at Elizabeth’s Court.
“I have not heard recently from my brother,” went on Margaret. “I’ll warrant he is busy on your behalf at Westminster.”
Letters had been coming frequently from George Douglas in France, where he was longing to gather together another army for Mary’s defense.
She thought of him tenderly and often wished that he were with her. But she was glad that he was in France. There he would be leading a more normal life than he could in captivity with her; and she knew that her uncles would make it a point of honor that he was given every chance.
She wished that she could do the same for Willie. Then an idea occurred to her.
She sent for the boy.
He came into her apartment still wearing the sword which no longer looked quite so incongruous as it had when they had escaped across the Solway Firth, because Willie had grown considerably in the last months.
“Willie,” she said, “you are no longer a boy.”
Willie gave his grin. “I’m glad Your Majesty recognizes the fact,” he said.
“And I have a mission for you.”
She saw the pleasure leap into his eyes.
“A dangerous mission,” she went on, “but I trust you to complete it.”
“Oh ay,” said Willie.
“You are going to France, taking letters from me to George and my uncles.”
Willie’s eyes sparkled.
“First it will be necessary for you to obtain a safe conduct from London. So you must make your way there. Send word to me through the Bishop of Ross when you have received it. Then I shall know that you will shortly be in France. And I shall wish to hear from you and George that you are together.”
“And am I to bring back letters to Your Majesty?”
“We shall see. First go to George. He will give you your instructions.”
“We’ll get an army together,” cried Willie. “Ye’ll see. We’ll come and win England from the redheaded bastard and give it to Your Majesty.”
“Hush, Willie. And pray do not speak of a royal person in such a manner in my hearing.”
“No, Your Majesty, but that won’t alter my thoughts. When do I start?”
“I leave it to you, Willie.”
She knew it would be soon. She saw the desire for action in his face.
He left next day. She watched him set out, and she felt very sad.
“Yet another friend has gone,” she said to Seton.
“If it saddens Your Majesty to lose him, why let him go?”
“I think of his future, Seton. What future is there for any of us . . . in this prison?”
“But we shall be back in Scotland one day.”
“Do you think so, Seton?” She sighed. “If you are right, the first thing I shall do is send for George and Willie and try to recompense them in some measure for all they did for me. In the meantime, I like to think of them . . . over there . . . making their way in the world. Because there must be one prisoner, that does not mean there have to be hundreds.”
Seton was silent, thinking: She is melancholy today. She is wondering what is happening at the Conference. Knollys’ depression affects her.
She looked out of the window and saw that the snow had begun to fall.
THIS WAS A SPECIAL DAY. Twenty-six years before, in the Palace of Linlithgow, a baby had been born. That baby was Mary, Queen of Scotland and the Isles.
Mary opened her eyes to see her women around her bed, all come to wish her a happy birthday; she embraced them one by one.
They had presents for her which delighted her—little pieces of embroidery mostly, which they had managed to hide from her until this morning.
There were tears in her eyes as she cried: “The best gift you can give me is your presence here.”
But it was a birthday, even though it must be spent far from home in a castle which was a prison. For today, thought Mary, she would forget everything else but the fact that this was her birthday. They would be merry.
They would have a feast. Was that possible? She was sure her cook could contrive something; they would invite everyone in the castle. They would all wear their best gowns and, although she had no jewels to wear, Seton should dress her hair as she never had before. They would dance to the music of the lute, and they would forget that they were in Bolton and imagine they were dancing in those apartments which in Holyrood House had been known as Little France.
So the happy day progressed. It was too cold to go out, and a great fire was built up to warm the apartments. Everyone in the castle was eager to celebrate the birthday, and there was an air of excitement from the cellars to the turrets.
Seton dressed her mistress’s hair by the light of candles, and the face which looked back at Mary from the burnished metal mirror seemed as young and carefree as it had before the days of her captivity had begun.
It was her duty, Mary told herself, to throw off gloom, to forget her exile from her own country, that little Jamie was being kept from her, that in London a Conference was being held and perhaps the most evil charges were being brought against her.
The meal was prepared; she heard the laughing voices of her servants as they scurried to and fro; she smelled the savory smells of cooking meats.
And when the table was set in her apartments the whole household assembled there, and she received them like a Queen in her own Palace.
She sat at the center of the table and Knollys insisted on handing her her napkin; Lord Scrope and Margaret looked on with pleasure.
Margaret was getting uncomfortably near her time, and her husband was anxious that she should not tire herself, but she declared she was happy to be there; and when the meal was over, she sat with the lute players and watched the Queen lead the others in the dance.
Mary, flushed with the dancing, her chestnut hair a little ruffled with the exertion, seemed like a very young girl in her excitement.
Knollys watching her thought: How easy it is for her to forget. She was meant to be joyous. When will this weary business end?
It was while they were dancing that messengers from Elizabeth, delayed until now by the bad weather, arrived bringing letters for the jailors of the Queen of Scotland.
Knollys and Scrope went down to receive them. Knollys was startled when he read the letter which was addressed to him; he could only read it again, hoping he had been mistaken.
Elizabeth was displeased with Mary’s jailors. They had shown too much leniency toward their prisoner; and had indulged in schemes for her marriage. Elizabeth therefore proposed to deprive them of their duties, and they were to prepare to conduct the Queen of Scots to Tutbury Castle, where the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury would be her new keepers.
“Tutbury!” he murmured. And he thought of that bleak Staffordshire castle which was one of the most comfortless places he had ever seen, lacking the chimney tunnels which were a feature of Bolton Castle and which had helped so much to make the large apartments bearable during this bitterly cold weather.
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