Текст книги "The Captive Queen of Scots "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
VII
Wingfield
MARY WAS DELIGHTED TO ARRIVE at Wingfield Manor. She could not feel grateful enough to Shrewsbury for arranging the removal for, in comparison with Tutbury, Wingfield was charming. Situated as it was on a steep hill it commanded a beautiful view of the valley of Ashover and seemed to be shut in by hills.
The manor house had been built some hundred years before by Ralph, Lord Cromwell and, because he had been Treasurer of England, bags and purses had been carved in the stone over the gateway which led to the quadrangle. Having been built at that period when the comfort of castles was being questioned, and desirability of building palaces realized, this was an excellent example of what a hundred years before had been considered a new type of architecture.
The house was built around two square courts and as soon as Mary stepped into the spacious hall with its Gothic windows, one of a very unusual octagonal shape, her natural optimism took possession of her. Tutbury was left behind and she was telling herself that nothing so unfortunate as her stay in that noisome place would ever happen to her again. She should rejoice that that evil was behind her.
Countess Bess took her to the rooms which had been allotted to her.
“They are on the west side of the north court, Your Majesty,” she said, “and this is generally judged to be the most beautiful part of the building.”
Mary stood for a while looking out over the hills.
“It is undoubtedly beautiful,” she said. “A change from the marshlands of Tutbury. And how pleasant to have lost that appalling odor.”
The Countess gave her a quick, sudden laugh. “I am sure Your Majesty will be comfortable at Wingfield. Allow me to show you these stairs. They lead up to the Tower which will be part of your quarters.”
Mary mounted the spiral staircase to the top of the Tower, and from there she had a wider view of the countryside than that from the windows of her bedchamber.
She stood looking into the far distance.
One day, she thought, my friends will come riding here to rescue me.
She turned away and smiled at the Countess who had followed her to the Tower.
Yes, she could certainly rejoice that she had come to Wingfield Manor.
EVEN NOW THAT SHE was in more salubrious surroundings Mary needed time to recover from the harm which had been done to her during that journey through the snow from Bolton to Tutbury and her stay in the damp apartments of the latter. She was never free from twinges of pain in her limbs and sometimes when she attempted to rise from her bed she found it impossible to do so without assistance.
“Ah, Seton,” she would often say, “I left my youth behind me in Tutbury.”
She spent those first weeks in Wingfield writing letters and recuperating, promising herself that when the spring came, and she could go hunting or hawking in this beautiful countryside, she would feel young again.
The Countess seemed to soften at Wingfield and was solicitous of Mary’s comfort; she implied that she was in charge of the household and any request Mary wished to make should be made, not to the Earl, but to herself; and Mary quickly realized that as long as she accepted the Countess’s supremacy, Bess was ready to be her friend. Seton had said that she would be happier with the Countess as a friend rather than an enemy, with which statement Mary had agreed.
Spring was now on the way and, although its coming must remind Mary that she had been almost a year in England, she was pleased to see it.
One evening after supper Mary complained of sudden pains and as she rose from the table began to shiver. Her women, startled by her pallor, crowded about her, and she told them that she felt alarmingly sick and dizzy.
Seton, taking charge, hastily conducted her to her bedchamber and as Mary lay writhing on her bed a horrible suspicion came to Seton that her mistress had been poisoned.
She turned to Jane Kennedy and said: “Go at once to the Earl and Countess and tell them that I fear the Queen is grievously ill.”
Jane hurried to the Earl’s apartments and, finding him alone there, told him of Seton’s fears. The Earl went at once to Mary’s bedchamber and when he saw her he was deeply disturbed.
“Her Majesty’s apothecary is preparing a remedy for her,” said Seton. “But I think she may need greater skill than his.”
At that moment the Countess came into the apartment.
“What is wrong?” she demanded. Then she saw the Queen. “I shall send at once for Dr. Caldwell,” she said. “I do not like what I see.”
For once Seton was glad of the Countess’s methods when, in a very short time, the doctor for whom she had sent arrived in the Queen’s chamber.
He spent the night at her bedside and in the morning, much to the surprise of all those who had seen how ill she was and the nature of her illness, Mary still lived.
BESS TALKED in private with her husband.
“I do not like the look of this,” she said.
“Nor I.”
“I believe someone tried to poison her.”
