Текст книги "The Captive Queen of Scots "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
“I have come to tell Your Majesty that I have had word from the Queen,” he replied. “She grants her permission for you to leave Tutbury for Chartley Castle.”
Mary clasped her hands together in delight.
“Oh, what a happy day this is!” she cried. “I will have preparations made at once.” She looked around the walls of the room. “And when I leave this place,” she added vehemently, “I hope never to see it again.”
Sir Amyas, his hands folded in his lap, stared bleakly at the dancers.
Mary was unaware of him; hope, which was never far from her thoughts, came springing back. Let me leave Tutbury, she thought, this place of evil omen; let me enjoy a little comfort, and I shall be young again.
Who knew . . . perhaps she would be restored to her throne, perhaps she would hold her son in her arms; perhaps she would send for Seton. Perhaps the days of sorrow were over.
She was past forty but that was not so very old. She only felt so because she was in constant pain, and the pain was caused by the conditions in which she was forced to live.
The future had grown suddenly bright on that day when Barbara Mowbray married Gilbert Curle.
XVII
Chartley
SIR FRANCIS WALSINGHAM, whose great pleasure it was to serve his Queen, had for some time sought for a means to rid himself of one whom he considered to be an enemy.
Sir Francis understood his Queen; while Mary Queen of Scots lived Elizabeth was uneasy; willingly would she have given the order for her death, yet she held back; and the reason was that she knew Mary to be innocent of conspiring against her life; and Elizabeth, a Queen herself, could not happily condemn one who, she was pleased to say, was as royal as herself—although she secretly feared Mary was more so. It was necessary for the security of Elizabeth, for the peace of England, that Mary should be brought to the scaffold; what was equally necessary was that a strong case be made out against her. Sir Francis had long been seeking to prepare that case.
When Mary had been under the care of the Shrewsbury he had had to more cautiously. He believed that the Earl and the Countess—until the latter had brought those ridiculous accusations—had been Mary’s friends. It would not have been easy to work against her while she was guarded by such jailors. But now he had Amyas Paulet with whom to deal, and that was different.
The moment had come, Walsingham decided; and when he considered that wide network of spies which it had been his joy to build up, he believed he knew how to bring the Queen of Scots to her doom.
WALSINGHAM LOOKED AT THE PRIEST who had been brought to his presence.
He said: “Pray be seated, father. I have work for you.”
Gilbert Gifford obeyed and, as he looked across the table which separated them, he knew that the work he was going to be called upon to do was more important than anything he had done before.
Walsingham gazed down at his own hands which rested idly on the table. Gifford, who had worked for him before, guessed that behind that calm expression Walsingham was excited.
“I am ready to obey my lord’s commands,” answered Gifford.
“You are to leave at once for France.”
Gifford nodded. He had become accustomed to such orders since he had entered Walsingham’s spy ring, and he knew that he was one of his master’s most valuable agents, chiefly because he was a Roman Catholic priest and therefore accepted as a friend by many of Walsingham’s enemies.
“Do you know a man named Thomas Morgan,” went on Walsingham, “a fiery Welshman who, with a certain Parry, once worked hard to raise a rebellion for the sake of the Queen of Scots?”
“I do, my lord.”
“He is a prisoner in the Bastille. Her Majesty has asked for him to be sent to England, but the King of France, while making him a prisoner, shelters him there.”
“You wish me to seek him out?”
“I fancy he still conspires against Her Majesty. I would make certain of this. I want you to go to Paris, to see Morgan. It will not be difficult, I am sure, although he is in the Bastille, because he is not ill-treated and doubtless allowed to receive visitors. The King of France does not wish to punish the friends of the Queen of Scots—only to shield them from their just deserts.”
Gifford bowed his head.
“You will go to him,” went on Walsingham, “and tell him that you are in a position to carry letters from him to the Queen of Scots. Tell him that as a Catholic you wish to see her on the throne. He will have no reason to doubt you.” Walsingham smiled grimly. “Your cloth inspires such respect. I wish to discover what manner of letters the Queen of Scots is writing to her friends.”
“I will leave at once,” said Gifford.
