Текст книги "The Captive Queen of Scots "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
XIII
Chatsworth and Buxton
AS SOON AS MARY WAS BACK in Chatsworth she felt happier. How delighted she was to go once more to her garden at the top of the tower and there, with Seton and Jane Kennedy, find pleasure in seeing that those plants, which she had tended with such care, were still flourishing.
Shrewsbury had been right when he had believed that she would not be allowed more liberty. Attended by guards she would walk from her apartments to the lake, and cross the bridge. She could leave them surrounding the lake, for there was no possibility of her escape; and although, when she looked over the balustrade, she could always see some of them, at least she was free to enjoy the fresh air.
Bess talked to her continually of what the Buxton Baths had done for Shrewsbury, and both Queen and Countess wrote to Elizabeth begging her to allow Mary to seek a like benefit.
It was now August, and the season for taking the waters would be over with the end of the month. Mary despaired of ever being allowed to visit Buxton, and the desire to go there became a passion with her. She talked perpetually of going.
“I know, if I can but take the baths, I shall be well again,” she declared.
Seton encouraged her. Sometimes now a whole day would pass without her mentioning the death of Norfolk or the valor of the defenders of Edinburgh Castle. She still yearned for little James, but that was something she would do all her life; she still showed anxiety as to the fate of George and Willie Douglas and all those whom she called her poor wandering sheep. But her desire to visit Buxton was doing much to rouse her from her melancholy; and, thought Seton, if we could but go there, I am certain she would be well again through her very faith in the baths.
It was the end of August when Elizabeth granted permission, maliciously commenting as she did so that, since the season was well nigh over, the visit would doubtless do the Queen of Scots more harm than good.
But when Mary received word that she might go—late as it was—she was jubilant.
She looked young again as preparations were made for her to be taken from Chatsworth to Buxton.
THE JOURNEY FROM CHATSWORTH to Buxton was not a long one, being of some thirteen or fourteen miles; merely to be on that beautiful road which led over the hill made Mary feel almost happy.
Already the color was returning to her cheeks and Seton was delighted to see this change in her. How ironical, she thought, that they, who had once had such lofty ideas of regaining the throne, could now be so uplifted by the prospect of a visit to Buxton.
The climate seemed more benign than even at Chatsworth and especially so when compared with bleak Sheffield.
Shrewsbury’s house in Buxton was called Low Buxton and it was here that Mary stayed. It was a charming house protected from winds by the hill at the foot of which it stood, while it benefited from the mountain air.
Shrewsbury had given orders that all visitors must leave the Spa before Mary arrived, so there could be no opportunities for making plans for her escape; thus all the social activities of that gay little town ceased immediately; and the Queen was never allowed to go anywhere unless surrounded by her guards.
She had not dared hope that it would be otherwise, but so great was her faith in the baths, so delighted was she to be in such congenial surroundings, that her health began to improve.
She made Shrewsbury tell her about the remarkable cure he had enjoyed at Buxton; and nothing loath to talk of illness, he never tired of explaining how weak he had been before taking the baths, how strong afterward.
“You owe your recovery to your Countess,” Mary reminded him. “If she had not been strong and risked Elizabeth’s displeasure, you would not be the man you are today.”
Shrewsbury nodded somberly. It was true he owed a great deal to Bess, but he did not care to be reminded of this. It made his conduct with Eleanor seem more reprehensible than ever. What he needed was to make excuses for it. He had told himself that no man cared to have a woman behaving like his commanding officer, however efficient she was; a man wanted sympathy, particularly when he was engaged in such an exacting task as guarding the most dangerous state prisoner of all time. He was telling himself that any man in his position would have looked for relaxation elsewhere. A man would have to be a saint not to take the comfort and pleasure Eleanor offered.
She was not with him now; he could not insist that she accompany them to Buxton, for fear Bess should begin to suspect. It was enough that she moved with them back and forth between Sheffield and Chatsworth; he consoled himself that the visit to Buxton must necessarily be brief.
So while he indulged in a morbid pleasure with Mary, dwelling on that illness which had brought him near to death, he was making excuses for himself: I was brought low because of the anxieties which weighed so heavily upon me. They are still with me. I need some form of relaxation; I need to forget my cares now and then; and how could I forget more easily than in the arms of Eleanor?
