Текст книги "The Captive Queen of Scots "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
She listened attentively to Lesley.
CECIL FACED the Queen once more.
“I rejoice to see that Your Majesty’s condition is improved,” he said; which was his way of telling her that he was pleased she had recovered from what he would regard as a fit of hysteria.
Mary bowed her head and waited.
“Her Majesty the Queen is deeply concerned on your behalf,” he told her. “She thinks that, having known the married state, you might be happier in it than living celibate. Therefore she is ready to suggest a marriage for you.”
Mary was attentive. She knew that Norfolk had been released from the Tower. Did this mean that Elizabeth was ready to approve of the match?
“Her Majesty proposes that you accept her kinsman, George Carey, son of Lord Hunsdon, as your husband.”
“That is not possible,” answered Mary.
“If Your Majesty is thinking of your marriage to Bothwell, that has been happily dealt with and is not regarded as a marriage.”
Mary was silent. She could not tell Cecil that she was pledged to Norfolk, for the contract between them had been a secret. She could only shake her head and murmur: “It is not possible.”
Cecil was alert. The Queen of Scots was without guile. There was some reason why she was so emphatic. If reports did not lie she had been friendly toward George Carey when he had visited her. There was some plot afoot, he believed; some reason why she was so set against the proposed marriage. Had she her eyes on Don Jon? The romantic hero would undoubtedly appeal to such a woman as she was.
He did not press the point, but turned from it to talk of the kindness of his mistress, Queen Elizabeth, who sought to help the Queen of Scots, if she would but let herself be helped.
All the time he was thinking: We must increase our watchfulness. On no account must she be allowed to slip out of our hands, out of England to our enemies across the water.
MARY FORGOT the presence of the English statesman at Chatsworth, for one of her most trusted friends had been stricken with sickness. This was John Beaton, the Laird of Creich, who had been the master of her household. He had been working zealously in her cause ever since she had escaped from Lochleven, and to see him on his sickbed filled her with such anxiety that she forgot her own concerns.
Seton shared her distress and wanted to nurse him herself. Mary agreed that she should, and added that she too would act as nurse, for John was so grievously sick that he needed the two of them.
So day and night Seton and Mary remained in the sickroom; but it soon became pitiably obvious that there was nothing they could do to save John’s life.
Seton was alone in the sickroom one evening while Mary was taking a little rest, when a young man came in and stood at the end of the bed looking at the sick man. His face was so marked with anguish that Seton rose and, going to him, laid a hand on his shoulder.
“You must not grieve so much, Andrew,” she said.
“My brother is going to die,” said Andrew Beaton.
“I am going to send for the Bishop now, Andrew. I think the time has come.”
“I will bring him here.”
When he had gone Seton placed a cool cloth on the sick man’s fevered forehead and sat beside his bed waiting, for there was nothing else she could do. In a short time Lesley came back with Andrew Beaton and looked grave when he saw the appearance of the sick man.
“We will leave you with him,” said Seton, and slipping her arm through that of Andrew Beaton she drew him from the room.
Outside they stood silently for a few seconds, then Andrew said: “I know how you have nursed him . . . you and the Queen. How can I thank you?”
“There is no need to thank us, Andrew,” answered Seton. “We are exiles . . . we are prisoners . . . we work together, and if any one of us has trouble, that is the trouble of us all.”
He took her hand then and kissed it.
He thought there was something ethereal about Mary Seton—something saintly, not of this world. It seemed to him in that moment that he had never seen a face so beautiful.
He walked slowly away; he knew that he loved Mary Seton.
CECIL WAS FEELING that his visit to Chatsworth was a failure. He had achieved nothing through his interview with Mary except a sensation of great unease. He would return to Court and tell the Queen that he felt she should be moved from Chatsworth. A move was always a good thing at such a time—unsettling to conspirators.
It was while he was musing thus that a servant came to tell him that a young man, calling himself by the name of Rolleston, wished to see him; the matter was of great urgency.
Cecil, who had never heard the young man’s name before, hesitated; then said he would see the man. One could never be sure where important information might come from, and he had not reached his present eminence by ignoring such a rule.
Rolleston turned out to be a very young man, scarcely more than a boy, with the earnest eyes of a fanatic.
