Текст книги "The Captive Queen of Scots "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
It was all very bewildering and somehow sad. Bessie wished that she could do more to make the Queen happy. Although she did quite a lot, Queen Mary herself told her.
Bessie stood at the window watching the rain falling down. So she could not go riding even if she had permission. Bessie did not know what to do. There was no one to play with. She wished she had four Bessies as the Queen had had four Marys to play with her. What games they could have played in Sheffield Castle!
As she did not know what else to do Bessie decided to go along to find the Queen and see how she was getting on with the new gown she was making for her. Perhaps if the Queen were stitching with some of her ladies Bessie would ask for a story about Inchmahome or the French Court. She never tired of hearing them.
She went to the Queen’s apartment, and quietly pushed open the door. At first she thought the room was empty; then she saw a man sitting at a table, writing. Bessie was about to turn and run when he said: “I see you. It is useless to hide. What do you want?”
Bessie came into the room, trying to look haughty. Grandmother had made her walk seven times around a room regularly each morning with a book on her head. That was to make sure she kept her back straight and her head high. It was another unpleasant duty evaded in Grandmother’s absence. So now Bessie walked as though she carried books on her head and, looking as haughty as Grandmother could have wished, said: “And who are you to question me, sir?”
The man’s dark eyes seemed to shine more brightly; his mouth turned up at the corners. “Only Her Majesty’s secretary, Your Grace—or should I say Your Majesty?”
“Yes,” said Bessie, laughing suddenly, “say both.”
The man rose from the table, laid down his pen and bowed.
“You speak in a strange way,” Bessie told him.
“That is because English is not my native tongue. I am Her Majesty’s French secretary, Your Majesty.”
Bessie laughed again. “What is your name?”
“Jacques Nau.”
“That’s a strange name, not like Bessie.”
“Not like Bessie at all.”
“Still,” said Bessie, “we can’t all be called Bessie.”
“I do not think the name would suit me as well as it suits you.”
Everything he said seemed to Bessie extraordinarily funny. He was less like a grown-up person than anyone she knew.
“What are you writing?” she asked.
“Letters for the Queen.”
“You must be clever.”
“Very, very clever,” he assured her.
Bessie suddenly lost interest in him and went to the window. She wanted to see if the rain had stopped.
“I could then go out on my pony.” She threw the words over her shoulder.
“Has the rain stopped?” he asked.
She shook her head and knelt on the window seat. The sky was lowering and the rivers looked swollen. She did not look around but she could hear from the scratching of his pen that the man with the strange name had returned to his work. She liked him for not telling her to run away. He made her feel that she was not a foolish child, but a grown-up person whose desire to ride or look out of windows was as necessary to her as it was for him to write the Queen’s letters.
She was content to kneel, watching the rain, listening to the scratch of his pen.
Bessie forgot him as she knelt there. She was imagining that she had four little friends and they were all named Bessie. She had to give them nicknames as the Queen had given her Marys. “Seton, Beaton, Livy and Flem . . . ” she whispered to herself. And she saw herself as their leader. They sailed on a great ship to France, and when they arrived everybody was very pleased to see them.
Suddenly she saw a party of riders coming toward the castle. She stared; they must be very wet. Ought she to go and tell Eleanor or one of the maids that visitors were coming this way?
A sudden panic came to her. What if Grandmother Bess were among those travelers? She was very still, watching; and thus she remained for fully ten minutes. By that time her fears were confirmed. That was Grandmother Bess, and the respite was over.
Bessie now remembered tasks uncompleted. Her Latin exercise was not done. How fortunate that the Queen had helped her with her tapestry. But what if Grandmother Bess summoned her to her presence at once, demanding to see the finished exercise?
Tears welled up into Bessie’s eyes. Grandmother had a hard hand and, although she said it grieved her to punish Bessie more than the blows hurt Bessie, that was hard to believe.
The secretary must have heard the sounds of arrival for, turning suddenly, she found him standing behind her.
He said: “Ha, so the Countess is returning with friends. Things will not now be quite as they have been, my little Bessie.” He said her name as though there were several e’s at the end of it instead of one. Bessie liked the sound of it but it could not comfort her now.
He had noticed the tears in her eyes, for he said: “Why, little one, you are crying.”
Because his voice was gentle the tears flowed the faster. He lifted her up, carried her to the table and sat her on his knee.