The Earl nodded. Bess looked at him in silence for a few moments, then she said: “Do you think she has commanded this to be done?”
“Never!” The Earl was emphatic. “If the Queen of Scots were to die of poison, the first person to be suspected would be Elizabeth. She would not want that. If there are men and women in this country who would wish to set a Stuart on the English throne, there is nothing more likely to advance their cause than such a murder. The Queen of Scots would become a martyr while the Queen of England would be reckoned a monster. I am sure this has nothing to do with Elizabeth.”
“Then it is clearly one of Moray’s people.”
“And how can we say who? Scotsmen come and go. They declare themselves to be friends of Queen Mary, but depend upon it, there are spies among them. If she were to die . . . .”
His wife interrupted: “We should no longer enjoy Elizabeth’s favor. She would blame us for allowing poisoners to have access to her.”
“But how can we prevent that?”
“By being more watchful of course, and making sure that this does not happen again. I am going to send for Dr. Francis who is as good a physician as Caldwell. The two of them together will pull her through.”
The Earl bowed his head, and Bess put up one of her strong white hands to ruffle his hair. She could be affectionate at times; she liked to have a man about the house as long as he obeyed her. And George was being sensible over this matter.
He took her hand and kissed it. “I am glad that you are sending for Dr. Francis.”
She laughed almost roguishly. “You would not like this to be the end of our romantic captive?” she asked.
“In point of fact,” he said, “I was thinking I should not like this to be the end of the Shrewsburys.”
Bess laughed. “Leave this to me. I shall see that she does not die.”
The Earl was certain that Bess would succeed, and was glad at that moment that he had such a clever, forceful and capable wife.
WHEN MARY RECOVERED within the next few days, after, as everyone admitted, coming near to death, many were convinced that there had been an attempt to poison her. This seemed certain when news came to Wingfield that in Scotland the Regent Moray was taking military action against all her friends, robbing them of their lands and riches and levying exorbitant taxes on those whom he allowed to keep some of their possessions.
So rigorous had been the measures taken, and so great was his power now throughout Scotland, that Argyle had thought it wise to accept his authority and had signed a treaty acknowledging this. When Huntley and Herries did likewise it seemed that Mary’s cause was lost; and the fact that these events were taking place in Scotland while Mary had had her mysterious sickness at Wingfield, confirmed the suspicion of many that this had been an attempt by Moray’s agents to poison her.
Willie Douglas was incensed at what had happened and, coming unannounced into the Queen’s apartment one day, had implored her to allow him to keep a closer watch on all who came near her.
“You have my permission, Willie,” said the Queen. “Indeed, I shall only feel safe if you do so.”
So Willie was often to be seen at the door of her chamber, and he kept his eye on all who came into her presence and who conferred with each other in the castle. Previously he had been concerned with finding a method of bringing the Queen out of captivity; now he had an additional task. He had to save her from those who planned to murder her.
It was startling and significant when news came from London that Mary’s death had been reported there.
“It would seem,” said Seton to Willie, “that some were so eager to announce it that they did not wait for it to take place.”
“If I can find the man that harms her,” Willie growled, “I’ll cut his head off with my sword, I will, and I’ll march around the castle with the bauble dripping on my sword.”
“We will watch over her together, Willie,” said Seton.
“We’ll never leave her while she needs us,” answered Willie.
“I have sworn an oath that I never will,” Seton said solemnly.
And it was as though they had made a pact together.
MARY WAS BETTER NOW and able to walk in the grounds; the May sunshine was warming and she quickly showed signs of regaining her health.
But she soon found herself in a predicament which caused her alarm and was desperately seeking a way out of it.
As she walked with Seton on one side and Jane Kennedy on the other she spoke to them of her troubles.
“I am becoming very short of money, and the doctors whom Shrewsbury summoned are asking for payment. The fact is, I have no money with which to meet their demands, and I do not know how I can raise it.”
Seton began taking stock of their valuables, but most of the Queen’s possessions were now in Moray’s hands.
“Even if we sold everything we have there would not be enough,” said Mary. “And I wonder how I am going to continue to live. I owe you all so much.”
Jane and Seton declared that she owed them nothing. But Mary sighed and said there was nothing she could do but write to Lesley, Bishop of Ross, in London and tell him of her embarrassment.