Bess joined them and he saw the smile play about her lips.
When they were alone she said to him: “I see you found a sympathetic listener in your Queen.”
“She asked me to tell her of the benefit I had received from the baths.”
“And you did so with relish. You will never be completely well, Shrewsbury, while you dwell so fondly on your ailments.”
“It is necessary that I do not have a return of my illness,” he retorted coldly.
“Then don’t beckon it back with such loving words. You talk too tenderly of your pains. What an unsympathetic wife I am! How different is your beautiful Queen; she listens and those lovely eyes are filled with compassion for poor Shrewsbury. Lovely eyes would not have nursed you back to health, George Talbot, nor would sympathetic sighs. Remember that.”
He did remember. It was why he felt so remorseful now that he was away from Eleanor. Perhaps he should end the liaison. A noble Earl and a serving wench! Not the first time it had happened, it was true—but this was no passing fancy. Perhaps when he returned to Chatsworth he would break off the relationship. Yes, he would. Bess might joke about his passion for the Queen of Scots; what would she say if she knew of that for Eleanor Britton?
He dared not think. He could almost feel the lash of her tongue now. And a woman like Bess would not stop at words. He warned himself that he must seriously consider ending the liaison.
But he knew that he would not.
THE DAYS SPENT AT BUXTON were the happiest Mary had known since her captivity had begun. She was now able to walk with her old springy step and the sounds of laughter came from her rooms in Low Buxton; she would play on her lute and sing songs with which she had once delighted the Court of France.
It needed little, thought those who loved her, to restore her spirits and make her well again. She suffered from no serious malady. She was young still, but she had always thrived on gaiety and she needed it now. The pains in her limbs would disappear if only she could enjoy a little comfort and did not have to pass her days and nights in big drafty apartments.
One day there was an expedition to Poole’s Hole, and thither Mary rode surrounded by her friends and guards. The cavern at the foot of Grinlaw Hill was only half a mile or so from Buxton, and when Mary arrived there she insisted on dismounting and entering the cave. Surrounded by ladies, guards and torch bearers, and stooping almost double, she made her way along the slippery passage, crying out warnings to those who followed; some of the ladies looked down at the stream below and shuddered because it would have been so easy to falter and stumble on those slippery stones. But Mary went on until she came to a group of stalactites, and here she paused to admire and call to her friends to do the same.
It was a weird scene there in the cave, lighted by the torches of those who had gone on ahead to show the way, the Queen’s animated face looking like an excited child’s in that light.
“It would be dangerous to go farther,” said one of the guards, and Mary immediately agreed that they should turn back.
It was Seton who said: “We will call that group of stalactites Queen Mary’s Pillar.”
Mary laughed with all her old gaiety. “It was worthwhile coming so far to give it my name,” she added.
Then with some torch bearers going on ahead and others bringing up the rear, the party made its way out of the cavern and back to Low Buxton.
Those happy days at Buxton passed all too quickly, but with the coming of September it was necessary to return to Chatsworth.
ALL THROUGH SEPTEMBER and October Mary’s health remained good. She would sit with her friends over her tapestry and they would recall the visit to Buxton.
“Next year,” said Mary, “I shall hope to go for the whole of the season. How pleasant it would be if we could spend June, July and August there . . . .”
She stopped suddenly and a grave expression crossed her face. Seton, watching, understood. Mary was thinking that she had become accustomed to being the prisoner of the Queen of England.
At the end of October the weather changed and the sunny days they had spent at Buxton seemed far away.
“I am thankful,” said Seton, “that we are at Chatsworth. Sheffield would not be so comfortable with the winter coming on.”
“Or Tutbury!” added Mary with a shudder.
And here again, she thought, I betray my resignation to my fate. I think as a prisoner, and I am grateful for a prisoner’s concession.
Bess came to her apartments in a dark mood.
“Orders from Elizabeth,” she announced, and Mary knew before she was told that Bess was angry because she was being ordered to leave her beloved Chatsworth.
“I trust we are not going to be moved from Chatsworth,” said Mary.
“I fear so. Her Majesty has heard that you have uttered complaints against her. She declares herself to be shocked by your ingratitude.”