“What is it you have to say to me?” Cecil asked him.
“I have to tell you, sir, that I know of a plot to rescue the Queen from Chatsworth and put her on a boat at Harwich.”
Cecil showed no sign of the excitement he was feeling.
“Tell me more of this plot,” he said quietly.
“Thomas and Edward Stanley are at its head. They plan that the Queen shall escape from her window by means of a cord. It is arranged with her servants, and will very shortly take place.”
“Are you involved in this plot?”
The boy flushed painfully and drew himself up to his full height. “I am a loyal subject of my Queen Elizabeth. I take no part in plots against her.”
“Well spoken,” replied Cecil. “How then do you know of this plot?”
The boy hesitated as though he were fighting an inner battle with his conscience. Then he blurted out: “Because my father is involved in it.”
“You have done well,” said Cecil. “The Queen will not forget one who serves her. Now the names of the conspirators . . . and all the details you have. I believe we have little time to lose.”
WHEN THE CHIEF conspirators were under arrest, Cecil wrote to Elizabeth telling of what was happening at Chatsworth.
“It would seem, Your Majesty, that the Queen of Scots enjoys too much liberty at Chatsworth. It might be advisable to remove her from that place. Shrewsbury could take her to his castle in Sheffield, which to my mind would be a meet and fitting place to house her.”
XII
Sheffield
IT WAS ON A BLEAK NOVEMBER DAY that Mary traveled over the mountains from Chatsworth to Sheffield. Through the mist she caught her first glimpse of her new prison, which stood on a hill above that spot where the rivers Don and Sheaf met, the latter giving its name to the nearby town. The fame of this town was already known to Mary because it was noted for the mineral wealth which had enabled its inhabitants to become the foremost manufacturers of edged tools such as knives, spear and arrow heads.
The Earl had decided that she should not go at once to the castle but occupy the more cozy Manor House which was about two miles from it and in the center of a wooded park. Bess had pointed out that the Queen would find Sheffield less comfortable than Chatsworth, and that as the winter lay before them the Manor House would provide a more congenial lodging than the castle.
So to the Manor House came Mary. On that day when the trees were dripping with moisture, and the spiders’ webs, draped over the bushes, looked as though they were strung with tiny crystal beads, Mary felt a numbing sense of foreboding. Seton, close to her as ever, understood her thoughts. Thus must it ever be when they entered a new prison. They must always wonder how long they would stay and whether this would be their last resting place.
The situation was charming enough with avenues of oak and walnut leading to the house from several directions, and in the manor, which had two courts, an outer and inner, Mary had been allotted a suite which was adequate for her needs.
Yet as she entered the Manor House she said to Seton: “I remember hearing that it was to this place that Cardinal Wolsey came after his arrest. I seem to feel his spirit lingers still. I understand so well his feeling, for he had fallen from greatness. He went on to Leicester to die. I wonder what my fate will be.”
Seton tried to brush away such melancholy thoughts.
“It is always difficult to adjust ourselves to a new lodging,” she said.
THAT WINTER seemed as though it would never end. The air of Sheffield was not good for Mary and sometimes her limbs were so stiff with pain that she found walking difficult. She suffered acutely from neuralgia and there were times when she was convinced that she was near death.
Only the presence of her friends made it possible, she declared, for her not to die of melancholia, for when she considered their case she reminded herself that they suffered of their own free will, for there was not one of them who could not have walked out of Sheffield, a free man or woman; yet they stayed for love of her.
It was during this mournful winter that sad news reached her from Scotland. Her son was being tutored by George Buchanan, one of her greatest enemies, who had delighted in spreading slanders about her and was now teaching young James to believe them.
This news so prostrated Mary that her friends became really alarmed, and on several occasions were on the point of ordering the administration of the last rites.
It was during this sad period that Seton brought her the news that a friend had arrived at the manor and was asking to see her.
“Who is it?” asked Mary.
Seton was smiling. “One whom I think Your Majesty will be pleased to see.”
“Then tell me . . . ”
But Seton had run to the door and flung it open.
Mary stared at the man who entered, for a few moments not recognizing him, so much had he changed. Then with a cry of joy she seized his hands and drew him to her in a long embrace.
