Текст книги "The Captive Queen of Scots "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
Mary was scandalized. Then she realized how angry Bess was. Elizabeth had had her sent to the Tower, and Bess would not forgive such insult in a hurry. There was nothing she could do to take her revenge on Elizabeth—except remember all the scandal she had ever heard of her and repeat it to the Queen who, like herself, had very little for which to thank the Queen of England.
THE EARL OF SHREWSBURY came to Mary’s apartments one day and told her that he had news which he thought would cheer her.
Bothwell, incarcerated in the Castle of Malmoë, was grievously sick of the dropsy, and because he feared that his life was nearing its end he had written a confession in which he exonerated Mary from the murder of Darnley.
He had written: “The Bastard Moray began, Morton drew, and I wove the web of this murder.” And he went on to say that Mary was completely innocent of it.
When he had given her this news Shrewsbury left Mary who felt so moved that she went to her bed and lay there. Memories came vividly back to her. She could not imagine Bothwell sick unto death. She thought of their brief and stormy life together and she wept for them both; yet she rejoiced that in his last hours he should remember her and seek to do what was right. She had always known that he was not wholly wicked. He had been blessed—or cursed—with twice the vitality of most men. He had been guilty of so much; all his life, rough Borderer that he was, he had taken what he wanted without thought of the consequences. It had seemed that the rape of a Queen meant no more to him than that of a shepherdess in the Border country of his enemies; yet it could not have been so, for when the pains of death were on him, he remembered her with tenderness.
She rose from her bed and went to her prie-Dieu, where she prayed for his soul; and she gave thanks that he had at the end thought kindly enough of her to write his confession.
It seemed however that Bothwell was indestructible, for he recovered from his sickness. But the confession had been made.
WITH THE COMING OF SUMMER the French ambassador persuaded Elizabeth to allow Mary to visit Buxton once more, and under such pressure Elizabeth agreed.
Mary had been deriving her usual benefit from the Spa and was hoping to spend the whole season at Shrewsbury’s Low Buxton, when an event at the English Court resulted in her stay there being brought to an abrupt end.
Leicester had been complaining to Elizabeth that he was unwell, and Elizabeth had been concerned about the health of her favorite.
She had sent him her own physician and visited him herself to see how he was progressing.
On her arrival a mournful Leicester thanked her for her solicitude and told her that her presence did him more good than anything else.
Gratified always to receive his compliments, she patted his cheek and told him that he must get well quickly, for her Court was the poorer for his absence. There was a sharpness in her eyes, though, for Leicester’s amorous adventures with other women had always annoyed her. She understood that, since she would not marry him herself, she must expect these wanderings; yet she believed that she could call him back to her without the slightest difficulty; and she enjoyed showing her power not only over his mistresses but over Leicester himself.
Then came the shock.
“My doctors have ordered me to drink the waters of Buxton and use the baths for twenty days. They tell me that if I do this—and only if I do—I can expect to recover.”
Buxton! thought Elizabeth. Was not the Queen of Scots at Buxton?
Her eyes were narrowed, her lips tight. One heard such stories of the charm of that woman. What was Leicester after? She was on the point of curtly ordering him to remain where he was but, glancing at him she saw that he did look wan. What if it were true that he needed the Buxton waters?
Seeing that he was waiting with some trepidation for her reaction, she smiled suddenly. “Well, my dear Robert,” she said, “if those Buxton waters are the cure you need, then you must have them. But we shall be loath to see you go so far from us.”
“’Tis but for twenty days, beloved!”
“H’m! If you linger longer, I myself may take a trip to Buxton to see if it is only the waters of which you are in need.”
When Elizabeth left him she sent for a messenger. An order was to be dispatched at once to Shrewsbury at Low Buxton. The Queen of Scots was to be removed to Tutbury Castle without delay.
“TUTBURY!” cried Mary in dismay, staring at the Earl.
“I fear so. The order of Her Majesty.”
“Not Tutbury. Sheffield is uncomfortable enough, but I shall die if I have to return to Tutbury.”
Shrewsbury had no wish to return to Tutbury either.
“I will write immediately to Walsingham,” he said, “and tell him that Tutbury is in such a state of ill repair that it is impossible for my household to live there at this time. But I fear we must leave Buxton.”
“Before my cure is finished!” murmured Mary.
“But you would prefer to go to Sheffield rather than Tutbury, and that is all we can hope for.”
Shrewsbury wrote to Walsingham who, after consulting Elizabeth, replied that the Queen of Scots was to be removed from Buxton and that Shrewsbury should conduct her to Sheffield Castle without delay.
So back to Sheffield went Mary and her guards.
Realizing Elizabeth’s suspicions and having learned that the Queen of Scots had been hustled from Buxton, Leicester thought it advisable to delay his visit to the Spa for a few weeks and explain his motives to the Queen before proceeding there.
Walking with the aid of a stick, he came into the Queen’s presence and managed to look so sickly that Elizabeth, whose feelings for him went deeper than those she felt for anyone else, was alarmed.
“Why Robert,” she said, “you are indeed ill.”
As he took her hand and kissed it she dismissed the women who were with her that she might talk in secret with her Robert.
“I have had disturbed nights since our last meeting, because I feared that I had not been entirely truthful to my adored Queen and mistress.”
“What have you been meddling in now, Robert?”
“I was about to meddle . . . on your behalf, of course. It is true that my doctors advised me to take the Buxton waters, but there is another reason why I wished to go there. Does Your Majesty remember who was there until you sent her away?”
“I remember.”
“My dearest love, I am afraid that where that woman is there will also be intrigue . . . dangerous intrigue which threatens the one whom I live to serve. These plans to marry her to Don Jon are not over. I believe that the greater freedom she is allowed to enjoy at Buxton may be an encouragement to conspirators.”
“And what do you propose to do about that?”
“To go to Buxton. To be the guest of the Shrewsburys. To keep my eyes and ears alert.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Well, Robert, you are one whom I would always trust to serve me well. There are so many bonds binding us.”
Leicester looked into her face and took both her hands. She was remembering how, before she was Queen of England, he had brought her gold and offered himself to fight in her cause should it be necessary to fight. She remembered the early days of her reign when she had believed she would marry him. And she would have done so but for the mysterious death of Amy Robsart. She could never think of that affair without a shudder. It had so nearly destroyed them both. They knew too much of each other not to work together. He might have other motives in wishing to meet the Queen of Scots, but he would never betray Elizabeth while she lived.
Leicester was thinking the same. He admired Elizabeth beyond anyone else on earth. He had good reason to respect her shrewd brain. He would be beside her while she lived; but if she were to die suddenly—a fate which could overtake any—and there was a new ruler on the throne, that ruler could well be the Queen of Scots.
He wished to ingratiate himself with Mary while he worked for Elizabeth. If he could find evidence to bring Mary to the block, he would do so. But if he could not, and if she must live, he wanted her to think of him as her friend. Thus he determined to make sure of a place in the sun in either camp.
“Robert,” cried Elizabeth, “you must go to Buxton. You need those baths. I will give Mary permission to return to Buxton to continue with her cure. I will also write to the Shrewsburys, telling them to expect you, for if you are to spy on Mary you will need to be under the same roof. There! Then you shall come and tell me if all the reports of her beauty are true. I shall want exact details of how she looks and what she wears.”
Robert smiled. He was already composing the compliments he would pay Elizabeth when he returned from his visit to Mary.
When he had left her, Elizabeth wrote to the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury. They must treat the Earl of Leicester as they would treat her, for all that was done to him was done to herself. “He is another ourself,” she wrote indulgently.
There were still times when she could be indiscreet through love of Leicester.
IT WAS GRATIFYING to be back at Low Buxton. For the first few days Mary indulged in the pleasure which she found in this place; her health improved and there was gaiety in her apartments. She did wonder at the capricious behavior of Elizabeth in whisking her away and then allowing her to return.
Then Bess broke the news that Leicester was coming to Low Buxton.
“He has to take the waters on account of his health,” she said. “It seems strange to me that he should pay his visit while Your Majesty is here. You will have a chance of assessing the charm of this man who, rumor has it, has fathered several children on the Queen.”
Mary looked startled but Bess went on: “Oh, there is none to hear me. And if such a rumor were repeated, Elizabeth would never dare accuse me of uttering it. Such matters are best kept dark.”
“She could take her revenge by accusing you of something else.”