Walsingham went on: “I know that Morgan was once involved in an attempt to assassinate our good Queen Elizabeth and set up Mary in her place, and that the King of Spain, the Pope and the Duke of Guise were anxious to help in this endeavor. It is part of the policy of that organization which they call the Holy League to remove all Protestant rulers, and set up Catholics in their places. You understand we live in dangerous times, Gifford.”
The priest’s eyes glowed. This was a mission which greatly appealed to him, although he knew that he was playing only one small part in it.
“And the letters which I receive I bring to you?” he asked.
Walsingham nodded. “And when I have examined their contents you will take them to the Queen of Scots with a letter from Morgan recommending you to her.”
“I shall win her confidence with the greatest ease,” Gifford added. “I have an uncle living not ten miles from Chartley where I understand the Scottish woman is now imprisoned.”
“I am sure you will act with your usual good sense. It is important that none should guess that you work for me, but there is one however whom we must take into our confidence. That is Sir Amyas Paulet. I shall write to him to tell him that you will be coming to Chartley in due course. Together you and he must devise a way for the Queen to smuggle letters out of Chartley which will seem plausible to her. She will think they are being taken to Morgan and her friends abroad. Some may reach them, but first they will pass through my hands.”
“I understand,” said Gifford.
“Then be on your way. Our work may be of long duration and I fear there is danger in delay.”
When Gifford had gone, Walsingham sat alone for some time deep in thought. He was setting the snare which he believed would soon be closing about his prey.
CHARTLEY WAS A PLEASANT CHANGE from Tutbury. Situated on a hill rising from a fertile plain, it was about six miles from the town of Stafford, and from its windows Mary had views of magnificent scenery.
She had liked the circular keep and round towers as soon as she had set eyes on them; but perhaps almost anything would have pleased her after Tutbury.
Her spirits were high and to some extent this helped her to forget her pains; and the fact that Sir Amyas was also complaining of his rheumatism made her feel that, suffering in similar fashion, he would be more inclined to have sympathy for her. This was not the case however, and he displayed a malignant pleasure because she was more affected by this disease than he was.
But almost as soon as the royal party arrived at Chartley, life seemed to become more exciting.
The first pleasant happening was when Barbara Curle confided to Mary that she was pregnant. Mary was delighted in the happiness of the young people and immediately began making plans for the birth of the child. The sullenness of Bessie though was becoming more apparent, and this disturbed Mary; she made up her mind that she must not allow Bessie to think that Barbara, a newcomer, had usurped her place in the Queen’s affections.
Another of her ladies, Elizabeth Curle, sister of Gilbert, became engaged to Andrew Melville, her Master of the household; and it was a great pleasure to Mary to see the happiness of those about her.
The third excitement was the arrival at Chartley of a priest whose uncle lived some ten miles away.
Sir Amyas, after what seemed like a good deal of deliberation, allowed the priest to visit her. It was always a comfort to talk with a Catholic priest, and Mary welcomed the man with great warmth; but when they were alone together and she heard what he had to say, her pleasure intensified.
“Your Majesty,” Gifford told her, “I have been recently in France and while there had conversation with a certain Thomas Morgan who is lodged in the Bastille.”
“I know of him,” replied Mary, and she was trembling a little.
“He gave me this letter to give to you.”
Mary took the letter he held out to her, and read that the bearer was one Gilbert Gifford, a priest of the Roman Catholic Church, a man in whom she could place her complete trust.
The color had come into Mary’s cheeks; all the excitement of the old days was returning. This was as it had been when she had been young and full of hope, and had believed she had many friends eager to help her. So she still had friends. This was the most wonderful news she had had for a long time, and she was intoxicated with dreams of freedom.
“I will see that any letters you wish to write to your friends are delivered,” he told her.
She shook her head. “I am indeed a prisoner now as I never was before. Since Sir Amyas Paulet has been my jailor I have no means of sending letters to my friends; and if you come here often you would quickly fall under suspicion. Even now you may be searched before you are allowed to leave. The very fact that you are of my faith will arouse suspicions against you.”
“Your Majesty, I have thought of this and talked of it with your friends. You have rich and powerful friends, but you have humble ones also. There is a brewer in the nearby town of Burton—an honest man—who sends you your beer . . . he is your friend.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because I have long sought means of helping you. Cautiously I made my discoveries. This brewer has promised to conceal a box in one of the barrels. It will contain letters from those who wish to see you free. This box can be taken from the barrel when it arrives at the castle. And when you write your replies, you will place them in the box and put it in the empty barrel which will be taken away by the brewer when he comes to collect them. He will pass these letters to me.”