“How can I tell you how welcome you are!” she cried.
But George Douglas did not need to be told.
THIS WAS INDEED not the same George who had gone away. His stay in France had turned him from an idealistic boy to a man of the world. Yet he was nonetheless ready to give his life for the Queen. He told himself that he no longer dreamed impossible dreams. She was his Queen whom he would serve until death; she was as a goddess who was far beyond his reach. Unlike her he had never believed that there could be a relationship between them other than that which had always existed; and in France he had found a woman with whom he believed he had fallen in love, and it was for this reason he had returned to Mary.
Mary was delighted, and the coming of George so lightened her spirits that her health seemed to benefit; and as there were now signs of spring in the bleak Sheffield air, her companions congratulated themselves that she had recovered from what they had feared would be a mortal illness.
She wanted to hear all about George’s romance, and it was characteristic of her generous nature that she could feel only joy because he had found someone to love, even though in some measure this must mean that she was supplanted in his most tender affections.
As for George he was ready enough to talk. He tried to explain to her the beauty and charm of Mademoiselle La Verrière. Mary listened, regretful only because she could not give the couple rich presents, wondering what she could do to help them to their happiness.
For George had his problems. “She is a lady of some rank and her parents frown on our union because of my poverty.”
“My poor George! When I think of what you have lost on my account, I could weep. But we must not despair. I am a prisoner but I have some friends. I will write at once to my ambassador in Paris who is, as you know, the Archbishop of Glasgow, and I will ask that twenty-five thousand francs be settled on Mademoiselle La Verrière. Then I am sure her parents will be as delighted with the match as their daughter and you and I are, my dear George.”
“I fear I bring trouble to Your Majesty. You cannot afford to be so generous.”
Mary touched his cheek lightly and laughed. “I cannot afford not to make this little gift to one to whom I owe so much. Oh, George, I would it were more I could give you. Do you think I shall ever forget Lochleven and all I owed to you . . . then and after.”
George was too touched to answer, and Mary became practical.
“If you are to return to Scotland you will need a passport. I will write to Elizabeth and try to obtain this for you. If I cannot, then you must go back to France and stay there until it if safe for you to return home.”
“Your Majesty is kind enough to concern yourself with my affairs,” said George at length. “I have been thinking since I came to Sheffield of ways in which I could be of assistance to you. I have had many a talk with Willie, who is chafing at inactivity.”
Mary laughed. “Ah, Willie! You find him much changed?”
“He has become a man.”
“You heard of his troubles. Poor Willie. He is another who has suffered in my cause. He has never been quite the same since his incarceration in an English prison.”
“He could not be a boy forever,” replied George. “In one way he has changed not at all—and that is in his devotion to Your Majesty.”
“I have so many good friends, and for them I am grateful. I will tell you, George, that there are constant schemes for my rescue, yet none succeeds. Perhaps that is my fault, for there have been occasions when I have been unwilling to escape. I have not only myself to consider, and I could not blithely ride away to freedom leaving others to be punished for my actions. But I never cease to hope. And I will tell you this, George: even at this moment Lord Claud Hamilton, with others of my friends, are in touch with the Spanish government. When the time is ripe I shall be lowered from my window by means of a cord and join my friends. But I must wait until I can be sure that I have enough supporters to make the attempt worthwhile. There have been too many abortive attempts to set me back on my throne, and too many have suffered because of them.”
George’s eyes had begun to sparkle. Now that he was back in her presence she filled his mind. Mademoiselle La Verrière seemed like a charming dream but this was reality; this was what he lived for: to aid this woman who, when he was in her presence, commanded all his devotion.
Now he no longer wished to return to France; he wanted to free her from this prison, to ride by her side into Scotland, to lead her to her throne and spend the rest of his life in her service.
He was going to give the whole of his attention to planning her escape. He would consult Willie who was as shrewd and wily as anyone he knew. It would be Lochleven all over again; and as they had succeeded at Lochleven, so should they at Sheffield.
He began to speak of plans for her escape and she shook her head, for she understood the change in his feelings since their reunion.
“Nay, George,” she said, “I do not wish you to jeopardize your future further. Nothing would please me more than to see your little French bride.”
