The Captive Queen of Scots - Plaidy Jean (электронную книгу бесплатно без регистрации TXT) 📗
He set his man, Aleyn, to watch over Jacques, and this man slept in the same chamber and was with Jacques night and day, engaging him in conversation, waiting for one word which would betray the Queen.
Jacques was very melancholy, and it was not easy to make him talk.
Aleyn tried to coax him. “Come,” he told him, “you cannot be blamed. My master is a very just man. He knows full well that as secretary to the Queen you must perforce do your duty. If she said to you, Write this, then you wrote. All my master wishes is to confirm what is already known was written.”
Jacques remained silent for some time and then he said: “I wonder how she is taking this.”
“She is fearful, my friend, doubt that not.”
“She will be wondering what has become of me. She is so young; it is hard that she should suffer so.”
“Young! She is no longer young and she will be too concerned with her own skin, friend, to think much of yours.”
“I see you have misunderstood. I was speaking of another.”
“Your mistress?”
“We will marry when it can be arranged.”
“Ah,” grunted Aleyn, disappointed.
But now Jacques had begun to speak of Bessie he could not stop; he told Aleyn of the way her eyes sparkled and how soft her hair was; and how quickly she grew angry, how defiant she was, how determined when she had set her heart on something—as she had set her heart on marrying him.
Aleyn listened halfheartedly. Strange, he thought, that when a man was in mortal danger he could think of nothing but a girl.
When Aleyn stood before his master and Walsingham asked if he had anything to report, the man replied: “It is not easy with this one, my lord. He seems unaware of the danger he’s in. He talks of nothing but his Bessie.”
“His Bessie?” mused Walsingham.
“Bessie Pierpont, my lord.”
“That would be Shrewsbury’s granddaughter—so there is love between these two.”
“He’ll talk of nothing else, my lord.”
Walsingham nodded. It was a pity. Still, no piece of information, however small, should be ignored. Long experience had taught him that one never knew when it might be useful.
WHEN MARY WAS ALLOWED to return to Chartley Castle her first thought was of Barbara Curle who she believed might already have given birth to the child.
Bessie greeted her—a frightened Bessie, whose eyes were red with weeping.
Mary embraced her affectionately, all rancor forgotten. It was sad that Bessie, at such an early age, had already come face-to-face with tragedy.
“And how fares Barbara?” Mary asked.
“Her child is born. She is in her bed now.”
Mary went at once to Barbara’s chamber and the young mother gave a cry of pleasure as the Queen hurried to her bed and embraced her.
“And the little one?”
“A girl, Your Majesty. She is very like Gilbert. Your Majesty, what news?”
“I know nothing, my dear. I have been a prisoner at Tixall Park all this time. But as my priest was with me, who has attended to the child’s baptism?”
“She has not been baptized, Your Majesty. There was no one to perform the ceremony.”
“Then this must be remedied without delay.” She lifted the baby from where it lay beside Barbara and, holding it in her arms, gently kissed its brow, and while she was doing this Sir Amyas Paulet burst unceremoniously into the chamber.
“I hope you will call her Mary after me,” she said.
“Your Majesty, that will be an honor she will remember all her life.”
Mary turned to Paulet. “Will you allow your minister to baptize this child?”
“Nay,” he answered. “This child’s baptism is no concern of mine.”
“It is the concern of us all,” answered Mary sternly, and she turned to one of the women who was close by and said: “Bring me a basin of water.”
“So you will baptize the child?” asked Paulet.
“It is permissible for members of the laiety to administer baptism if no priest is available.”
Paulet was glowering at her, wondering how he could prevent her from carrying out her intention, but he said nothing and very soon the woman returned with a basin. Taking the child on her knee, Mary sprinkled the little face with water, saying: “I baptize thee, Mary, in the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Ghost.”
Paulet growled: “It is time you returned to your own apartments.”
“I am ready,” answered Mary; and smiling she laid the child in its mother’s arms. “Have no fear, dearest Barbara,” she whispered. “All will be well. Gilbert will return to you. They cannot harm the innocent.”
Then she stopped and kissed Barbara’s forehead, and turning to Paulet said: “I am ready.”
The sight which confronted her in her own apartments caused her to cry out in alarm and protest. Drawers had been burst open, coffers had been emptied; and she saw that almost everything she possessed had been removed.
Mary stood staring at the disorder in dismay while Paulet watched her, a smile of satisfaction on his lips.
“At least,” said Mary, “there are two things of which I cannot be robbed—my English blood and my Catholic Faith, in which, by the grace of God I intend to die.”
ALEYN CAME INTO THE ROOM and sat down beside his charge.
“I have news for you,” he said. “Your young lady is a prisoner in the Tower.”
Jacques lifted his eyes, weary with sleeplessness, to his jailor’s face. “This is true?”
“True it is. They’ve taken her from the Queen’s side and put her there. They’ve ransacked the Queen’s rooms and have found enough to send her to the block.”
“It cannot be so. She has never done anything to deserve such a fate.”
“There’s some that thinks different.”
“What are they doing to Bessie in the Tower?”
“You’ve no need to concern yourself for her safety. If she’s sensible and you’re sensible . . . why, I shouldn’t wonder if there wouldn’t be a nice little wedding, and all merry ever after.”
“What do you know of these matters? Tell me truly.”
“That the Queen of Scots is in mortal danger.”
“She has committed no crime by trying to escape.”
“You, who wrote all those letters for her, know there was more in it than that.”
“I know that she is innocent of any crime.”
“Conspiring against the life of our gracious Sovereign Elizabeth! Is that no crime then? You should have a care. Such talk smacks of treason.”
“She did not conspire against Elizabeth’s life.”
“If you were to tell all you know . . . you would be let out of here . . . your Bessie would be let out of the Tower. There would be no obstacles to your wedding, and who knows . . . I reckon you’d find yourself with a pleasant place at Court, for my master rewards those who please him and he is a man of great influence.”
Jacques’ tongue wetted his dry lips. What was being offered him? Freedom and Bessie. All that he wanted in life. For what? For betrayal of the Queen.
He was torn in two. He yearned for Bessie . . . for peace . . . to forget this danger. Perhaps to return to France . . . .
Aleyn was looking at him slyly.
A pleasant enough fellow, he was thinking. The sort that didn’t betray easily. But look what was offered him. How would he be able to refuse . . . in time?
“Give him time,” Walsingham had said. “Then when we have his evidence against her, that will be all we need to achieve our purpose.”
BABINGTON KNEW that the end was near.
Everything had turned out so differently from his dreams. The conspiracy was discovered; his guilt—and that of his fellow conspirators—was proved without doubt. They had been tried and found guilty of treason. He had no illusions about the fate which was being prepared for him; he and every man in England knew of the barbaric death which was accorded traitors.
He and Ballard had been tried before a special commission with five others: John Savage, Chidiock Tichbourne, Robert Barnwell, Thomas Salisbury and Henry Donn. It had been useless to attempt to deny their guilt.