“That is a clever notion.”
“I agree with Your Majesty and I shall see that they reach the persons for whom they are intended. To whom would Your Majesty wish to write?”
Mary considered. “To the Duke of Guise who will have heard rumors of my life here, and mayhap none of them true. To Archbishop Beaton, and of course to Morgan to thank him for sending you to me.”
Gifford nodded. “Have no fear. Paulet will never suspect. The next time the barrels are delivered you will find the box and I doubt not that Your Majesty will soon be putting it to good use.”
Thus Mary felt that in coming to Chartley she had begun to live again.
WALSINGHAM WAS RESTIVE. The plan was a good one, he was ready to admit, but it was moving too slowly. Mary was writing her letters which were passing by means of the brewer into Gifford’s hands; they were then conveyed to Walsingham and opened by one of his men who was skilled in the art of breaking seals and resealing in such a manner that it was impossible to discover they had ever been broken. However, many of the letters were in ciphers and the Queen did not always use the same one. Walsingham employed one of the best decipherers in the country, a man named Phillips, but even he found difficulty in decoding some of the letters.
This it was which slowed down the progress, and Walsingham decided that he could not get very far until he was in possession of all the Queen’s ciphers. He had for some time been watching an attaché in the service of the French embassy, for he believed a time would come when he could use this man. Walsingham prided himself that he could pick a bribe-taker at a glance, and Cherelles he believed to be one.
Now if Cherelles could be persuaded to visit Mary with letters from the King of France say, and asked her for the keys to the ciphers, she would not hesitate to give them. And for such a service what would Cherelles want? Say two hundred crowns? It would be money well spent.
MARY WAS DELIGHTED TO RECEIVE A VISIT from Cherelles. He brought with him letters from the King of France which were always a comfort to her. He listened sympathetically to an account of her sufferings and promised to do all he could to bring them to the notice of those who could help to alleviate them.
“There is one matter which has grieved some of your friends,” he told her. “They have been unable to decipher certain of your letters.”
“Is that so?” asked Mary surprised. “I must speak to my secretaries. I am sure they have introduced nothing new into the ciphers.”
“There is no need to do that. If Your Majesty will let me have the keys to all the ciphers in use, I will see that this difficulty is removed.”
“I will indeed do so, but I do not understand why my friends should suddenly fail to decipher my letters. However I will give you the keys.”
“And I shall lose no time in placing them in the right hands.”
“You must take great care that they do not pass into the wrong hands!” said Mary with a smile.
“Your Majesty can trust me.”
“I know. I wish I could show my gratitude in some way, but I am so poor now. Do you know, one of my greatest sorrows is that I can no longer give presents to my friends.” She looked down at her hand and drew off a diamond ring. “But take this,” she said. “I should be so happy if you would accept it.” Then she went to her table and opening a drawer took out a book which was bound in crimson velvet, and the corners of which were edged with gold.
“The embroidery was done by myself,” she said, laying her hand on the embossed velvet, “and I have written in it those thoughts which pleased me. Pray take it with my blessing. It is a small reward for all you have done for me.”
Cherelles was conscious of a sense of shame as he took the gifts, so graciously and generously given.
He was rather relieved to ride away from Chartley, but when he had placed the keys to the ciphers in Walsingham’s hands and had been complimented by that important man, the shame lingered.
JACQUES NAU WAS WRITING A LETTER from the Queen’s notes. It seemed that he and Gilbert Curle were constantly employed in this task now that they had the means of sending and receiving letters through the services of that honest man, the brewer.
Life was so frustrating. He and Bessie were no nearer marriage now than they had been when they had first talked of their desire for that state; and it was particularly galling to sit with Curle, listening to his conversation, and learn of his contentment with the married state. It was so unfair. Jacques had loved Bessie before Curle had known of the existence of Barbara Mowbray, and yet here they were, not only married but expecting to become parents. He could not go on in this way. He must do something.
Then, as he was writing the Queen’s letter, he remembered that Sir Henry Pierpont was at the Court of Elizabeth and that it might be possible to write a letter to him by way of Gifford and the box in the barrel.