“Now tell the funny Frenchman,” he said, wiping away the tears.
So Bessie told him. “It takes hours and hours . . . and I have done none of it . . . .”
He listened carefully, then looked very thoughtful. Bessie stared intently at his face, noticing how dark his eyes were and his skin, and that his lashes and brows were thick and black.
Suddenly he clapped his hands and said: “I have it.”
“Yes . . . yes?” she cried impatiently.
“Go and bring the exercise to me.”
Bessie slipped to the ground and went to the little table in the corner of the room which the Queen had said was hers, and opening the drawer took out the exercise.
The Frenchman put his head on one side; he laughed showing very white teeth, and looked so funny that Bessie was laughing too, although an occasional sob escaped her.
“We will a miracle do,” he said and, picking up his pen, he completed the exercise as though he did not have to think at all.
Bessie stared at him in wonder. “Is it right?” she asked.
“Your grandmother herself could not do better.”
“Let me see.” Bessie held the paper close to her face and studied it. It looked right; she could not be sure of course; but at least Grandmother would not whip her for being idle.
“Listen,” said the Frenchman. “They are arriving now. Copy out your exercise and when your grandmother asks for it you must not tell her who helped you.”
Bessie shook her head emphatically. “Can you always do it like that?” she asked.
He snapped his fingers. “Like that!” he said.
Bessie’s eyes were full of speculation. He laughed. “Next time,” he said, “do not cry. Come to me.”
There were shouts from below. There was bustle everywhere. The peaceful atmosphere of the castle was shattered. There was no doubt now that the Countess of Shrewsbury had come home.
Bessie hesitated and then flung her arms about the Frenchman’s neck and kissed him. She was happy because she knew that she had a new friend, and it was somehow wonderful because she had found him at precisely that hour when her grandmother had come home.
HAD BESSIE KNOWN IT, her grandmother’s thoughts were far from Latin exercises. As soon as she had settled her important guests into the castle and harried her servants into preparing a banquet worthy of them, she made her way to Mary’s apartments and asked her permission to see her.
Mary received her at once, asked if she had had a pleasant change and told her how sorry she was that she had been caught by the inclement weather.
Bess shrugged aside the weather. A wetting never hurt anyone, she was sure. Indeed, thought Mary, she looks more energetic than ever, and so triumphant that something important surely must have taken place. So little excitement was happening to her that Mary longed to hear Bess’s news, and said so.
“Such news, Your Majesty, that I could hardly wait to reach Sheffield to ask your help and advice.”
Mary could not help smiling. She was sure that Bess only wished her to confirm the wisdom of what she had decided to do. That was what Bess would call taking advice—because advice was something she would never take from anyone.
“It is my foolish daughter. What does Your Majesty think! The child has fallen in love . . . and so unwisely. I am torn in two. It is such a pleasure to see her happiness, but I am, alas, so fearful for her.”
“You mean Elizabeth?”
“Elizabeth, yes. Your Majesty will see the change in her. She is quite different from the girl who left Sheffield with me. She has fallen in love with Lennox. Charles Stuart, if you please. I said to her: ‘You foolish girl . . . what can come of such a match?’”
Mary was silent. Her father-in-law, the Earl of Lennox, who was father of this young man, had hated her. He had called for her blood, believing her to have been involved in the murder of his son, Lord Darnley. But that Earl was dead now, and his wife, Margaret, was of a gentler nature and she would know that, whatever else Mary was capable of, it was not murder.
She was aware that Bess was watching her covertly. “What can I do?” she moaned. “May I implore Your Majesty’s help?”
“I would help you with all my heart, if it were in my power to do so,” said Mary. “But I fear Elizabeth would never agree to the match, and you know it would be necessary to have her consent since, if Elizabeth died without heirs and I and my son followed her to the grave, young Lennox would be considered by some to be the heir of England.”
Bess’s eyes were sparkling, so she hastily covered them and murmured: “My foolish child. My poor Elizabeth!”
Then she sighed deeply and said: “May I bring the young people to you, and the Countess with them? They want to tell you themselves how much they love each other, how desolate they will be for the rest of their lives if cruel fate should part them.”
“I should be happy to receive them.”
“And, Your Majesty, will you help me to comfort these poor young people?”
“If they truly love and are to be parted, none of us will be able to comfort them.”
“I continually ask myself whether a way can be found out of this trouble.”