“Should I be so grateful for my long imprisonment?”
“Someone has evidently carried tales to Her Majesty. She is most displeased. She writes that she fears you have too much freedom at Chatsworth. We are to return without delay to Sheffield.”
XIV
Return to Sheffield
SO BACK TO SHEFFIELD CAME MARY, and those who were close to her were aware of the change in her. She was no longer the hopeful young girl who believed that shortly she would be rescued and restored to her throne. It was as though she had come to terms with life; as though she had told herself: This is how it must be and I must therefore try to make this restricted life as happy as I can for those who have made sacrifices in order to be with me; thus I can find something to make life pleasant.
Since she had been to Buxton and her health had been so much better she tried to enjoy a little gaiety in her apartments. She made plans for working elaborate tapestry and wrote to the French ambassador asking him to buy her materials in France.
“There,” she explained to her ladies, “he can find colors which are more beautiful than those obtainable in London; and the silks are finer.”
Seton guessed that she planned to make a present for the Queen of England, knowing how Elizabeth loved to receive gifts. Perhaps thus, mused Mary, she may be persuaded to view my position with more kindness.
She longed for some little pets, for she loved all animals and in particular little dogs.
“I could be so happy if I had a few little dogs to care for. I shall write to France for them. Surely someone will send me a little dog. I would not wish for only one. He would need a companion. I would not have him lonely. And I must ask for them to be sent in baskets with warm coverlets. I would have them prepared for the cold in Sheffield Castle.”
She also asked her French friends to send her some clothes for which she would pay when she could recover some of her possessions.
“Ah, Seton,” she said, “do you remember the caps I used to wear with crowns of gold and silver? How becoming they were! I remember the King of France once told me that they became none as they did me. I should like some more. But perhaps there are newer fashions now. I shall ask for the latest designs to be sent to me. But perhaps I should not wear them myself but send them to Elizabeth. She is always eager to see the French fashions, I heard, and to be the first to wear them.”
So the days were now spent in planning tapestry designs and hoping for the arrival of the little dogs. It was less exciting but more restful than making dangerous plans for escape.
There were times when the yearning to see little James was so strong that the Queen lapsed into melancholy; and Bess, realizing this and feeling sorry for the Queen, decided to do something about it.
Bess, who had her children with her and took an active part in their affairs, could therefore understand Mary’s grief in being parted from her only son; and, since that son was a King, in Bess’s eyes it made the situation even more tragic.
Bess’s daughter Frances had married Sir Henry Pierpont of Holme Pierpont in Nottinghamshire, and Frances had a little daughter whom she had named Elizabeth after her mother.
It was at Bess’s suggestion that Mary became godmother to this child. Bess who, where her family was concerned, was extremely ambitious, believed that it could do little Bessie, who was four years old, no harm to have a Queen as her godmother. At the same time it would add a little interest to Mary’s life.
She was unprepared for the warmth with which Mary greeted this project. Her goddaughter became the center of her life; and she showered all that devotion, which she had longed to give to James, on little Bessie Pierpont. She had the child with her whenever possible, taking meals with her, having her sleep in her bed, making clothes for her.
As for little Bessie, she returned the Queen’s affection and was never so happy as when she was in Mary’s company.
Bess looked on with pleasure and assured Frances Pierpont that young Bessie would come to no harm while Mary remained a prisoner, and if the latter’s fortune should ever take a turn great good would come to her.
During this time Mary became more serene. The affairs of her household were beginning to absorb her. She was concerned about the health of her French Secretary Roullet, who was dying of a lung complaint and had become very difficult, being often too ill to work for her and not hesitating to express his reproaches if she allowed Gilbert Curle to take over his tasks.
She was gentle and tender to him and always tried to placate him, although often she had to do his work herself—fearing to hurt him by passing it on to some other secretary. But he was one of her household, and now she lived for such friends.
She was made very sad by news of the death of Charles IX, King of France, and was temporarily overcome by melancholy, remembering the happy days when she had been a child in the French nursery.
Seton wept with her, for had they not always been together even in those days, and she remembered Charles as well as Mary did.
“I have lost another friend,” she told Seton, “and there are so few left to me.”