No sooner had this idea occurred to him than he wrote to Sir Henry telling of the devotion he had felt for Bessie over many years, and that Bessie herself returned his affection. He implored Sir Henry to grant him permission to marry his daughter.
Having written and dispatched the letter, Jacques told Bessie what he had done. They could scarcely contain their impatience for Sir Henry’s reply.
MARY HAD READ THE LETTER before she realized that it was not intended for her but for her secretary. She was deeply shocked. Sir Henry Pierpont was giving his consent for the marriage of his daughter with Jacques Nau, although the girl had been promised to Lord Percy and it was the will of Queen Elizabeth, as well as the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury, that this marriage with Percy should take place.
Mary saw the danger in this situation. Bess of Hardwick had been forced to stop spreading her scandals against Mary, but if her granddaughter were allowed to marry Mary’s secretary, Bess would seek means of revenging herself on Mary whom she would almost certainly blame. Moreover although Jacques Nau was of good family, he would not be considered worthy to mate with the Shrewsburys’ granddaughter. What hurt Mary more than anything else was that Bessie, whom she had brought up since the girl was four, had not confided in her.
She immediately sent for Jacques and Bessie.
“This letter has come to my notice,” she said coldly. “And I must confess I am deeply shocked.”
When Jacques saw what it was he turned pale.
“It is an answer to one which you wrote to Sir Henry Pierpont,” Mary told him. “You are not going to deny you wrote such a letter?”
“I do not deny it,” answered Jacques with dignity. “Bessie and I wish to marry. It was natural that I should ask her father’s permission.”
“I should have thought it would have been more natural if you had asked mine.”
“I did not expect the same favor as Your Majesty bestows on Gilbert Curle.”
“You are insolent,” said Mary. “I will not speak to you until you have recovered your good manners. Please go now.”
Jacques bowed, and as he was retiring Bessie prepared to follow him.
“Not you,” commanded Mary. “You will stay.”
Bessie stood sullenly looking at the Queen.
“Why did you not tell me?” asked Mary reproachfully.
“Because you were determined to make me marry Lord Percy.”
“Of course you must marry Lord Percy. It was not I who arranged the match—but it is a good one.”
Bessie said: “I shall never marry Lord Percy.” And as she spoke all the affection she had been wont to give Mary seemed to have disappeared, and it was almost as though her grandmother stood there.
“Bessie, you are very young . . . ” began Mary tolerantly.
“I am a woman. I love Jacques. I have always loved Jacques. I love him more than anyone in the world. I always shall. I am going to marry Jacques . . . .”
“Now, Bessie, my dear, you know that a girl in your position must obey her guardians.”
“I care nothing for my guardians.”
“Bessie! You can say that!”
Mary was deeply wounded. She was thinking of the day she had become this child’s godmother, how she had told her stories as they lay in bed, how they had taken their meals together and how, when Bessie was little more than a baby, rather terrified of her overbearing grandmother, she had run to Mary for comfort. Bessie thought of nothing but her passionate love for Jacques; and she was ready to hate anyone who came between her and its fulfilment.
“I can say it, and I will say it. I love Jacques. I want Jacques, and I hate . . . hate, hate anyone who tries to stop our marriage.”
“You are a foolish child,” said Mary. “You are not being reasonable.”
“I care not for reason. I care for nothing but Jacques!”
“Bessie, I think you should think what you are saying.”
“I have thought of nothing else for months. I am going to marry Jacques and no one on Earth is going to stop me! You are an old woman—you don’t understand . . . . Or have you forgotten!”
Bessie suddenly burst into angry tears and ran from the room. Mary looked after her bewildered.
MARY WAS ENTIRELY PREOCCUPIED with the affair of Bessie and Jacques. Hatred for her had looked out of Bessie’s eyes when the girl had stood before her so defiantly proclaiming her love, and Mary was hurt.
Had the lovers come to her and told her of their feelings for each other before the Countess had expressed her desire for a marriage with Lord Percy, she would have done all she could to help them. Now it seemed that she could not, since to do so would be deliberately to oppose the wishes of the girl’s family.
Her little Skye terrier seemed to sense her grief and jumped onto her lap and licked her hands.
