The Captive Queen of Scots - Plaidy Jean (электронную книгу бесплатно без регистрации TXT) 📗

“I had thought to be well on my journey south by now. I cannot understand why it should be considered necessary for me to stay so long in Carlisle Castle.”

“Has Your Majesty suggested that you should move south?”

“Why yes,” she told him. “Sir Richard Lowther is very courteous but he is firm on this matter. He asks me to be patient until he has commands from his Queen.”

“He does well to wait.”

“Of a certainty he would not wish to offend his mistress, but . . . since as you say she is eager to meet me . . . and I most certainly am to meet her, it is hard to stomach this delay.”

“Ah, our Queen has a high temper. Lowther will be remembering that. Doubtless he will receive a reprimand for not speeding your journey to the English Court.”

“I shall make a point of telling my cousin how kind he has been in every way; and I am sure the delay is only due to his desire to obey her wishes in every detail.”

Norfolk’s mind was busy. How gentle she was! How forgiving! And what a beauty! He was an ambitious man; he was also the premier peer and richest man in England. The Howards were of course a noble family and a rich one, but his marriages had been wise ones and, although he was now only thirty-two, in a little more than ten years he had been thrice widowed. His first wife, Lady Mary Fitzalan, had been the heiress of the Earl of Arundel. She had died when only sixteen, leaving him a son Philip who had inherited his grandfather’s title of Earl of Arundel. His second wife had been Margaret, heiress-daughter of Lord Audley; that marriage had lasted five years and had ended in the death of Margaret. In a little over three years later, early in 1567 he had married once more; this time Dacre’s widow, who had died before the year was out. These heiresses had added to his own considerable fortune; but as Elizabeth Dacre had had a son and three daughters when she married him and he was eager to keep the Dacre fortune in the family he was endeavoring to arrange marriages between his own children and his stepchildren.

He had not found great favor at Elizabeth’s Court since he had resented her friendship with the Earl of Leicester, but even the Queen could not ignore the premier peer who was also the richest man in the country.

As he talked pleasantly with Mary a certain speculation entered his mind. She was undoubtedly marriageable. It was true her husband Bothwell was still living. What had happened to him? There had been many rumors, and the fellow would never dare to return to Scotland if he valued his life.

There could be a divorce. A dispensation from the Pope might be obtained.

His three wives had been heiresses. Well, here was an heiress of another kind—the greatest heiress of them all, if she regained what was hers.

These thoughts made Norfolk’s eyes shine and the gallantries trip from his tongue. Mary found pleasure in them particularly as they could mean that this powerful Englishman was ready to be her friend.

The visit was all too brief, and when Norfolk departed he kissed her hand with a certain emotion which was significant.

There had been numbers of men in love with Mary. She was not yet twenty-six years old, but she had felt very old during the last weeks and burdened with responsibilities.

The Duke of Norfolk had made her feel young again and she was grateful to him.

THERE WAS EXCITEMENT in the castle because of new arrivals from Scotland. The Queen had been sitting in her window looking out over the countryside and had seen them approaching; she had called Jane Kennedy and Lady Livingstone to her side, and they had all stood watching until as the party came nearer they recognized familiar faces.

“It is!” Mary murmured. “I really believe it is!”

Jane cried out: “That’s Bastian and his wife Margaret Cawood. I remember the night they were married . . . .”

She stopped. Bastian, the valet, had been married to Margaret Cawood, the maid, on the night when Darnley was murdered.

Mary said, as though she had not heard: “There are Lord and Lady Fleming . . . and yes . . . Marie Courcelles and my dear . . . dear Seton.”

Mary could wait no longer; she went down to the courtyard to greet the newcomers.

There had been no mistake; she was almost weeping with joy. She would have no ceremony; she took these dear people one by one into her arms and embraced them all.

“Your Majesty is not more happy to see us than we are to come,” Seton told her.

“My dearest Seton!” cried Mary. “How can I tell you all how much I love you!”

Now it seemed that he had a suite worthy of a Queen. There were twenty-eight people in her entourage, for they had brought with them a cook, a pantler and a patissier.

“There will doubtless be more coming to your service,” Marie Courcelles told her, “for when it was known that we proposed to follow you to England, there were many who wished to join us and announced their intention of following in our wake.”

“If this were but one of my own palaces I should order a banquet such as I never gave before,” Mary told them.

“The welcome you have given us brings us more pleasure than aught else could ever do,” Lord Fleming replied on behalf of them all.

It was wonderful to sit with Seton and Marie Courcelles and hear news of Scotland. The first subject they discussed was Lochleven and what had happened when Mary’s flight had been discovered. Seton told of the rage and despair of Sir William and how Lady Douglas could not help showing her pride in George who had had a hand in it all, and while condoling with William was obviously hoping that George would not suffer because of the help he had given the Queen.

“Nor shall he,” murmured Mary fervently, “if I can prevent it.”

It had been some time before Sir William noticed the loss of his keys and gave the alarm; by that time Mary was on the mainland. The commotion in the castle had been tremendous. Sir William’s great concern had been how to break out and give the alarm, and to send guards in search of the escaping party.

“As for Will Drysdale,” went on Seton, “when he returned he swore that if George and Willie Douglas ever fell into his hands he would cut them into collops and wash his hands in their hearts’ blood.”

Mary shuddered. “I must make sure they never do,” she answered.

There was little good news Seton had to impart, so she changed the subject of what was happening in Scotland and expressed her displeasure at the Queen’s appearance.

“Your Majesty’s hair!”

“Yes,” Mary agreed. “It has suffered without you. I know you are the best busker in Scotland—and, I doubt not, in England also. Seton, when we go to Hampton Court you must not let Elizabeth lure you from me.”

“As if anyone could ever lure me from Your Majesty!”

“They say she is very vain, Seton. She will doubtless envy me my busker.”

“Then she may envy all she wishes. I should like to get to work on your hair at once.”

“All in good time, Seton. You must not let Jane Kennedy notice your contempt though. She believes herself to be a very good busker. So we must have a care.” Then Mary sighed. “Why do I talk of frivolous things when my heart is so full? But I must go on or I shall weep. So Seton, how will you dress my hair? What are you going to say when you see that I have but one red brocade dress, given me by Lady Curwen who took pity on my poverty? And thirteen ells of red velvet . . . also a gift of pity. How shall we make up those thirteen ells . . . eh, Seton?”

Then Mary took her closest friend in her arms and they laughed and cried together.

THE NEXT DAY, sitting alone with the Queen, Seton spoke of Bothwell.

“There is news of him,” he told Mary, “and I have been wondering whether it would grieve you to hear it.”

“It may grieve me,” said Mary, “but I must know it.”

“He is alive.”

Mary was silent. Speaking of him brought back such vivid memories; and yet she was not sure that she wished to see him. Her experiences since Carberry Hill had changed her so much; how could she know what the woman she had become would feel toward the bold Borderer?