“Do this, Your Majesty,” advised Seton, “and I will summon Borthwick to convey our letter to London with all speed. The sooner Lesley begins to deal with it, the easier you will sleep.”
So they retired to Mary’s apartments where she wrote her letter, and Borthwick left with it at once for London.
He returned before they expected him; and to their surprise and pleasure he brought money with him.
There was two hundred pounds which would relieve her of her immediate anxieties, and more would be following.
Mary was astonished by this ready response. Then she read the letter which Lesley had written and which, Borthwick said, was to be delivered into her hands alone. Her benefactor was one from whom it was most meet and fitting for her to receive assistance: the Duke of Norfolk to whom she was almost—though in secret—betrothed.
Norfolk was true to his word. Within the next few weeks more money arrived and very shortly Mary had received nine hundred and sixty-six pounds from the man who hoped to become her husband.
There was however a letter from Lesley who, having heard of Norfolk’s generosity, was a little uneasy. He believed that by accepting the money, Mary was entering into an intrigue from which she might find it difficult—supposing she wished—to extricate herself. He advised her to ask for money from France and to look upon that which Norfolk had sent her as a loan.
Mary, completely generous, accepted as readily as she would have given. But she did trust Lesley’s judgment. She therefore made an endeavor to obtain money from France and sent her secretary across the Channel with that purpose. His efforts failed, but meanwhile rumors of her pecuniary difficulties became known in certain quarters, and those who were carefully watching the political state of affairs in England decided that this matter might be turned to advantage.
LESLEY RECEIVED A CALL from the Spanish ambassador.
“I have heard,” said the ambassador, “that the Queen of Scots needs money, and I have had instructions from His Most Catholic Majesty that I am to do all in my power to assist the Queen.”
Lesley was exultant. It seemed to him that if Mary must accept money it were better to do so from a friendly power than from a private individual. Mary’s secretary, Raulet, had been sent to France to try to raise a loan; and here was one being offered by Spain.
“I know His Most Catholic Majesty to be the good friend of the Queen of Scots,” murmured the Bishop.
“He desires to help her in her need,” went on the ambassador, “and I will give you a bill of exchange which you may draw on the banker, Roberto Ridolfi.”
“I tender you my most grateful thanks and I know that the Queen will do the same.”
“Then come to my lodging in an hour’s time and you shall have it.”
Lesley said that he would do so, and when they had parted the Spanish ambassador went to the Italian banker and talked with him for a while. He knew that Ridolfi was a Papal spy; and that both the Pope and the King of Spain were determined to prevent at all costs the marriage of Catholic Mary with Protestant Norfolk. “If she accepts our money,” said the banker, “she will have taken the first step. The Northern Catholics assure me they are ready to revolt under Northumberland. We will set the Queen of Scots at their head. And then . . . with luck we shall drive the bastard Elizabeth from the throne.”
“She will accept the money. She needs it; and she realizes that it is not meet for her to take it from Norfolk. It will be for ten thousand Italian crowns . . . a sturdy sum, which will show her that we are her friends. Doubtless she feels the need of friends at this moment. And I’ll swear she has no notion of how ready Northumberland is to march on the Protestants of England.”
The two men conferred further together, and when Lesley arrived he was greeted warmly by the banker, who hinted that he was aware of Spain’s desire to help the Queen. He was certain too that the Pope deplored her present plight.
Lesley left, with the money which seemed like a fortune to him; and, what seemed almost as good, the knowledge that Mary had powerful friends.
LESLEY, BISHOP OF ROSS, came to Wingfield to talk with the Queen.
Mary received him eagerly and was pleased to see how optimistic he was, for Lesley was never a man to disguise the true state of affairs.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “I come in person because there are some matters it is better not to trust to letters. I have great hopes that your captivity will soon be over.”
“My dear Bishop,” cried the Queen, “you could not bring me better news.”
“Your marriage with Norfolk will bring you freedom, and the project is now receiving the support of men of standing.”
“Yes?”
“Leicester himself.”
“Leicester! Then this means that Elizabeth herself gives her consent.”