Bess snapped her fingers. She had changed since her stay in the Tower. Her dignity had certainly been ruffled; and there was one other event which had increased her pride; that was the birth of her granddaughter, Arabella Stuart, to Elizabeth and Charles whose marriage had been the cause of her imprisonment. Bess had a granddaughter—her own flesh and blood—who was in the line of succession to the throne; it was something she could not forget. Her Arabella, she thought, though she was wise enough not to give voice to this thought, was more royal than Queen Elizabeth, for the child was undoubtedly legitimate; and could Henry VIII’s marriage to Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn, be really accepted as legal? Bess believed that little Arabella might well one day be Queen. Why not? She had an indefatigable grandmother to scheme for her.
So, in the presence of Mary, she could snap her fingers at Elizabeth, and she had no compunction in recalling all the scandalous gossip she had ever heard about her.
Leicester arrived in due course at Low Buxton, and on the orders of Elizabeth the Shrewsburys treated him with the respect due to royalty.
When he was brought to Mary, they assessed each other, and Mary was immediately aware of the charm which Elizabeth had found so potent, though it had no effect on her. She was certain that Leicester was an enemy. As for Leicester, he was struck by the beauty of Mary and wistfully thought how pleasant it would have been if the attempt to marry her had been successful.
Mary was pale and often moved with difficulty; the years of imprisonment in comfortless castles had robbed her of her youth, yet her beauty was indestructible. The contours of her face were perfect, although the flesh had fallen away from the bones; the long eyes were lovely although there were shadows beneath them; and all her movements were graceful in spite of rheumatism.
There is still time, thought Leicester, to take her away and restore her to that glowing beauty which must once have been hers.
He would tell Elizabeth of the shadows under her eyes, of her loss of flesh, of her rheumatism. That would please the jealous creature and do him no harm.
Meanwhile he sought to charm the Queen of Scots. This was not so easy as charming Elizabeth. There had been too many to love this woman, not for her crown but for herself. She lacked Elizabeth’s political shrewdness certainly, but she had learned not deliberately to blind herself to the motives of men who came to court her.
He talked often with her, during the stay at Low Buxton, but she was always aloof. He tried to discover how firm was the basis of those rumors which said Don Jon of Austria was to be her husband. He implied that he was ready to work in her cause. But she did not trust him. She played a skillful game of prevarication with him which angered him, and he decided that he could do no good by lingering at Low Buxton.
He curtailed his visit, declaring that the baths were less beneficial than he had hoped, and he went away angry, but not before he had had a private talk with the Earl.
The health of the Queen of Scots was clearly not good, he said. Queen Elizabeth would be disturbed when she heard of this and he was going to ask that a certain physician be sent who he was sure would quickly cure Mary of her ills.
Shrewsbury thanked the Earl for his kindness and trusted he would take a good report to Elizabeth of the hospitality he had received at Low Buxton.
“Have no fear,” Leicester told him. “You could not have made a guest more welcome if that guest had been Elizabeth herself.”
So he left Buxton pondering. The Queen of Scots would not accept him as a friend. He knew what sort of physician he would send to her.
MARY HAD RETURNED with the Shrewsburys and her little court and guards to Sheffield when Leicester’s physician arrived.
Bess and her husband were apprehensive when they discovered that he was an Italian named Julio Borgarucci.
Bess took him to the apartment which had been prepared for him and then hurried to the Earl.
“Are you thinking the same as I am?” she asked.
“An Italian!” murmured the Earl. “We know what they are noted for.”
“I fancy I have heard of this man. He is not so much a physician as a professional poisoner.”
“Do you think he comes on the command of the Queen?”
“Who knows? Leicester is one of those who believe they can act first and ask the Queen’s permission afterward.”
“I’ll not have my prisoner poisoned under my roof.”
“Ah, Shrewsbury, you are truly vehement for once! But I had forgotten—she is more than your prisoner, is she not?”
“She is the Queen of Scotland.”
“Your beloved Queen of Scotland! You must protect her at all costs . . . against Leicester’s Italian . . . against Elizabeth herself, if this man comes by her command.”
“I believe, my dear Bess, that you feel in this manner as I do. You would never agree that such a foul deed should be done to a helpless woman in our care.”
Bess nodded; but she was not so sure. She kept thinking of her granddaughter, little Arabella Stuart. Since the birth of this child, Bess could not stop thinking of the bright possibility of her wearing the crown. The fewer to stand before her in the line of succession the better; consequently Bess had felt less kindly toward the Queen of Scots since the birth of Arabella. Not that she showed this; not that she entirely admitted the fact to herself; but it was there . . . lurking at the back of her mind, and the advent of Julio Borgarucci to Sheffield could only renew it.
But Shrewsbury could be determined when he made up his mind. He would not allow Mary to eat any food which was not prepared by her own faithful servants. He dropped hints to Seton who was doubly watchful; so no harm came to Mary through the visit of Borgarucci; and Shrewsbury seized an early opportunity to have the man sent from Sheffield.
How zealous he is to preserve Mary’s safety! thought Bess. Rarely have I seen Shrewsbury bestir himself so much.
She wondered then if he were in truth enamored of Mary. She did not greatly care if he were. All her thoughts were becoming more and more centered on the future of little Arabella.
SETON WAS PREOCCUPIED, Mary noticed, and she believed she knew the reason why. Andrew Beaton was continually seeking opportunities to be in her company; at first she had repulsed him; now she did not do so. But neither Seton nor Andrew Beaton behaved like two people in love.
Mary thought of them often. If Seton were in love she should marry and go away from here. This could be arranged. Andrew might go to Scotland or, if that was too dangerous, to France. Seton, like herself, thought Mary, had not thrived in these damp and drafty castles which had been their homes for so long. Seton suffered from pains in her limbs similar to those which affected Mary; and a few gray hairs were beginning to show. No one could live in this captivity and not show the effects of it. Mary thought with a start: In a few years’ time, if we go on like this, Seton and I will be old women.
It was characteristic of Mary that, although she herself was unable to escape, and although Seton was her dearest friend, she should consider Seton’s happiness rather than her own.
Seton must marry Andrew Beaton and she, Mary, would do all she possibly could to give them a chance of happiness.
She tackled Seton as they sat at their needlework alone.
“Seton, what of Andrew Beaton?”
A hot flush spread across Seton’s pale face. “What of him, Your Majesty?”
“I think he is in love with you. Are you with him?”
Seton shrugged her shoulders. “If I were, it would be of little consequence.”
“Of little consequence! Seton! What are you saying? I think love is of the greatest consequence. If you are in love with Andrew and he with you you should marry.”
“My family would never permit the match. You know Andrew is only a younger brother.”
“Nonsense!” cried Mary. “I do not believe you yourself are affected one little bit by such a consideration. The Beatons are a noble family. You are seeking excuses. And I tell you this, Seton, that if you decided to marry Andrew, I would, as far as I am able, bestow some title upon him which would make the Setons quickly change their opinion.”
Seton shook her head.
“Seton, you are not refusing Andrew on account of someone else?”
“No other man has asked me to marry him.”
“I did not mean a man. You have some foolish notion that your duty lies with your poor mistress.”
Seton turned to Mary and threw herself into her arms. “Do you think I could ever leave you?”
“Oh Seton, Seton, this is unlike you. You must not weep. My dearest friend, do you think I could be happy knowing that I had stood between you and your happiness?”
“My happiness is with you.”
“No, Seton. It is with Andrew. Do you think I am blind?”
“I have vowed to stay with you forever.”
“Such a vow can be broken.”
“It never can!” cried Seton vehemently.
“It is going to be. I am going to command you to break it.”
“It is not as simple as you think. I have taken a solemn and sacred vow to devote myself to a life of celibacy. This could never be broken.”
“It could be broken if you had a dispensation. We will send Andrew to his brother the Archbishop who is now in Paris, and ask him to tell us the best means of securing this dispensation. He can bring us new silks for our embroidery while he is there and perhaps some clothes. Seton, will you agree that I send for Andrew at once?”
Seton’s eyes were filled with tears. “How could I ever leave you?”
“But you love Andrew.”
“I love you both.”
“Then, my friend, you must leave me to decide for you.”
Mary then sent for Andrew Beaton and in the presence of Seton told him of the conversation which had taken place between them.
“Go to Paris, Andrew,” she said. “Come back with your brother’s advice on how this foolish friend of mine can be released from her folly.”
Andrew turned to Seton, and as she smiled he strode toward her and took her into his arms.
Mary stood watching their embrace, smiling tenderly, praying that Seton would now enjoy the happiness she deserved, wondering whether the future might not hold some similar joy for her.
VERY SOON after that interview Andrew Beaton set out for Paris. It soon became known throughout the castle that when he returned he and Seton would be married. Mary brought out all the materials which had been sent to her from France and there was activity in her apartments. Several of the women, with Mary in charge, were working on Seton’s wedding dress which was to be beautifully embroidered. Caps and sleeves were designed and stitched, and each day there was speculation as to whether this would be the one on which Andrew returned.
Seton looked younger every day, and Mary was sure that she had made the right decision for her. When she has children, Mary thought, she will thank me for insisting that she take a husband and renounce her foolish vow to serve me.
Yet Seton’s happiness was clouded because that friendship, which had lasted all their lives, would never be quite the same again after she was married. The Queen had been her first consideration for so long, and Seton wondered how Mary would fare without her.
So they stitched through the summer days until the coming of autumn; and the main topic of conversation was Seton’s coming wedding.
IT WAS A DULL AUTUMN DAY when the messenger came to Mary. She took the letters he brought and, when she read the contents of one of these, she sat as though stunned. She could not believe it. It was too cruel. It seemed to her then that all those who loved her were as unlucky as she was.
She wondered how she could tell Seton; yet she knew that she must be the one to break the news.
One of her women came in and asked her what ailed her, if there was aught she needed; she could say nothing, only shake her head.
The woman went to Seton and said: “I fear the Queen has had bad news. She is sitting at her table, but she seemed bewildered.”
“I will go to her,” said Seton, knowing that in the hour of disaster they belonged together. What will she do if I am no longer here? Seton asked herself. How can I ever be happy—even with Andrew—away from her?
Seton went to the Queen and laid an arm about her shoulders. Mary turned and looked up at her. “Oh, so it is you, Seton?”
“You have had bad news?”
Mary nodded.
“Do you wish to tell me, or shall I help you to your bed and bring cool scented kerchiefs to lay on your head?”
“I fear I must tell you, Seton, because it concerns you even as it does me.”
Seton said in a whisper which was only just audible, “It is Andrew?”
“My dearest Seton, what can I say to comfort you?”
“Tell me, please.”
“He is dead. He died of a fever when he was on his way home to us.”
Mary put the letter into Seton’s hand. Seton read it and let it flutter to the table. But Andrew had been so young, so full of health and vigor!
Mary stood up suddenly and the two of them clung together wordlessly.
Mary thought: She did not wish to choose between us, and now fate has made the choice.
THE YEARS WERE PASSING, each day so like another that Mary lost count of time. News came to her now and then. Her uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, had died—one more friend lost to her. George Douglas married at last—not his French heiress but a certain Lady Barery, a rich widow of Fifeshire, and he appeared to have settled down with her on her estates close to Lochleven. Willie was with him, she believed. They were always the Queen’s men; and if opportunity occurred for them to aid her, she knew they would seize it. Lady Lennox died suddenly and Queen Elizabeth took a marked interest in little Arabella Stuart. Mary had been allowed to go to Chatsworth and been brought back again to Sheffield; because of the continued strife in Scotland Mary trembled for the welfare of her son. There was a rumor that Elizabeth was trying to have him sent to London that she might marry him to his cousin, Arabella Stuart. But James remained in Scotland and, although he wrote to his mother, his letters were rarely allowed to reach her.
Little Bessie Pierpont was growing up to be rather a precocious girl; her interest in the French secretary had increased. They chattered together in French and neither seemed completely happy unless in the company of the other.
Occasionally Mary was allowed to visit the baths at Buxton, but Elizabeth invariably cut short her visits, with the result that she was hurried back to Chatsworth or Sheffield.
After so many years in the household of the Shrewsburys she almost felt like a member of the family, and some of the Countess’s daughters were her friends—in particular Elizabeth, who never forgot the part Mary played in her marriage, and as it was a most happy marriage she was full of gratitude to the Queen for helping to make it possible.
