Текст книги "The Captive Queen of Scots "

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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Melville was weeping silently as he walked beside her.

“Woe is me,” he said, “that it should be my hard hap to carry back such heavy tidings to Scotland.”

“Weep not, Melville, my good and faithful servant. Rather rejoice that you see the end of the long troubles of Mary Stuart. Know, my friend, that this world is but vanity and full of sorrows. I am Catholic, thou a Protestant; but as there is but one Christ I charge thee in His name to bear witness that I die firm to my religion, a true Scotchwoman and true to France. Commend me to my dearest and most sweet son. Tell him, from my example never to rely too much on human aid, but to seek that which is above . . . .”

As Melville’s tears continued to flow she turned her face from him, for his grief unnerved her.

“May God forgive those who have thirsted for my blood as the hart doth for the brooks of water,” she murmured. “Oh, Melville, dry your eyes. Farewell, my good friend. Pray for thy Queen and mistress.”

So the procession made its way into the hall, led by the Sheriff and his men. Sir Amyas Paulet and Sir Drue Drury came next, followed by the Earl of Kent and Robert Beale. The Earl Marshal of England, who was the Earl of Shrewsbury, walked before Mary whose train was carried by Melville, Jane and Elizabeth. The Queen’s physician, surgeon and apothecary came last.

In the hall a fire was burning in the great fireplace close to the platform which had been erected for the grisly purpose. This platform was twelve feet square and two and a half feet high, and a rail had been set up around it.

On the platform was the block and the axe.

Certain spectators—almost a hundred of them—had been allowed to take their stand in the hall.

It was difficult for Mary to mount the platform, so infirm had her limbs become, and it was Sir Amyas who stepped forward to help her.

She smiled at him. “I thank you, sir,” she said. “This is the last trouble I shall give you.”

She saw that a chair covered with black cloth had been placed on the platform, and here she sat while Beale read the death warrant.

When he had finished, she asked if her almoner might be brought that she could say a last prayer with him, but this was denied her, while the Dean of Peterborough, who had come forward, made futile efforts to induce her to change her religion.

To him she made answer; she would die in the faith in which she had lived.

The hour was at hand. She must now prepare herself for the block. Seeing this, the two executioners came forward and begged for her forgiveness.

“I forgive you and all the world with all mine heart,” she told them, “for I hope this death will give an end to all my troubles. Come, Jane. Come, Elizabeth.”

Shuddering the two women stood as though unable to move. Jane was shaking her head as though she had not until this moment realized that they could come to this.

“Nay, nay,” Mary scolded. “You should be ashamed to weep. See how happy I am to leave this world.”

They were trembling so much that they could not assist her, and she herself took off her pomander and rosary. “I should like the Countess of Arundel to have this in memory of me,” she murmured. But Bulle, the executioner, laid greedy hands on it. “Nay,” he insisted, “it is mine.” And he snatched it from her and put it in his shoe.

Jane Kennedy’s anger temporarily overcame her grief. “Give it to me,” she cried. “You heard Her Majesty’s wish.”

Bulle shook his head, and Mary interposed: “Let her have it. She will pay you more than it is worth.”

But the executioner still shook his head and grumbled that it was his and he would keep it.

“It is a small matter,” murmured Mary. “Come, help me remove my gown.”

Standing in her petticoat of crimson velvet and her plaid camisole, she looked toward Jane who held the handkerchief with its gold-fringed border with which she was to bind Mary’s eyes.

Jane’s hands were shaking so much that she could not fold it, and her tears fell onto the handkerchief as she bent over it.

“Weep no more, Jane. Rather pray for me. Come, I will fold the handkerchief.”

This she did, and Elizabeth and Jane placed it over her eyes.

She stood regal yet piteous, the handkerchief shutting out the sight of the block, the axe, and the faces distorted in anguish or alive with curiosity.

This is the end, she thought, for I shall never look on the world again.

Paulet signed for Elizabeth and Jane to leave the platform, and they were hustled away while Mary was led to the cushion on which she was to kneel.

The moment had come. The Earl of Shrewsbury lifted his baton, and his cheeks were wet with tears as he did so.

“In Thee, Lord, have I hope,” murmured the Queen. “Let me never be put to confusion. Into Thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.”

There was a tense silence in the hall. The axe was raised, but then it was noticed that Mary was gripping the block with both hands beneath her chin. Bulle signed to the second executioner to move them. This he did, and the axe fell. The blow struck Mary’s head but did not sever it, and there was a deep groan throughout the hall. Bulle struck again, and again the blow was ineffective. For the third time the axe fell, and this time Mary’s head rolled away from her body.

With a cry of triumph Bulle seized the chestnut hair and, to the horror of all, the head, covered with short gray hair, rolled from his grasp, leaving him clutching the chestnut wig.

“God save Queen Elizabeth,” he said.

“So perish all her enemies!” cried the Dean of Peterborough.

There were few who could look unmoved on that scene. Bulle had stooped to take the Queen’s garters, which were, like the pomander, his perquisite, when from the red velvet petticoat there crept Mary’s little Skye terrier who was whimpering piteously as he ran and stopped to cower between his mistress’s head and her body.

Elizabeth and Jane came forward. “I pray you,” they said to Paulet, “allow us to take Her Majesty’s body. Do not allow it to remain here to be degraded by those who would snatch at her garments.”

The Earl of Kent told them to go away. They no longer had a mistress; they should regard her fate as a warning.

Weeping bitterly, Jane and Elizabeth were dragged away from their mistress, but the little dog could not be moved, and snarled at all who approached him.

LONDON WAS WILD WITH JOY. The fair devil of Scotland was no more. Their Queen was safe; Protestant England was safe. Light the bonfires! This was as good an excuse as any to dance and make merry.

The King of France received the news in sorrow, and there were memorial services in Notre Dame for Mary Queen of Scots. The King of Spain heard the news with his usual serenity. In his shipyards building should go on apace. The death of Mary Queen of Scots would make no difference to the dream of Philip II.

Elizabeth was uneasy. I never desired it, she said. It was never my will that she should die.

But she spoke thus for her Catholic subjects, and she rested happier in her bed after the death of that hated rival.

And all those who had lived and served Mary continued to mourn for her.

Jacques Nau and Gilbert Curle remained long in prison, for their obstinacy had not endeared them to their jailors. Bessie Pierpont was soon released from the Tower, but she did not marry Jacques Nau who continued to be a state prisoner. Eventually she settled down with a Yorkshire Squire named Richard Stapleton; and when he was at length released, Nau returned to his native France and there married a Frenchwoman. Gilbert Curle found his faithful wife, Barbara, waiting for him on his release; and with his daughter Mary, whom the Queen had baptized, and his sister Elizabeth, went to Antwerp where they lived happily for the rest of their lives.

Jane Kennedy married Andrew Melville; and on their return to Scotland they were favored by King James for the manner in which they had served his mother. It was this favor, however, which resulted in Jane’s death, for when she crossed the Firth of Forth on her way to greet James’s bride, Anne of Denmark, the boat in which she was traveling capsized and she was drowned.

Mary’s Skye terrier refused all food after her death and died of his misery.

IN ORDER TO SHOW THE WORLD that she had not wished the Queen of Scots to die, Elizabeth ordered that she should be buried in state in Peterborough; and on the black velvet pall which covered her coffin a gold crown was placed as it was borne to the Cathedral. Here it remained for twenty years, until her son James ordered that it should be removed to Westminster Abbey and placed in the center aisle of Henry VII’s Chapel.

Many were the friends who mourned Mary. Seton who herself had not long to live in her convent; Jane and Andrew Melville; the Curles; Bessie; Jacques; all her friends in Scotland; all her friends in France; and there were some in England, for all who had known her—even such as Shrewsbury and Paulet—could not help but respect her.

It was said that the Queen of Scots was dead. But for many it was as though she still lived, because for them—and for many who came after—she would never die; and in the years to come there would be those to love and mourn her.

Reader’s Group Guide

ABOUT THIS GUIDE

Against a backdrop of royal pageantry, political strife, and bloody uprising, The Captive Queen of Scots contains many themes: duty and personal freedom, tradition and individual expression, love and heartbreak, betrayal and loyalty. This guide is designed to help direct your reader’s group’s discussion of The Captive Queen of Scots.

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. “It was difficult for any man not to be touched by Mary. Her beauty was indestructible, but it was not merely her beauty which was appealing; it was a certain helplessness; a certain fragility; she was completely feminine, possessed of all that was most appealing to men,”. Do you agree with Melville’s sentiment? What was your initial opinion of Mary, Queen of Scots? Did your feelings about her change as you read The Captive Queen of Scots?

2. Bothwell’s influence hangs heavily over Mary for the entire book. “She thought of Bothwell then and she was sick with longing for him,”. Why is Mary so captivated by him, and obsessed with finding him? What do you think would have happened to Mary if she didn’t marry Bothwell? Would she have met with the same fate? Why or why not?

3. How are Mary’s relationships with the men of her court different than those she had with women?

4. Throughout the book, Mary characterizes herself as impulsive. What are some examples of her impulsivity? Was it beneficial for her to be impulsive? Why or why not?

5. Rumor and innuendo have enormous influence over the lives of the characters in The Captive Queen of Scots. What are some examples of destructive rumors, as well as beneficial ones? Why does rumor hold so much power? How does Mary employ it?

6. There are many prisons depicted in The Captive Queen of Scots, both physical and metaphorical. Discuss.

7. “All her life she had recovered quickly from adversity because her optimism had been one of her strongest qualities and, she guessed, always would be,”. What do you think was behind Mary’s optimism at this point in the book? How did that optimism change the longer she was imprisoned?

8. Mary shows grave lapses of judgment throughout the book in terms of the people with whom she places her trust. What are some examples of this? Why does she put her faith into people who she senses might betray her?

9. “[Mary] was a woman who needed love,”. Is this an understatement? What do you think was the reason Mary craved affection?

10. What do you think of the jealousy that Elizabeth holds for Mary, and the antagonism she continually inflicts upon her? What do you think might have been behind it?

11. “He had often reminded her that he was her brother and that must mean the ties between them were strong,”. Did this passage, or another, foreshadow Mary’s bastard brother Jamie’s later betrayal of her? What did you think of Jamie, and the fate he met?

12. Jean Plaidy fills The Captive Queen of Scots with vivid descriptions and imagery—of the period’s dress, pageantry, customs, castles, even the countryside. Which images stood out for you? Based on Plaidy’s depiction of life in medieval Europe, do you think you could have lived in these times?

13. Mary’s execution is particularly violent. Do you think her persecution and eventual death would have been less brutal if she were a man?

14. Mary, Queen of Scots is one of medieval history’s most fascinating and enduring figures. In reading the story of her life in the first person, was Mary’s legend enhanced for you? Why or why not?

An Excerpt from The Queen’s Secret

Bermondsey Abbey

They have brought me to Bermondsey Abbey—a prisoner. They have discovered our secret. They have destroyed our happiness. It was what we always feared, but that does not make it any easier to bear.

They have taken Owen. I do not know what they have done to him. They have separated me from my little ones. Edmund, Jasper and Owen . . . my beautiful sons and sweet Jacina, my little daughter. Where are they and what are they thinking? They are too young to be taken from their mother.

What harm have they done?

I used to say to Owen: “When I was young, I did as they wished. I had always known that royal princesses must accept, with bland acquiescence, the fate chosen for them. This I did. I played my part in uniting my poor tortured country with England. I did all that. Now, why should I not choose my own way of life? Why? What harm am I doing?”

Owen used to soothe me, but he was at times a very worried man. How brave he was, how noble! His anxiety was all for me.

I remember so vividly those first moments of ecstasy when we knew we must be together and, constantly, we were afraid that we would be discovered, and that someone would betray us. Most of my household were my friends, but there could be spies among them. How could one be sure?

I used to try to reassure myself and Owen. “I am of no importance now,” I would say. “Nobody is interested in me. They have taken young Henry away from me. That is all they care about. I have lost him, Owen. I have lost my baby. Oh, I know he is the King of England . . . the boy King. It is the way with all royal children. They are always taken from the mothers who love them. But now I have a new life with you, and I will live it . . . I will.”

And so it was and the years passed. We were lulled into a certain blind security. We convinced ourselves that we were safe . . . most of the time.

Perhaps we were careless.

It is too late to think of that now. Here I am alone, a prisoner—though they pretend that is not so.

“Queen Katherine is resting at Bermondsey Abbey, as she is in poor health.” That is what they say.

And why is she in poor health? Because they have taken from her her husband . . . and he is my husband, for all they may say. They have already taken from her her firstborn, Henry, the King of England. They have taken all her beloved children. Poor health indeed! She would be in rude health if they would restore her to her family.

None would guess that I was under restraint. When I arrived, the bells of the Abbey rang a welcome. The Abbess was waiting to greet me. She gave me her blessing and sprinkled me with holy water. I was taken to the church and stood before the crucifix, and I prayed fervently that Owen might be free and my children restored to me.

Afterward the Abbess told me how honored she was to have the Queen of England in the Abbey, and the best accommodation that could be provided was found for me.

But I was a prisoner. She knew I had been parted from all those I loved. But pretense must be kept up. I, Queen of England, had come to honor the Abbey of Bermondsey with my presence.

There is not exactly a lack of comfort here, though it is simple, after the manner of abbeys. But I would have been happy to endure any physical discomfort if I could be with my family.

My longing for them increases every day.

I am not old. Some would say I am in the prime of life. Thirty-five might be called that. Yet I begin to feel that my life is over. There are times when I awake in the night and put out a hand to touch Owen. Then a terrible desolation sweeps over me. “Where are you, Owen?” I cry. “What will become of us all?”

The peace of the Abbey is all around me, but there is no peace for me. I am envious of those black-clad figures who go hither and thither, their lives governed by the bells. It is the bells which tell me what they will be doing at various times of the day. Sometimes I hear their chanting voices. I see them working in the gardens. I envy them.

I long for news. But there is none. And I feel shut away in my own despair.

How long the days seem! I start to think of my life and what has led me to this. And then, when I think of the old days, I find myself reliving them. The hours seem to slip by, and the bells tell me that another day is coming to its close.

I will go right back to the beginning. I will follow my life step by step. I will write it down, slowly savoring each scene. And I will ask myself how I came to end thus—a prisoner in Bermondsey Abbey.

The Hôtel de St.-Paul

My earliest recollections are of that drafty and comfortless mansion, the Hôtel de St.-Paul, in which, at that time, was incarcerated the man who was known throughout France as Charles the Mad.

There were six of us children living there: Louis, Jean, Marie, Michelle, myself, and baby Charles. We had been put there because our mother did not know what to do with us, and as she had no great interest in our existence, the best thing seemed to her to be to shut us away.

Charles was just over a year younger than I. We all felt tender toward him because he was the baby and used to toddle after us with a rather bewildered look on his little face, which was appealing. In truth, we were all rather bewildered.

Moreover, we were often hungry because there never seemed enough food to go around. The soup grew thinner every day until it was more like water. Louis used to ask for more. He was more important than the rest of us because he was the Dauphin—and he felt that entitled him to privileges.

He was promptly told that there was no more, so that was the end of the matter.

We had a governess who was always whispering to the nurse. “It’s a shame and a scandal,” she used to say. “Poor little things . . . and her going on as she does.”

We listened avidly. We knew there was something odd about the place and we—at least the little ones—were quite unaware of what it was. Louis might have known something and he might have whispered it to Jean, but they were the eldest and boys. We were the young ones . . . and girls at that—with the exception of Charles, who was only a baby.

Marie was different from the rest of us. When we complained about being cold and hungry, she would say: “It is God’s will. We must accept what He gives us and be grateful to Him.”

“How can you be grateful for what you do not have?” asked Michelle.

“If you do not have it, it is God’s will that you should not,” insisted Marie, “and we must all be grateful to Him.”

I wished I could have been like Marie. It must be wonderful to feel there is something virtuous about being cold and hungry.

While the rest of us shivered in bed at night, even after having covered ourselves with everything we could find to keep ourselves warm, Marie would be kneeling by the bed, her hands and feet blue with the cold, thanking God.

Marie was different from the rest of us, and it was Michelle and I who were the closer friends.

One day stands out more clearly in my memory of those early days than any other.

It was winter—always to be dreaded, for there was never enough wood to keep the fires going, and to be cold and hungry is so much worse than merely being hungry.

I did not realize it at the time, but it must have seemed very strange to our nurse and governess and the few attendants who were in the Hôtel that, although we lived in such misery, the days were conducted as though our upbringing was the normal one for children of our rank.

We had our lessons every day; and on this occasion we were all seated at the table in the schoolroom and our governess was attempting to teach us, when suddenly the door opened and a strange creature stood there.

We children all stared at him in wonder.

He was very pale and his hair was in wild disorder. He wore an elaborately embroidered jacket, the splendor of which was impaired by a tear in the sleeve and stains down the front.

Our governess gave a little start and for a few seconds seemed uncertain what to do. Then she rose to her feet and bowed with great respect.

We children all sat staring at the intruder.

I caught my breath in terror when he approached the table, for he was truly an alarming sight.

“My children,” he began, and I noticed at once that he had one of the most musical voices I had ever heard.

Louis surprised me. He must have suddenly realized who the man was, for he rose from his chair and knelt before him.

The man stared down at him. He put out a hand and touched Louis’s head, and I saw the tears running down his sunken cheeks.

“You are Charles,” he said, in his beautiful voice. “Charles the Dauphin.”

“No, Sire,” replied Louis. “I am Louis the Dauphin.”

“But Charles . . . ”

“Charles is our younger brother now, Sire.”

“And what of Charles . . . Dauphin Charles . . . ?”

“He is dead, Sire. He was ill . . . and he died.”

The man stared ahead of him and his lips trembled. He smiled suddenly and said: “And you . . . Louis . . . you are now the Dauphin.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Louis . . . when did you last see your mother?”

“I do not remember. It was a long time ago.”

“My child, I have been ill . . . but I am better now. Yes. I shall be better now.” He looked at us children sitting there at the table watching this scene in bewilderment. He held out a hand to us.

We looked questioningly at our governess, who nodded to us, implying that we should rise and go to him.

He looked at us all in turn.

At length his eyes rested on me. “And you, little one?” I was surprised that I was no longer afraid of him.

“I am Katherine,” I said.

“Katherine, my dear child . . . God bless you.”

He turned to the governess. “How long have the children been living here . . . like this?”

She told him when we had come.

“These are the Children of France,” he said. “It is unbelievable that they should live so.”

“We were sent here, Sire. We have done our best.”

“I know that well,” he replied. “Now . . . it will be different. Everything that is needed will be sent. I shall command it to be done and there will be no delay.”

I remember no more of that scene, but I had learned something. The mad man of the Hôtel de St.-Paul was our father and the King of France.