Lesley was thoughtful for a moment. “I am not sure that we have come as far as that. In her bad treatment of you, Elizabeth has been advised to act as she did by Cecil, who is determined to keep a Protestant ruler in Scotland. Cecil’s influence on the Queen does not please her ambitious ministers. But for Cecil, Leicester might have been Elizabeth’s husband. I believe that at the time of the Amy Robsart affair he came near to it. Leicester never forgave Cecil, and he sees now a chance of flouting his authority by giving his support to the marriage with Norfolk.”
“They say the Queen is still enamored of Leicester.”
“I believe it to be true. I have seen them together, and although she encourages others to admire her, there is a shade of difference in her manner when she is near him. If Leicester approves of the match with Norfolk, I am of the opinion that he will persuade Elizabeth to do so. I have letters here from Leicester and certain other noblemen in which they praise Norfolk and tell you that they will give their support to a marriage between you.”
“Give me the letters,” said Mary; and when Lesley did so she opened them with hands which shook with excitement. What Lesley had said was true. There was the letter, written in Leicester’s own hand, commending the Duke of Norfolk, persuading her to marry him, and assuring her that he had the nobility behind him when he told her that, should the Queen of England die without heirs, they would support her as the rightful heir to the throne. He went on to say that he was sure the Queen of England could be persuaded to see the wisdom and justice of this.
When Mary had finished reading, she looked at Lesley with sparkling eyes. She felt young again; full of hope. “I shall soon be free of my prison,” she murmured.
Then she thought of another prisoner. Bothwell. What hope had he of ever being released! The French would insist on his remaining shut away; they would never allow one who had played such a devastating role in her life to go free; and if he were free, where would he go? To Scotland, where certain death awaited him at Moray’s hands? To England? Elizabeth would never tolerate him there. What were his thoughts at this time? How much had he changed?
These months of imprisonment had for her been at times almost intolerable. But what of him? She at least had her friends, and a certain consideration must be shown a Queen even by her enemies. But what did Bothwell suffer, and how would one so bold and vital endure such suffering?
She had ceased to yearn for him as she had a year ago. She knew that he had disappeared completely from her life and she would never see him again. Indeed, if they did meet they would not be the same people because the Mary, who had lost her crown for love of him, had gone forever. A woman grown sober by captivity and suffering had taken the place of that headstrong girl. Bothwell must have changed too. What was that blustering, fascinating, irresistible adventurer now?
She was aware of Lesley, waiting for her to speak. “Bothwell?” she murmured.
“We do not anticipate any difficulty in having that marriage annulled,” said Lesley.
THE EARL OF SHREWSBURY was anxious. It was all very well for Bess to say that she would manage their affairs, but he was the one who would be blamed if they failed in their duty. The guarding of such an important political prisoner was a constant anxiety, and he had never been a man who could stand up against perpetual worry. His head ached continually; he found that when he rose from his bed in the mornings he was giddy. It was no use complaining to Bess of these matters, or even mentioning them. “All you need is a little fresh air,” she would say, “and you’ll be better tomorrow!”
Bess was alert however. She knew as well as he did that messengers from the North and South were finding their way to the Queen’s apartment. Intrigue was rife and, if it ever was brought into the light of day, the Shrewsburys must be on the right side.
Which was the right side? The Queen of England was strong; but if it were true that men such as Leicester, Arundel and Pembroke were eager to promote the marriage of Norfolk and Mary without having first obtained Elizabeth’s consent, who could be sure what would happen next?
Shrewsbury was a man who wished to remain poised cautiously between two factions, so that he might leap onto the winning side at an opportune moment.
He had already reported to Elizabeth that a young man named Cavendish—who was connected with Bess through her second husband, Sir William Cavendish—was bringing letters to Mary from Norfolk. Elizabeth’s reply had been that she was aware of this and that she wished Cavendish to be allowed to carry messages to the Queen. This sounded as though Cavendish were a spy for Elizabeth while feigning to work for Norfolk. Who could know who was a friend, who was an enemy, in such a morass of deceit?
It was small wonder that he found the task too much for him and sighed for the old days of comparative peace before he had been singled out to guard the Queen of Scots.
He went to his bedchamber and there, risking discovery by Bess, he lay on his bed; but when he did so the room seemed to rock as though he were on board ship.
He lay for some time and gradually the giddiness left him.
I never felt thus before, he thought. Is this an illness brought on by worry?