There were times when Mary forgot she was a captive and there would be music in her apartments. It was pleasant to see little Bessie Pierpont—not so little now—in a flounced dress, made by the Queen, dancing daintily with her partner. Very often Jacques Nau would join the company, and he and Bessie danced very prettily together. Young Arabella was sometimes present. She was not yet four years old but a lively little creature.
The Countess doted on the child and scarcely took her eyes from her; but she liked to see her in the company of the Queen of Scots.
With the coming of the year 1582 Mary realized with horror that it was thirteen years since she had first set foot in England. Thirteen years a prisoner! What hope was there now of her escape?
It was during this year that a malady struck Arabella’s mother, Lady Charles Lennox. Bess immediately took charge and brought all her skill and energy to the nursing of her daughter. Even this however could not save her, and soon after the beginning of her illness she died, leaving little four-year-old Arabella motherless.
A fierce emotion took possession of Bess of Hardwick at that time.
She vowed that little Arabella should not miss a mother’s care. Her grandmother would give her everything she needed. And more also.
DURING THE WINTER of that year and the next, Mary was stricken with sickness and many believed that her life was at an end. Her patient nurses, headed by Seton, however, were determined to save her life, and they did.
“But why?” Mary asked wearily. “See how the time is passing. I no longer hope for release.”
She asked for her mirror, and when she looked into it she saw that illness had ravaged her lovely face still further. Her thick hair was almost white; and it seemed to her that this change had come upon her suddenly. But of course it was not so. Although each day seemed long and empty, looking back it appeared that the last years had passed quickly because of their monotony. She had not realized how they had slipped away.
They had indeed taken her youth with them.
She lay in bed watching Seton whose rheumatism had become worse. She noticed afresh the gray in Seton’s hair and the newly formed lines on her face, and she thought: Seton is a reflection of myself. We have both grown old in captivity. I have lived more than forty years, and I was only twenty-five when I came to England!
She called to Seton then. “Bring me my wig,” she said, “the chestnut one.”
Seton did so, and put it on Mary’s head. Mary held up the mirror. “Now I feel young again. That is how my hair once looked. Seton, you too must hide these gray hairs. We are helpless prisoners and I doubt that we shall ever be aught else. But let us pretend that we are young and gay. Oh, Seton, you have suffered with me. We must pretend to be gay. It is the only way we can go on living.”
And they wept a little; Seton for Andrew Beaton, and Mary for Bothwell who had since died, driven mad, she had heard, by such long imprisonment. She thought of him—he who had gone his own way reveling in freedom, forced to live his life in a dreary prison. She had heard that he had dashed his head against a stone wall in an excess of melancholy. How tragic to contemplate what the years had done to them all! Poor mad Bothwell, who had once been the gay and ruthless brigand.
“He is dead—but he had confessed to the murder of Darnley and exonerated me before he died,” she whispered; and she would always remember it.
But he was gone forever and so were the days of her youth and gaiety.
But as she held up her mirror and saw the chestnut hair reflected there she had an illusion of youth; and she knew that she would never cease to hope, and that when some knight like George Douglas, Norfolk or Northumberland came to her she would go on believing he could rescue her from her prison.
THE YEARS DID NOT WORRY BESS. She was as sprightly as she had been when Mary had first come under her roof. Her voice was as loud and firm as ever, and she kept the household in order as she had always done.
When her granddaughter Arabella was at the castle she never let the child out of her sight. She herself supervised her lessons; she would not allow anyone else to do that. She it was who made the little girl conscious of her rank, and everyone in the castle said that little Arabella was the apple of the Countess’s eye.
Bess was brooding about the future of this favorite granddaughter one day when, walking past the Earl’s apartments, she saw Eleanor Britton emerging, and there was something about the demeanor of the woman that aroused her interest.
She was about to summon her, but she changed her mind and made her way instead to the Earl’s chamber.
Bess was not feeling very pleased with her husband at this time; he had been obstinate about some property which she had wished to present to one of her sons. Shrewsbury had stood out against this. He was weary, he said, of so much that was his, passing to the Cavendishes. He reminded her that, though they were her children, they were not his.
This was rebellion, and Bess expected obedience from husbands; she told herself that Shrewsbury was her least satisfactory husband and, although she knew she would eventually have her way, she was far from pleased that it should be necessary to enforce her will.