“There are only two ways open for them,” answered Mary. “They must separate and live with their unhappiness; or marry and face whatever punishment Elizabeth thinks they deserve.”
“I cannot bear to think of their misery. I almost believe that . . . ” Bess looked cautiously at Mary. Then she sighed. “But I will bring them to you, and you may judge of their love.”
“Bring them with all speed,” said Mary. “I long to see them.”
WHEN MARY SAW the young people together, she had no doubt of their love. She was very sorry for them, and wished that she had the power of Elizabeth to grant them their wish.
Margaret Lennox lingered when the others had left with Bess, and Mary guessed that the Countess had told them that she wished to speak with her in private.
When the door had closed and they were alone, Margaret said: “I have news for Your Majesty. I have been with George Douglas who is awaiting the opportunity to bring my grandson—your son—out of Scotland. He has a ship in readiness which will carry the boy to Spain.”
Mary clasped her hands. “I pray it may succeed. My little boy is constantly in my thoughts. I fear for his safety while he is in the hands of such men.”
Although Margaret Lennox had been loud in her condemnation of Mary during her husband’s lifetime when she had deeply mourned the death of Darnley, she had always been inclined to doubt Mary’s complicity in the murder; now she was certain of Mary’s innocence and wanted to make amends for the accusations of the past. She had believed Mary, a mother herself, would understand her grief at Darnley’s death. She was certain of that now. Mary was ready to trust her and, when she saw Mary’s anguish on account of her son, it was clearly ridiculous to imagine that such a gentle, loving woman could have taken part in that cold-blooded murder.
So now Margaret had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the plot to remove young James from Scotland and carry him off to Spain. James was Mary’s son but he was also her grandson, and the child’s plight was therefore of deepest concern to them both.
“The poor child, in Morton’s hands, left to the care of that odious Buchanan!” said Margaret with a shiver. “I have provided Douglas with money . . . the King of Spain is prepared to receive the boy. It is now only a matter of waiting for an opportunity to rescue him.”
They talked for a long time of this plan, and at length the Countess said: “What think you of this love between my son and Elizabeth Cavendish?”
“I think that it is indeed love on the part of the two young people.”
“I am inclined to say to them: Marry, and face the consequences after. It is rarely that one sees such love among people of the nobility. Marriages are arranged for them; they miss that ecstasy which is so sweet.”
Mary thought of her marriage with François. No ecstasy there. She had briefly loved Darnley, until he had killed her love with his unworthiness; as for Bothwell . . . that was a mad, all-consuming passion. It had brought her brief ecstasy and these dreary years of imprisonment. Yet she knew that if she had to choose again, she would choose Bothwell.
“If I were in their places . . . ” she began.
The Countess of Lennox looked at her swiftly: “Your Majesty would choose love, I know. There is too little love in the world. I believe, if these young people had the support of myself, of the Countess of Shrewsbury and Your Majesty, they would not hesitate.”
“What of the Earl?”
“Oh, you know how the Countess manages matters in this household. She will not have told him as yet.”
“He would never agree to go against his Queen’s wishes. He would ask her permission for them to marry.”
“To do that would be an end to their hopes. Elizabeth would never consent.”
“Then,” said Mary, “if they wish to marry, they should do so and tell Elizabeth afterward. If their love is deep enough they will think it well worthwhile to accept whatever punishment she may inflict.”
A few days later Elizabeth Cavendish and Charles Stuart, Earl of Lennox, were married.
QUEEN ELIZABETH was with Lord Burleigh and the Earl of Leicester when the news of the marriage was brought to her. Her face grew purple with indignation.
“What’s this!” she cried. “Lennox married to that girl Cavendish! Lennox! What madness is this? This is the work of Bess of Hardwick. I tell you there is no holding that ambitious woman. So she would marry her daughter to Lennox, would she! And do it before I have time to stop her!”
“It seems, Your Majesty,” murmured Burleigh, “that others were in the plot. The bridegroom’s mother is not guiltless, and since this intrigue took place at Sheffield Castle doubtless one other had a hand in it.”
“Meddling women!” snapped Elizabeth. “I’ll teach them to defy me. They shall all be lodged in the Tower.”
“Your Majesty, to bring the Queen of Scotland to the Tower might be hazardous,” put in Leicester. “In the first place attempts might be made to rescue her during the journey; and in the second if she were lodged in London her case would be brought more conspicuously to the notice of the people. In the Tower she would indeed be your prisoner; in Sheffield Castle she might still be called your guest.”
“You are right, Robert, but think not that I shall allow the Shrewsbury and Lennox women to defy me. Let them be made prisoners without a moment’s delay, and have them brought to the Tower.”
“Your Majesty speaks with your usual wisdom,” said Burleigh.
And Leicester bowed his head in adoring agreement.
That day guards were sent to Sheffield to bring the two Countesses to London and the Tower.
SO THE INDIGNANT BESS and the Countess of Lennox were taken as prisoners from Sheffield Castle.
There was a subdued atmosphere there after they had left. The happiness of the married lovers was muted, for they feared that they had brought grave trouble to their mothers; Mary sat with her friends and they worked for hours at their tapestry, talking of that event which had led to the departure of the two Countesses, wondering how they fared in their prison at the Tower.
Mary said that they would send the exquisite tapestry which they had worked to Elizabeth, who was so notoriously greedy for gifts, in the hope that she might be softened toward her three prisoners—the two in the Tower and the one in Sheffield Castle.
Little Bessie Pierpont was happy, because there was now no need to worry about her daily tasks. She could ride and play and take her lessons and listen to the Queen’s stories of her childhood. But Bessie was finding that the greatest pleasure she enjoyed was in the company of her new friend, Monsieur Nau, who was teaching her to speak French; and it was amazing how quickly she learned to prattle in that language. Never had any lesson been such fun as learning French. Bessie’s only sadness during those months was when Monsieur Jacques was too busy to be with her.
“The castle is a different place without the Countess,” said Seton to Andrew Beaton.
“Do you never grow tired of your prison here?” he asked.
“I shall never grow tired of serving the Queen,” she answered.
“Yet you should have a life of your own,” he told her.
She turned away from his ardent gaze. Seton did not wish him to say all that she knew he was feeling; she distrusted her own emotions too. She had vowed to serve the Queen as long as she was needed. She was still needed. There was no time, Seton assured herself, to think of anything but serving the Queen.
Mary often sighed for Buxton.
“It is the only place in England where I wish to be,” she said. “I wonder if I shall be allowed to pay another visit to the baths.”
She was embroidering a nightcap in colorful silks; she used green and gold silks, for she had heard that Elizabeth was fond of such colors. She had already made two others in delicate coloring and she intended to send these to Elizabeth with a request that she might visit Buxton.
As soon as the nightcaps were completed Mary sent them to the French ambassador, asking him to present them to Elizabeth. When Elizabeth saw them she grunted. She was not very eager for such things; she much preferred jewels to be worn by day, or furniture and tapestry which could be admired by many.
Moreover she did not believe that it was wise of her to accept gifts from the Queen of Scots, and she told the French ambassador that such acceptance could become a political matter and she feared the disapproval of her ministers.
The French ambassador knew this to be false, and replied that the Queen of Scots merely wished to show her goodwill.
“Well then,” retorted Elizabeth, “I will take them, but I pray you tell the Queen of Scots that as I have been some years longer in this world than she has, I have learned that people are accustomed to receive with both hands, but to give only with one finger.”
This was meant to convey that Mary was asking for favors in return for her nightcaps—presents which Elizabeth was not really eager to accept.
But when she tried on the nightcaps she did find them becoming and she thought that, as Mary was so eager to visit Buxton, she did not see why she should not go, providing a strong enough guard conducted her there.
XV
Buxton, Chatsworth and Sheffield
WHAT A PLEASURE IT WAS to be once more at Buxton.
“I feel better as soon as I arrive in this place,” Mary declared.
The Earl was inclined to relax restrictions. He had brought certain of the servants with him from Sheffield and among these was Eleanor Britton. Life was serene and pleasant with the Countess in the Tower.
The waters had their usual beneficial effect and Mary’s health improved accordingly. She visited Poole’s Hole once more and enjoyed the outing.
“If only I could stay at Buxton,” she told Seton, “I am sure I should quickly recover my health and feel young again.”
One day the Earl came to her apartments in Low Buxton in a state of some excitement.
“Your Majesty, we have an eminent visitor at Buxton who I feel sure is here solely because Your Majesty has come to take the waters.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Lord Burleigh himself.”
“Lord Burleigh! Then, depend upon it, he comes on Queen Elizabeth’s orders.”