There was a knock on the door, so quiet that he was not sure whether he had imagined it. He ignored it, and then he saw that the door was slowly opening, and the serving girl, Eleanor Britton, was standing in the doorway watching him.
“What is it?” asked the Earl.
“I come to ask if there is aught you want,” she answered.
“Why? I did not send for you.”
“But I saw how sick your lordship looked and, begging your pardon, I came to see if there was aught you needed.”
“Come in and shut the door.
She came slowly to his bedside and the light from the Gothic window shone on her round young face. She was comely; he noticed her neat yet plump figure beneath her serving maid’s gown; but it was the expression on her face which held his attention. She looked enraptured, almost angelic, he thought. What a strange girl she was! No wonder he had singled her out for his attention.
“My lord is well?” she asked; and that mobile face was suddenly filled with sorrow.
“I am well enough,” he answered.
“Is there aught I could do, my lord?”
“Nay.”
They looked at each other in silence for a few seconds, then he held out his hand.
“You are a comely girl,” he told her. “It pleases me to see you in my house.”
She lowered her eyes and dropped a curtsy—he was not sure why.
He wondered what would happen if Bess came in and saw the serving girl standing by his bed. The girl would be dismissed—and he . . . he would never hear the end of the matter. She could taunt him with what she called his bewitchment by the Queen of Scots. She did it half jokingly, although there was a certain malice in her words. She was displeased but not outraged that he should find Mary attractive; but what would she say if she knew that he, one of the noblest Earls in England, was a little fascinated by one of her humblest serving girls?
He was feeling a little light-headed, and in this unusual state he did not care.
“Come nearer,” he said.
She came, her lips lightly parted showing good teeth; he knew then that he had only to order and she would obey.
He took her hand and drawing her to him kissed it, not with passion, but with gentleness while a soft flush spread from her neck to the roots of her hair.
She knelt beside the bed and pressed her lips against the hand which held hers.
He was aware of a rising passion such as he had never known before; he wanted to seize her roughly, to embrace her, but he knew that if he gave way to such feeling he would be too giddy to stand.
He thought then: She is so young and I shall not always be sick.
There was a sudden clatter of horses’ hoofs below. They were both startled, and the girl rose to her feet.
“You must go and see who has arrived,” he told her. “Come back and tell me.”
She left him and he lay still listening to the clamor below.
IT WAS NOT ELEANOR who came back to his apartment but Bess.
She came in without knocking and was startled to see him lying on the bed. He thought: She might have come thus when I was talking to Eleanor. And the thought made his heart beat fast.
“So you are lying down!”
“I felt unwell.”
“You look a little pale. You do not take enough fresh air. I came to tell you that Leonard Dacre is here.”
The Earl raised himself on his elbow. “Dacre!”
Bess nodded. “I think we should go down to greet him. In view of his connection with Norfolk we cannot know what he may be up to.”
The Earl passed a weary hand across his brow. “Not more trouble, I hope.”
Bess gave her short laugh. “Trouble! There will always be trouble while we have your romantic Queen under our roof. Did you not know that?”
“I am learning it.”
She gave him a sharp look. “And I’ll warrant you think such a beauty is worth the trouble.”
“I’d gladly give the task back to Scrope and Knollys,” he retorted, “for all her beauty.”
She appeared almost arch, but her gaze was searching. “I shall not tell her what you say,” she replied. “It would appear ungallant.”
He thought then that she would be a jealous woman if she discovered infidelity in her husband; and he wondered what form her jealousy would take.
Rising from his bed he tried to fight off his giddiness, and as he followed his countess down to the hall he felt it receding. By the time he was ready to greet Dacre it had left him.
Leonard Dacre would have been a handsome man but for the fact that one of his shoulders was higher than the other. He was very conscious of this as he was that he was the second son of Lord Dacre of Gilsland, and therefore not his heir. His elder brother had died leaving a son George, and George’s mother, Lady Dacre, had become the wife of Thomas, Duke of Norfolk. On her death Norfolk had, in Leonard Dacre’s opinion, concerned himself overmuch with the affairs of the Dacre family and, as there was a great deal of money involved, had arranged marriages between his three stepdaughters and his sons. As these girls were co-heiresses with their young brother George, Norfolk thus made sure that a large part of the Dacre wealth did not pass out of the Howard family.
This was a source of great annoyance to Leonard Dacre and he did not feel too kindly toward Norfolk in consequence.
Now he bowed low over Bess’s hand and expressed his hope that he found her in good health.
“My health is excellent,” answered Bess.
“And my lord Earl?”
“Oh, he does not take enough exercise. It is my continual complaint.”
“I have, it is true, been less well of late,” explained the Earl.
“He did not like Tutbury. He will be happier now that we are here at Wingfield Manor.”
“And you look less happy than when we last met,” said the Earl.
“I have had bad news,” Dacre replied. “My young nephew has died. I received the news this day.”
“Young George!” cried Bess. “But he can’t be more than seven! We are truly sorry. My poor Leonard! You must come to my private chamber and I will have wine brought. This is indeed sad news.”
The Earl slipped his arm through that of Dacre, and the Countess summoned a servant and gave orders.
“How did it happen?”
“While he was practicing vaulting at Thetford. A bad fall on his head. He died soon afterward.”
“What tragedy! First the father . . . then the son . . . . So you are now the heir.”
“It is of this matter that I come to talk to you and the Countess.”
When they were all seated in the Countess’s private chamber, Dacre explained why he was angry.
“The barony is one which descends to the female members of the family,” he said. “So that not only do his young sisters inherit the Dacre fortune, but the title also.”
“Norfolk was wise,” commented the Countess, “in betrothing his sons to the three Dacre girls.”
“Very wise, very sly,” added Leonard. “I intend to contest the case.”
Bess nodded. She doubted whether he would stand much chance of winning.
They talked for some time of family affairs and eventually Bess said: “I must present you to the Queen of Scots. She would take it ill if she knew you had been here and not called to pay your respects.”
“I should be pleased to speak with Her Majesty.”
Thus it was that Mary made the acquaintance of Leonard Dacre.
THE YOUNG MAN, Cavendish, had brought Mary a letter from the Duke of Norfolk.
Mary seized on it delightedly. The intrigue with which she seemed to be surrounded since coming to Wingfield Manor had brought new liveliness and she welcomed it.
Taking the letter to her bedchamber, Mary sat at the window and opened it.
The Duke wrote that he was deeply disturbed because he had heard rumors that the Papal spies in London, together with the Spanish ambassador, were planning to marry her to Don Jon of Austria. He needed reassurance. He must have it by return. He was sending her a diamond which was intended to pledge his troth to her and he was asking that a contract be drawn up between them without delay.
Why not? thought Mary. The sooner marriage with Norfolk became a fact, the sooner she would be free of her prison. She had come to see marriage with him as the only way out for her. Moreover she wanted marriage; she was weary of living without a man. She assured herself that she had forgotten Bothwell and that he no longer meant anything to her.
She took up a miniature of herself and a tablet of gold. She would write, sending these to Norfolk as her pledge, and she would ask Lesley to draw up the contract of marriage without delay.
She answered Norfolk’s letter in most affectionate terms and, enclosing the letter with the tablet and miniature, dispatched Cavendish back to the Duke.
Shortly afterward the contract was drawn up between Mary and Norfolk, although those English peers who had given their support to the marriage were not made aware of this.
Norfolk was unsure who was his friend, who his enemy, and was therefore uncertain whom to trust. As he saw it, all that mattered was that the contract had been signed.
He was sure—and so was Mary—that before long she would be his wife.
THE EARL AND COUNTESS were discussing the ill luck of Leonard Dacre.
“It seems to me that he has little love for my lord Norfolk,” said Bess.
“That is easily understood.”
Bess nodded. Both she and her husband agreed on that point. To see title and fortune, to which one felt one had a right, taken by others was intolerable!
“I believe Leonard plans to contest the matter,” said the Earl, “but he’ll not have a chance.”
He walked to the window to look out over the country, and as he did so he reeled slightly.
“You have drunk too much wine,” said the Countess with a laugh.
The Earl turned, feeling a sudden wave of anger against her. He was about to utter a protest when he felt very faint; he stretched out to catch the hanging; that was the last he remembered for some time.
WHEN HE WAS AGAIN CONSCIOUS, he was lying in his bed, and Bess was in the room, with the doctors, Caldwell and Francis.
The Earl tried to call out but he appeared to have lost his voice; he tried to lift his arm but could not move it.