She stroked him tenderly for she took great joy in the little creature and since he had been sent to her he had not left her side.
She wondered what she would do about the defiant lovers; and eventually she believed that she should send Bessie away.
If Elizabeth would have the girl at Court it might be that, with all the splendor of that life, Bessie would forget Jacques. Mary was of the opinion that the girl, living the sheltered life which had necessarily been hers, had imagined she was in love with the first handsome man who had noticed her. Bessie was too young to understand this; if she went away, met other people, she might learn that her affection for the secretary was not the grande passion she had imagined it was.
Eventually Mary wrote to Sir Henry and Lady Pierpont telling them that she thought it was time they took their daughter into their home.
IN AN INN PARLOR not far from St. Giles’s-in-the-Fields a priest sat waiting for a visitor. His outstanding features were his burning fanatical eyes, and as he waited he drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. Eventually he was joined by a man in the uniform of a soldier.
“Pray be seated,” said the priest.
The soldier obeyed, drawing his chair close.
“I know we can trust each other,” went on the priest. “My name is John Ballard and we have mutual friends. I know you to be John Savage and that we hold similar views.”
“I believe Thomas Morgan has recommended me to you,” Savage murmured.
“That is so. You are the one who is ready to give his life for the Faith. That is all that matters. Danger lies ahead of us, my friend. Are you afraid of danger?”
“I am not afraid to die for my faith.”
“That is what I understood. Believe me, my friend, all of those who are ready to work in this project must hold those views.”
“Will you enlighten me?”
“With pleasure. I believe—and I am sure you as a good Catholic will agree with me—that no good can come to England while we have a Protestant bastard on the throne.”
“I believe with all my heart that no good can come to England until she returns to the Catholic Faith.”
“Then, my friend, we are in accord. It is our endeavor to bring back the Catholic Faith and, as we can only do so by removing Elizabeth, we plan to do exactly that and set Catholic Mary in her place.”
“Who else is with you in this enterprise?”
“Certain gentlemen whom you shall meet without delay. Do you wish to go further?”
“I wish it with all my heart,” replied John Savage.
IT WAS GROWING DARK when the two men made their way to a house in Fetter Lane. Ballard gave three slow knocks on the door which after a while was opened.
He stepped into a dark passage, and Savage followed him. The man who had opened the door, recognizing Ballard, nodded an acknowledgment, and they followed him down a flight of stairs and along a corridor. When they reached a certain door, this was quietly opened by Ballard, and Savage saw that he was about to enter a dimly lighted room which, it soon became apparent, had been made into a chapel; he saw the altar and, standing about it, several men.
Ballard announced: “John Savage. He is one of us.”
An unusually handsome man stepped forward and grasped Savage’s hand.
“My name is Anthony Babington,” he said quietly. “Welcome to our band. We were about to hear Mass. You will join us?”
“With all my heart.”
“Afterward we will go to my house in the Barbican and there you will become acquainted with my friends.”
Savage bowed his head, and the Mass began.
When they had left Fetter Lane for the house in the Barbican, Anthony Babington entertained his friends with food and wine, and after they had been served he bolted the doors and assured himself that nothing which was said in the room could be heard by anyone outside it.
Babington, Savage realized, was a man in his middle twenties. He was somewhat flamboyant in dress as he was in manner and his handsome features glowed with an enthusiasm which was infectious. Babington believed wholeheartedly in his plot; he could not visualize failure, and such was his personality that everyone around that table caught his fervor.
He took the center of the stage and dramatically explained why this party of men were gathered together in such secrecy.
“My friend,” he said, “now that you have joined us we are thirteen in number. But do not think we are alone. Once we are ready we shall find the entire Catholic Nobility of England behind us. And we have allies outside England. This is no Northern Rising, gentlemen. This is going to be the revolt against Protestantism which will change the course of our country’s history. The Pope is with us. The King of Spain is with us. And once we have removed the bastard from the throne, these powerful allies will come to our aid.”
He looked around the assembly, his eyes glowing.
“John Savage,” he went on, “I will now introduce you to your colleagues.” He pointed to the man who sat on his right hand. “Edward Abington,” he said. Savage inclined his head in greeting which was returned by Abington. Then he indicated the others who sat around that table and the procedure was repeated: “Edward Windsor, Edward Jones, Chidiock Tichbourne, Charles Tilney, Henry Donn, Gilbert Gifford, John Traves, Robert Barnwell, Thomas Salisbury.”