“He loved you dearly,” Seton answered. “It was the dearest wish of his heart that you should share his throne with him. I believe that might have come about but for his mother.”
“I have had so many good friends and so many enemies,” Mary replied. “How Catherine de’ Medici hated me—especially so after she heard me call her a tradesman’s daughter. It was wrong of me, Seton, and I deeply regret that now. But I paid for my folly, did I not? Sometimes I think, Seton, that I am paying in full for all the sins of my youth.”
“Let us not talk of such things,” replied Seton. “It will not always be as it is now, and then perhaps you will be rewarded for your goodness to us all. Shall we work on the embroidery for little Bessie’s gown?”
He was dead and no good could be served by mourning. Poor Charles! thought Mary. Had he so much to lose? His reign had been unhappy. He was dominated by a mother who, it was said, had perverted him in more ways than one. He suffered from perpetual remorse for the fearful massacre of St. Bartholomew’s Eve. Poor Charles, perhaps one should rejoice that his earthly troubles were at an end.
One morning Mary sent a maid to ask after the health of her secretary Roullet who, she fancied, had looked even more sickly than usual on the previous day.
The maid returned to her in agitation, with the news that Monsieur Roullet was gasping for breath and seemed very distressed; and when Mary hurried to his bedside she saw at once that her secretary was dying.
He was too far gone to speak to Mary as she bent over his bed, but there was loving devotion in his eyes. Mary sent for priests and the last rites were administered; and that day she wept bitterly for the loss of another friend.
She was deeply touched to discover that Roullet had not spent the five thousand crowns which she had given him as a reward for his services to her, but kept them that he might leave them to her in his will.
“How strange,” she said to Seton, “that I, who have so many enemies, should find so many to love me.”
“It is your possessions that make some your enemies,” answered Seton sagely. “It is you yourself whom your friends love.”
“I shall need another secretary to take the place of poor Roullet, so I shall write to the Cardinal of Lorraine and ask him to send me someone whom I can trust.”
Mary carried out that intention and very soon afterward her uncle sent her a handsome, energetic young man who had been one of his own secretaries; his name was Jacques Nau, and he was a brother of that Claud Nau who had served Mary some years before.
ONE DAY A LETTER from George Douglas was smuggled in to Mary. It always delighted her to hear from George and she was happy if she learned that he was alive and well.
He wrote that he had returned to Scotland and was in hiding there. Willie was with him. George had not married Mademoiselle La Verrière. Those plans had come to naught, he wrote. He thought constantly of the Queen and sought means of bringing her back to power. He believed that the Queen would be happy if her son were taken from Morton’s care, where he was being instructed by the villainous Buchanan, and taken to Spain where Philip II would be very willing to supervise his education.
“If this could be brought about,” wrote George, “I believe, and so do many of Your Majesty’s friends, that it would be the first and most effective step toward regaining the throne of Scotland.”
Mary sat with the letter in her lap, her heart beating faster. She had forgotten how exciting intrigue could be. Yes, she thought, anything to remove little James from the hands of those who hated her and were endeavoring to bring him up to do the same.
George was right. If this could be successfully achieved it would be a step toward her return to power. And if only she could but see her son again, she often told herself, she would ask for nothing more. He was growing up now, that little James, having come to the end of his eighth year; and it would be so easy for a clever man to make him believe the lies against her.
Yet would Morton ever let him go? Dear George, he had always conceived such wild plans; but she remembered that it was due to Willie rather than George that she had escaped from Lochleven.
It saddened her that his marriage had come to nothing, because she feared it might be because he had set his Queen on such a high pedestal that he compared all others, to their detriment, with her—quite wrongly, Mary believed.
She wrote to George. His plan interested her very much, she said; and if it could be put into execution she was sure it would have the effect they all desired; but he had suffered enough, and she begged him not to put himself in further peril for her sake.
SHEFFIELD CASTLE had never been one of Bess’s favorite residences, and in October of the year 1574 she took an opportunity of visiting Rufford, another of the family’s stately houses. Bess took her unmarried daughter, Elizabeth Cavendish, with her and a few days after her arrival was very glad that she had, for noble travelers called at Rufford, and these were none other than Margaret, Countess of Lennox, who to Bess’s joy was accompanied by her son Charles, the younger brother of Mary’s husband, Lord Darnley, who had met his death so mysteriously in Kirk o’ Field.