“I hope it is not to spy on us.”
“Ah, you think it may be so?”
“I cannot think of any other reason.”
Poor Shrewsbury! He might feel relieved to be rid of Bess but he was at a loss without her. Mary imagined how differently Bess would have received the news of Burleigh’s presence. She would have been stimulated by the thought of conflict, whereas poor Shrewsbury felt he had yet another burden added to those which were already too heavy.
When Burleigh called on the Queen of Scots, Mary received him cautiously. She knew he had been one of her most bitter enemies at the Court of Elizabeth, and she did not believe he could suddenly have become her friend.
Burleigh looked wan and walked with even more difficulty than he had before.
“You are hoping to derive benefits from the waters?” the Queen asked sympathetically.
“Yes, Your Majesty. I suffer acutely from gout and my feet have always troubled me.”
“Then I trust you find comfort from the water, as I do.”
“Your Majesty’s health has improved, I hope, since you have been here?”
Mary assured him that it had, but she knew he had not come here to inquire about her health.
Later she discovered, through Shrewsbury, that Elizabeth’s minister, who was the sternest of Protestants, had been making inquiries as to how many visitors she received while at Buxton. He was afraid that, under less restraint as she must necessarily be at Buxton in contrast to Sheffield, certain members of the Catholic nobility might have access to her. Burleigh lived in terror of another Catholic rising.
THE DAYS PASSED PLEASANTLY. It was good to hear Mary’s lighthearted laughter; often she played the lute and sang. Buxton was so good for her. The mountain air was sharp but invigorating and there was shelter in the valley from the bleak winds which buffeted Sheffield Castle.
Burleigh called often. He was in fact constantly on the alert. When he visited the Queen he tried to startle her with sly questions; she enjoyed arousing his suspicions and then letting him discover that there was nothing in them; but all the same these contacts meant that each was discovering a new respect for the other. It was impossible for Mary not to respect the minister’s single-minded loyalty to his Queen, just as it was impossible for Burleigh not to be affected by the charm of Mary. Thus, in spite of the fact that they must be cautious of each other, a form of friendship grew between them.
This pleasant life might have gone on throughout the season, but news was brought to Elizabeth that Burleigh was at Buxton and calling on the Queen of Scots.
Elizabeth was incensed because Burleigh had gone to the baths without asking her consent; and that, as he had been there some time, must have paid many calls on the Queen of Scots.
He was recalled at once and as soon as he came into the presence of his royal mistress she berated him for what she pleased to call his infidelity.
“So, sir,” she cried, “you have been visiting the Queen of Scots, paying compliments to the fair lady, I’ll warrant.”
“I was there on Your Majesty’s business,” began Burleigh.
“Is that so, William Cecil! Is it my business then to play the gallant and compliment the Queen of Scots on her beautiful eyes?”
“But I did not pay such compliments . . . .”
“Did you not! Then were her eyes not beautiful enough to warrant the compliment?”
The answer must be the expected one: “Having seen Your Majesty’s eyes, no others could seem beautiful.”
“H’m!” said the Queen. “You’re another Norfolk, it seems. I trust you remember, sir, what happened to him.”
“I do, Your Majesty.”
“Look to it that it does not happen to you!”
“If I deserved such a fate, which I should do if I failed to serve my own Sovereign Lady Elizabeth with all my heart, I should welcome it,” answered Burleigh with dignity. “Since I could never deserve it, I do not fear it.”
Elizabeth liked a bold answer and she softened at once. She had never really doubted the loyalty of this good friend; she merely feared that he might have found the company of the Queen of Scots entrancing, as it was clear so many men did.
“Go to then,” she said. “And do not leave us again. We need you here beside us.”
Burleigh bowed; he still looked a little ruffled.
Was he a little bewitched by that fascinating woman? Elizabeth wondered.
She said angrily: “She shall not remain at Buxton. I fear she enjoys too much freedom there. Let her return to Chatsworth; that is nearby.” She looked shrewdly at Cecil. “Is she as beautiful as reports say?” she demanded suddenly, and there was a note in her voice which was pleading with him to say that she was not.
“The Queen of Scots is fair enough,” answered Burleigh. He was preparing the necessary remark to follow, when Elizabeth held up a hand.
“Mayhap I should go to see her for myself,” she said. “It is a notion which pleases me. She shall go to Chatsworth. If I went to Buxton to take the waters, I could ride to Chatsworth in disguise. A lady seeking a night’s shelter! Thus I could see this beauty for myself. I could exchange words with her. I like the idea.”
She evidently did, for she mentioned it to certain of her women, and they amused themselves by picturing the meeting.
“Then,” said Elizabeth, “I shall compare her face and figure with my own—which I have always wished to do.”
“Your Majesty need not go to Chatsworth to make the comparison,” she was told. “All who set eyes on the Queen of Scots say that she has a pleasant mien, but beside Your Majesty she is as the moon to the sun.”
“Then perhaps the journey would not be necessary,” replied Elizabeth with a yawn.
She had made up her mind that she would never look at Mary. In moments of truth she knew the answer to the question, Who is the fairer, she or I? which her desire for flattery and her jealousy of her rival forced her to ask.
She would never allow herself to face that truth, for while she had never seen Mary she could go on believing what her courtiers were so eager to tell her.
THERE WAS EXCITEMENT at Chatsworth when the rumor reached Mary that Queen Elizabeth was going to visit her in the disguise of a gentlewoman.
Mary had been feeling depressed because she had had to leave Buxton. Moreover she had heard from George Douglas that those who were concerned with him in the plot to rescue her son from Morton and Buchanan had decided it would be too dangerous to continue. The Countess of Lennox, who had been in the conspiracy, was now in the Tower, and it might well be that some intelligence had reached Elizabeth of their intention, and the imprisonment of the Countess was due to the part she had taken in the plot—not, as the English Queen would wish it to be believed, because of the marriage of her son. George could not act without friends; therefore this matter would have to be shelved.
Then came the startling news that Queen Elizabeth was planning to visit Chatsworth in disguise.
Mary excitedly gathered her women about her. Seton should do her hair. Which gown should she wear? She had very few jewels but they would have to make do with what she had.
Seton said: “She will come in her jewels and rich garments, depend upon it. But never fear, we shall show her that you would be more beautiful in sackcloth than she is in cloth of gold.”
Mary laughed. “That is not important, Seton. All that matters is that at last I shall speak to her. I am certain that when we are face-to-face I shall make her understand.”
For weeks they waited.
But Elizabeth did not come to Chatsworth.
Elizabeth was never at ease when Mary was at Chatsworth. She feared that the Queen enjoyed too much freedom there, and after a few months Mary found herself back in Sheffield Castle.
Bess had rejoined the household. She seemed none the worse for the months she had spent in the Tower, apart from a smoldering anger at the indignity she had been obliged to suffer.
The atmosphere of the household changed as soon as she entered it. She stormed through the servants’ quarters, discovering what had been left undone.
“It is as though a sharp wind blows through the house,” said Mary to Seton.
Bess sat with Mary and worked with her on her tapestry—the two of them alone so that, said Bess, they could talk at their ease; and as Bess had had an interview with Elizabeth, Mary was eager to hear what she had to say.
“She showed her displeasure at first,” Bess told her. “But it did not last. There is a certain bond between us which she cannot ignore. When I was released from the Tower and she sent for me she accused me of overweening ambition. I admitted to this and she burst out laughing. She knew full well that my ambition matches her own. I was bold enough to say to her: ‘If Your Majesty had been born plain Bess of Hardwick instead of a King’s daughter, you would have sought means of making good marriages for your children—had you borne them.’”
“And did she agree?”
“Not in so many words, but her mood changed toward me and we talked of old times.”
“It seems,” said Mary wistfully, “that if one can only talk with her, she is ready to see reason.”
“She will always see what she wants to see.”
“Do you think she has a sense of justice?”
That made Bess laugh. “I see into her mind without effort,” she boasted. “The virgin Queen; do you believe it?”
“I have no reason to do otherwise.”
“Ha! You should see her with Leicester. There are times when she cannot keep her hands from him . . . smoothing his hair, patting his arm. That speaks clearly enough to me. She has had several children . . . not only by Leicester.”
“But this is impossible!”
“Impossible is a word Elizabeth does not know. Why, has Your Majesty never heard of all the romping with Thomas Seymour? Then she was little more than a girl. They say there was a child as a result of that. Oh yes, they do, and I for one believe it. And what she felt for Seymour is nothing compared with her passion for Leicester. He’s her husband . . . without benefit of clergy, of course. Our Elizabeth does not want a man to share her throne . . . only her bed.”