“I know now,” said George simply, “that there can be no real happiness when I do not serve my Queen.”
Seeing how deeply in earnest he was, Mary showed him the letters which she had received from Lord Claud Hamilton in Scotland and from Lesley in London; George was excited. When the Queen escaped from the Sheffield Manor House he was going to be at her side.
AS EASTER APPROACHED George was often seen in the company of Willie. Bess was alert. She had soon understood the nature of George Douglas’s feelings for the Queen. Well, she told herself, some women get what they want through their clinging femininity—others by their dominating characters. For the first time in her life she felt slightly envious of Mary who effortlessly managed to set people working for her; Bess considered the amount of energy she had had to put into bringing about the same result. Never mind. Bess knew where she was going. Sometimes she wondered whether Mary did.
There came bad news from Scotland, where the fortress of Dumbarton, which had been held for almost four years by Mary’s supporters, had been surprised and taken by her enemies; and although Lord Fleming had escaped, Archbishop Hamilton was taken and hanged as one of Darnley’s murderers.
This was bad news for Mary and her friends; not only had they lost a valuable stronghold, but papers had been found in the castle which betrayed the fact that the Spanish government was ready to help Mary back to her throne—and not only to her own throne.
This information incensed Elizabeth who immediately gave orders to the Shrewsburys that their captive must be even more securely held.
When the Queen’s letter came, the Earl went at once to his wife and showed it to her.
“I have been watchful since George Douglas came here,” said Bess. “He is trying to repeat what he did at Lochleven.”
“That is so,” agreed the Earl.
“And I’ll warrant,” went on Bess, “that the plan is to let her down from her window by means of a cord. Has it struck you, George Talbot, that that would not be a difficult matter from her window in the Manor House?”
“It would be easier to escape from the manor than from the castle.”
“Then why do we delay?” cried Bess. “I am in no mind to lose my head, even if you are. Let the Queen be at once removed from the manor to the castle.”
ROBERTO RIDOLFI was on his way to visit the Duke of Norfolk. He had wrapped a cloak, which he believed was all concealing, about his person; he had no wish for it to be known that he was paying this visit. There was danger in the air, but Ridolfi was a man accustomed to living dangerously, as all spies must be.
Ardently Catholic it was his pleasure to serve His Holiness, and his business as banker in London gave him opportunities of doing his duty.
It was unfortunate that he had not been able to keep free of suspicion; but in view of his activities that would have been hoping for too much. Still, statesmen such as Cecil were glad to make use of his services in the business of banking, and the very nature of that business meant that he was cognizant of English affairs.
Pius could not have had a more useful servant; and since the coming of Mary Queen of Scots into England, with its attendant discontents and hopes, Ridolfi had been on the alert.
He had come very close to danger during the Catholic rising in the autumn of 1569, when twelve thousand crowns had passed through his hands as a gift from the Pope to the rebels. Sir Francis Walsingham had sent for him on that occasion and made him a prisoner while his business premises and his house were searched. That might have been the end of a less wise man, but Ridolfi, practiced spy that he was, had always known how to cover his tracks. Nothing incriminating had been discovered, and he was released, assuring Walsingham that he had merely acted in the way of business. As Elizabeth and Cecil looked upon Ridolfi as a man they could use since he was knowledgeable in European politics and they needed his services as a banker, they had allowed him to resume business.
Ridolfi was now once more engaged on his master’s work which was, in effect, to drive Protestantism out of England and set up Catholicism in its place. Never could there have been a more opportune occasion. On the throne was the Protestant Elizabeth whom many believed to be a bastard; in prison, was the Catholic Mary whom many people believed to be the true heir to the throne. Such circumstances needed to be exploited. It was Ridolfi’s duty to exploit them.
Ridolfi believed that all the Catholics in the country—and they were many—were waiting for the signal to revolt. There were however many who were prepared to tolerate a marriage between Norfolk and Mary, for although Norfolk was a Protestant he was not a very earnest one. If Norfolk could be persuaded to turn Catholic, how much stronger his case would be—and that of Mary—for two factions could unite; and those who supported the Norfolk union could work with those who supported the Catholic Faith. Were they not all enemies of Elizabeth?
These were his thoughts as he was ushered into the lodging of the Duke of Norfolk at the Charterhouse, where he was in the charge of Sir Henry Neville. Neville was an easygoing jailor and quite ready to leave the Duke alone with his banker, for it did not occur to him that there could be conspiracy between the Catholic Italian and Protestant Norfolk.
When they were alone Ridolfi commiserated with the Duke for the bad treatment he had suffered, and asked him if he intended to remain Elizabeth’s prisoner for the rest of his life.
Norfolk, full of self-pity, told the banker that he had done nothing to warrant such treatment. He was the victim of injustice.
“Your Grace should cease to fret, for there could be a glorious future before you.”
“Marriage with the Queen of Scots!” mused the Duke. “Will it ever come about, do you think?”
“It could with the utmost ease.”
Ridolfi then went on to explain that the King of Spain and His Holiness the Pope were interested in the cause of the Queen of Scots. “Philip II is prepared to supply the money for the campaign. There is only one small matter which stands between you and—not only the crown of Scotland, but that of England.”
These words set Norfolk trembling with excitement. The thought of wealth and power always delighted him. He was feeling depressed because, on account of Mary’s supplication, he had been forced to give up some of the Dacre fortune; yet how could he have refused without offending her? But if, through her, he were to attain the power and riches which Ridolfi was now suggesting, the entire Dacre fortune would be no more to him than the coin one might throw to a beggar.
“And this small matter?” he asked breathlessly.
“Your Grace is a Protestant. His Most Catholic Majesty and His Holiness would do nothing to help you while you cling to that faith.”
“So,” said Norfolk, “they are asking that I become Catholic.”
“Do so and you have the might of Spain and Rome behind you.”
The proposition was too much for the avaricious Duke. After all he was a Protestant largely because he had been brought up by Foxe and had taken his views, but there was no reason why he should not change now.
Ridolfi was rubbing his hands together. “I will draw up dispatches which shall be signed by you and the Queen of Scots, and other noblemen whose help I can be sure of. When I have these I shall go to Brussels and there lay them before the Duke of Alva; I am sure he will agree to send at least eight thousand troops—and, with such, we cannot fail.”
Norfolk, dazzled by the prospect, threw aside his religious scruples and gave his pledge that he would stand with the rebels who must be sure of victory since they had behind them the might of Spain and Rome.
Ridolfi left the house well pleased. It had been even easier than he had believed possible.
RIDOLFI, in his Brussels lodgings, continued optimistic. All was proceeding as he had hoped and he was sure that by the end of the year he would have succeeded in taking the throne of England from Elizabeth and setting up Mary in her place. He had had a satisfactory interview with Alva who, ever zealous in the Catholic cause, had seen little difficulty in the English project. It was now for him to acquaint the conspirators in England with what was happening in Brussels, so he wrote to Lesley, Norfolk and a few other conspirators. Then followed the task of finding a suitable messenger to convey the letters to England while Ridolfi made his way to Rome and his Papal master.
Charle Baillie, who was at this time in Brussels, seemed the man to execute this commission, and Ridolfi invited him to his lodgings. Charles Baillie, an enthusiastic supporter of Mary’s, answered the summons at once.
This young man was at this time pleased with his accomplishments. He had come to Flanders in order to have printed at Liège a volume which had been written by the Bishop of Ross and was a vindication of the Queen’s innocence. He had succeeded admirably and now the copies were ready to be taken back to England and Scotland where he and his friends would see that they were circulated.
When Baillie arrived Ridolfi told him of the letters which were to be taken to England.
“I know,” he said, “that you have ever been a good friend of the Queen of Scots, and it is for this reason that I assign to you this dangerous task. The letters are in cipher which I will explain to you, for if it were necessary to destroy them you could then convey their contents by word of mouth. There have been many attempts to rescue the Queen, and they have all resulted in failure. This will be different, for behind this plan is the Pope himself with the King of Spain. It is their duty and purpose to remove Elizabeth from the English throne and put Mary there. They cannot fail. But first Elizabeth must be assassinated; and, as soon as this has been achieved, Alva will cross the Channel with a strong force to join the English Catholics. This is the gist of what lies in these letters; so you see, my friend, in carrying them into Elizabeth’s country you face mortal danger.”
“I will do it willingly for the sake of Queen Mary and the Catholic cause,” Baillie answered.
“That is what I believed. Here are the letters.”
Baillie took them and set out for England.
When he left the ship at Dover, he did not notice four men who were loitering near the harbor. Relieved that he was on dry land again he was blithely making his way toward an inn where he proposed to spend the night before beginning his journey to London, when he was aware of being followed; and as he turned the four men drew level with him; in a second there was one on either side of him, one behind and the fourth had stepped in front of him.
His heart began to beat faster with fear. Cutpurses! And four of them. It was not so much that he feared to be robbed of his money; there were other things he carried far more precious than that.
“What do you want of me, gentlemen?” he asked.
The man who stood in front of him said quietly, “You are Charles Baillie, recently come from the Continent?”
“That is so,” he answered. “I repeat: What do you want of me?”
“You are our prisoner, Charles Baillie.”
“On what grounds?”
“On suspicion of treason. We arrest you in the name of our Sovereign Lady Elizabeth.”
“I do not understand.”
“Understanding will come later,” answered the leader of the men; he gave a sign and a man whom Baillie had not previously noticed came up with horses.
Baillie was told to mount and he could do nothing but obey. A leading rein was attached to his horse’s bridle and firmly holding this one of the four mounted his own horse.
“Let us go,” he said.
Thus they brought Charles Baillie to the Marshalsea prison.
SIR FRANCIS WALSINGHAM was watchful. Documents discovered in Dumbarton had alarmed him, Cecil, the Queen and all those who understood the gravity of the occasion. It was certain that the Queen of Scots was to be used as a symbol by their Catholic enemies; and when such included the Pope and the King of Spain the situation was without doubt highly dangerous. No petty rising this. Walsingham, proud of the spy system he had built up, rejoiced in an opportunity to prove its worth.
Thus he was determined to have all suspicious characters brought up for examination. It was for this reason that Charles Baillie had been arrested on his return from the Continent.
On the table before him lay letters and, because they were in cipher, they seemed sinister indeed. How to translate them? That was the question. There was a possibility that the messenger, who was an intelligent man and doubtless deep in any conspiracy that was going on, might be able to decode them.
He would not wish to do so, of course; but he was in their power; and there were ways of making a prisoner talk.
BAILLIE TOLD HIMSELF that he would be brave. They had discovered the letters but they could not read them since they did not know the cipher.
They could kill him, he told himself; he would never betray his fellow Catholics.
He felt sick with apprehension when they moved him from the Marshalsea to the Tower. Could any man glide along those inky waters and pass through the traitor’s gate without terror entering his soul! However brave a man believed himself to be he must tremble.
His cell was small and cold; little light and air came through the iron bars. He told himself he did not care. One must suffer for what one believed to be the right.
When a warder entered his cell and told him to follow whither he led, Baillie knew where he was going. As he followed the warder through the dark corridors, down stone spiral staircases and his trembling fingers touched the slimy walls, he was conscious of nothing but the fear within him. It was not physical pain that he feared; the terror came from the doubts of his own bravery.
“I will never tell,” he repeated. “Never, never . . . .”
Now he was in the underground chamber. He saw the questioner; he smelled the dank odor of the river, the tang of vinegar. They used that, he thought, when the pain was too much to be borne and the victim passed into unconsciousness. They did not let him remain in that blessed state but brought him back and back again, until they had obtained what they sought.
The questions were beginning.
“Charles Baillie, you brought letters back with you from Flanders. Who gave you those letters?”
“I cannot say.”
“You are unwise, Charles Baillie; but let that be. To whom were you carrying these letters?”
“I cannot say.”
“And what do these letters contain?”
“You have seen them. You have read them.”
“You know them to be in cipher. Can you transcribe them, Charles Baillie?”
“I cannot.”
“You are secretive. We have ways of dealing with those who would keep their secrets from us.”
They were leading him now to the wooden trough; he saw the ropes, the rollers; and as they laid their rough hands on him and stripped him of his clothes, even before they laid him on the rack he could anticipate the pain in his joints.