Bess warmly welcomed the visitors and made sure that the young people were often in each other’s company.
Elizabeth Cavendish was a beautiful young woman, and Bess had long been looking for a suitable match; so when good fortune threw Charles Stuart in her way, the ambitious Bess felt this to be an opportunity which should not be missed.
As soon as she had seen that her guests were comfortably settled, she sent for Elizabeth who, knowing her mother, guessed what was in her mind.
“The young Earl of Lennox is a charming fellow,” Bess began, and Elizabeth could not help laughing aloud.
Elizabeth had spirit and Bess liked to see spirit in her children, but she was always a little afraid that it might make them stand out against her. Not that Bess had any fears that she would not in time have her own way, but she did not wish to waste time and energy in unnecessary conflict.
Elizabeth said: “He is also Charles Stuart and grandson of Margaret, who was the eldest sister of Henry VIII.”
Bess nodded approvingly. “I see that your thoughts move in the right direction.”
“You cannot seriously mean that there might be a match between him and me!”
“And why not? You must admit he is handsome and entirely agreeable.”
“Mother! Your ambitions cloud your sense.”
“I’ll thank you not to question my sense, girl. I have no wish to box your ears, but I shall certainly do so if you forget your duty to your mother.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Nay, mother,” he said, “do not be angry. But do you not agree that Her Majesty the Queen will wish to choose the bride of one who is so near the throne?”
“Doubtless she will. Therefore it is for others to make the choice before Her Majesty realizes it is made.”
There was perhaps little harm in allowing her mother to dream, thought Elizabeth. She knew that the Queen would never consent to a match between them. Bess, for all her arrogance, was after all only a Hardwick, and her daughter would never be considered worthy to mate with a royal Stuart.
“The children of this young Earl will be in direct succession to the throne,” said Bess, licking her lips as though some tasty dish had been set before her.
Elizabeth agreed with her mother; she had learned that it was always necessary to do that; and when Bess arranged that she should show Charles the gardens or ride beside him, she obeyed meekly.
They seemed momentous days for those two young people. Both felt that Queen Elizabeth would never allow them to marry, so their relationship began in perfect freedom, in spite of Bess’s rather obvious tricks to throw them together. But their natural feelings were too strong and although the Lennoxes stayed only five days at Rufford, before the end of that time Charles and Elizabeth were deeply in love. The knowledge both enchanted and terrified them.
Bess, seeing her daughter melancholy, came to her apartment demanding the reason, and in a very short time discovering it, was exultant.
Nothing could have suited her better.
“There is no need for melancholy!” she cried. “You are my beloved daughter, and if you decide you are in love and cannot be happy without that young man, then depend upon it, your mother will arrange that that young man will be yours.”
“Mother, you would not dare. Remember who he is.”
But it was precisely because of who he was that Bess would dare. It was dangerous, she knew; but if the prize was great enough Bess was always ready to risk the danger. Her Elizabeth was going to be Countess of Lennox; and that meant that Bess’s grandchild could—circumstances permitting—one day wear the crown of England. So, come what may, Elizabeth was going to marry the Countess of Lennox’s Charles.
She sought an early interview with the Countess of Lennox, and as soon as they were alone together she took a kerchief and held it to her eyes.
Margaret Lennox, startled to see Bess in a condition so unusual with her, asked the reason. “It is because of my dearest daughter’s unhappiness. The foolish girl! Oh, how could she be so foolish!”
“My dear Bess, tell me what has happened. You cannot mean that your Elizabeth has distressed you. I think her one of the most delightful girls I have ever met.”
“She is. Indeed she is. But, Margaret, what do you think the foolish creature has done? I can scarcely bear to tell you. She has fallen in love with . . . your son Charles and he with her.”
“My Charles! So that is why he seems changed. I have never seen him quite as happy as he has been.”
“Poor boy. Alas for him. These foolish young people! But what can you expect? They are both so young, so beautiful. Much as I have enjoyed your stay, my dear Margaret, I almost wish you had not come here.”
Margaret loved her son dearly; more so, she believed, since the tragic death of his elder brother, and it was her dearest wish to see him happy.
Bess, the kerchief still held to her eyes, was watching her companion intently, and felt like crying her triumph aloud, for she realized that it would be the easiest thing imaginable to win Margaret Lennox to her side.
“What shall we do? What shall we do?” she moaned.
“I think we should first discover how deeply our young people feel,” suggested Margaret.
“I pray that their young hearts are not too strongly committed, although I fear the worst.”
Margaret was silent for a few seconds, then she said: “But, Bess, suppose they should have fallen so deeply in love that it will break their hearts to part . . . what then?”
“I dare not think.”
“I do not want my son Charles to suffer as his brother Henry did.”
“His was a sad marriage . . . a marriage of ambition,” Bess agreed. “Had it been a true love match doubtless Henry would be alive today.”
“I cannot bear to think of it even now . . . . It haunts me still.”
“You are his mother . . . and like all mothers who love their children, would rather see him happily married to some good young girl than dead . . . though he was once the King of Scotland through his wife.”
Margaret had covered her face with her hands. This was going well, thought Bess. All she needed was Margaret’s consent and she would go ahead with the marriage. Queen Elizabeth’s wrath could be faced when the marriage was a fait accompli. It would be like taking Shrewsbury to the Buxton baths all over again. Although this of course would be considered a far more serious matter. Never mind. The thing was to get the pair married.
“I know how you feel,” soothed Bess. “You want Charles to have what Henry missed.”
“I would do anything for his happiness,” said Margaret vehemently.
“Then we must put our heads together. We must discover how deeply the feelings of these two young people are involved; and if it would break their hearts to be parted, are you, as his mother, prepared to face the wrath of the Queen?”
“Yes,” said Margaret, “I would give everything I have to ensure his happiness.”
“How well I understand your feelings, for mine are the same. I love my Elizabeth even as you love your Charles. If we decide this must be . . . no matter what the consequences, we might journey to Sheffield Castle. I am sure the Queen of Scots would wish to help us.”
Margaret seemed happy with this suggestion as though, if they dared not ask for the consent of one Queen, it would be well to win that of another.
LITTLE BESSIE PIERPONT was happiest when her grandmother was not in the castle, for then she was no longer in fear of being summoned suddenly to her presence. Grandmother Bess believed that all little girls, however young, should each day be given tasks and that if these tasks were not completed by the end of the day, punishment should follow.
Bessie was not a very good needlewoman and the stitches in her tapestry were rarely all of a size. They had to be unpicked and done again; but even so they rarely came out looking like the stitches of her godmother, Queen Mary. Sometimes Godmother Mary did the stitches for her; then they were perfect. It was a secret they shared; and when Grandmother saw them she would purse her lips and say: “There, you see what comes from really trying. Next time, I wish them to be like this from the first.”
Grandmother Bess believed in whipping children who were not all she expected them to be—and of course she expected a good deal. Handwriting had to be neat and legible; history had to be learned; and Bessie, young as she was, had already been started on Latin exercises.
So it was not surprising that with Grandmother Bess away from Sheffield Castle Bessie felt free. It was a pleasure to wake each morning; to steal out of the bed she shared with her godmother and run to the window to look out at the confluence of the Sheaf and the Don, and to wonder whether she would be allowed to ride with one of the grooms this day. It was almost certain that she would, for her grandfather would be so busy when she asked him that he would say yes; and then all she had to do was tell Eleanor that she had her grandfather’s permission, and Eleanor would tell the groom to saddle her horse.
But Bessie was often too sad to ride after all, because her dear godmother could not come with her and she feared that if she went riding it reminded the Queen that she was a prisoner.
It was a very sad thing to be a prisoner, Bessie knew, because the Queen had told her so. The Queen told her a great deal when they were in bed together; Bessie often requested stories to help her go to sleep. Then the Queen would remember the days when she was Bessie’s age and tell her about the monastery on the island called Inchmahome and how she had lived with the monks there; she would tell of how she had sailed to France on a big ship and that even then the English had sought to make her their prisoner, although the great Queen Elizabeth was not Queen then, but only a little girl like Bessie herself.