When the greetings were over, Babington said: “Now pray be seated and we will talk together.”
Savage took his seat and Babington went on to explain the conspiracy, which he had been chosen to lead. It was well known on the Continent, he explained, that he was an ardent Catholic, devoted to the cause of the Queen of Scots. The core of the plot was to bring England back to the Catholic Faith and to free the Queen of Scots, but there was one deed which must be performed before this could be achieved: the assassination of Elizabeth. Once Elizabeth was dead the King of Spain and the Pope would not hesitate to give their open support. Therefore their first task was to plan that assassination. When the time was ripe Babington proposed to call for six volunteers for this most important task. In the meantime there were minor details to be discussed.
“I will inform the Spanish ambassador that we rely on Philip II above all, and that it is because of his encouragement and promises of help that we have the zeal and courage to go on with this dangerous plan. We shall ask for an assurance that, as soon as Elizabeth is dead, help reaches us from Spain and the Low Countries. Ships in the Thames must be seized. Cecil, Walsingham, Hunsdon and Knollys must be immediately either captured or killed. I shall inform the Queen of Scots of our intention.”
Charles Tilney put in: “Is it wise to tell her of the intention to murder Elizabeth? I have reason to believe that she will not readily agree to be party to such a deed.”
Babington was thoughtful and others added their doubts to Tilney’s.
They should go cautiously in their communication with the Queen of Scots who was, after all, a prisoner in the hands of their enemies.
“Letters will have to be smuggled to her,” pointed out Henry Donn. “A dangerous procedure.”
Gifford spoke then. “I do not think you need fear, my friends. We have a very good method of conveying letters to the Queen. The brewer of Burton is an honest man whom we can trust. The Queen must be prepared for rescue. It would be unwise to keep her in the dark.”
There was clearly a divided opinion on this matter and it was temporarily shelved.
But when the meeting was over and the conspirators went their various ways, Gifford returned to the house to speak to Babington; they sat for a long time discussing the plot, and Gifford did not have great difficulty in persuading Babington that it would be advisable to inform Mary of their intentions.
ANTHONY BABINGTON was a vain young man. Extremely handsome, elegant and wealthy, he had been intended for the Bar, but had abandoned this career for a fashionable life on the fringes of the Court. He had divided his time between that Court and his vast estates at Dethick. During the last few years he had also traveled abroad and, because he must be the center of attention, he had become known as an ardent Catholic, and a man of adventure, so that he had been noticed as a suitable leader to be remembered when such a one was needed—for his vitality, enthusiasms, wealth and charm were invaluable.
When he was barely eighteen he had married Margery, the daughter of Philip Draycot of Paynsley in Staffordshire; the Draycots were Catholics, as were his mother and his stepfather, Henry Foljambe. Among such fervent Catholics intrigue was constantly fostered, and Anthony soon became a member—with the support of his family—of a secret society which had been formed for the protection of Jesuit missionaries in England.
And so it was that while he was but twenty-five he found himself at the head of a conspiracy which if it succeeded would change the course of English history.
Anthony now saw himself as a man of destiny. He believed that Fate had chosen him. Was he not outstandingly handsome, cultured, witty? Did he not draw men and women into his circle through his charming manners?
He had always cherished a devotion to the Queen of Scots. She was such a romantic figure—a beautiful woman, a Queen, a helpless prisoner, the motive for many a conspiracy, the symbol of many a cherished ideal.
When he had met her he had been conscious of that potent charm. He was devoted to his wife and young daughter, but, for him, as she was for so many, the Queen was someone to worship from afar, the ideal woman.
But Anthony Babington was no simple-hearted George Douglas. His devotion was not single-minded. For although Anthony admired the Queen, he admired himself more.
Anthony must be the center of the stage—the leading character in the drama. The Queen was a charming second—but a symbol, whose grace and beauty must merely serve to emphasize the valor of the man of action.
He had already committed an act which he knew some of the conspirators would have declared not only foolish but highly dangerous, when he had caused to be painted a picture of himself with six of his friends—himself in the center as leader—and had allowed this picture to be inscribed with the words:
