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

“That is not possible,” answered Mary.

“If Your Majesty is thinking of your marriage to Bothwell, that has been happily dealt with and is not regarded as a marriage.”

Mary was silent. She could not tell Cecil that she was pledged to Norfolk, for the contract between them had been a secret. She could only shake her head and murmur: “It is not possible.”

Cecil was alert. The Queen of Scots was without guile. There was some reason why she was so emphatic. If reports did not lie she had been friendly toward George Carey when he had visited her. There was some plot afoot, he believed; some reason why she was so set against the proposed marriage. Had she her eyes on Don Jon? The romantic hero would undoubtedly appeal to such a woman as she was.

He did not press the point, but turned from it to talk of the kindness of his mistress, Queen Elizabeth, who sought to help the Queen of Scots, if she would but let herself be helped.

All the time he was thinking: We must increase our watchfulness. On no account must she be allowed to slip out of our hands, out of England to our enemies across the water.

MARY FORGOT the presence of the English statesman at Chatsworth, for one of her most trusted friends had been stricken with sickness. This was John Beaton, the Laird of Creich, who had been the master of her household. He had been working zealously in her cause ever since she had escaped from Lochleven, and to see him on his sickbed filled her with such anxiety that she forgot her own concerns.

Seton shared her distress and wanted to nurse him herself. Mary agreed that she should, and added that she too would act as nurse, for John was so grievously sick that he needed the two of them.

So day and night Seton and Mary remained in the sickroom; but it soon became pitiably obvious that there was nothing they could do to save John’s life.

Seton was alone in the sickroom one evening while Mary was taking a little rest, when a young man came in and stood at the end of the bed looking at the sick man. His face was so marked with anguish that Seton rose and, going to him, laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You must not grieve so much, Andrew,” she said.

“My brother is going to die,” said Andrew Beaton.

“I am going to send for the Bishop now, Andrew. I think the time has come.”

“I will bring him here.”

When he had gone Seton placed a cool cloth on the sick man’s fevered forehead and sat beside his bed waiting, for there was nothing else she could do. In a short time Lesley came back with Andrew Beaton and looked grave when he saw the appearance of the sick man.

“We will leave you with him,” said Seton, and slipping her arm through that of Andrew Beaton she drew him from the room.

Outside they stood silently for a few seconds, then Andrew said: “I know how you have nursed him . . . you and the Queen. How can I thank you?”

“There is no need to thank us, Andrew,” answered Seton. “We are exiles . . . we are prisoners . . . we work together, and if any one of us has trouble, that is the trouble of us all.”

He took her hand then and kissed it.

He thought there was something ethereal about Mary Seton—something saintly, not of this world. It seemed to him in that moment that he had never seen a face so beautiful.

He walked slowly away; he knew that he loved Mary Seton.

CECIL WAS FEELING that his visit to Chatsworth was a failure. He had achieved nothing through his interview with Mary except a sensation of great unease. He would return to Court and tell the Queen that he felt she should be moved from Chatsworth. A move was always a good thing at such a time—unsettling to conspirators.

It was while he was musing thus that a servant came to tell him that a young man, calling himself by the name of Rolleston, wished to see him; the matter was of great urgency.

Cecil, who had never heard the young man’s name before, hesitated; then said he would see the man. One could never be sure where important information might come from, and he had not reached his present eminence by ignoring such a rule.

Rolleston turned out to be a very young man, scarcely more than a boy, with the earnest eyes of a fanatic.

“What is it you have to say to me?” Cecil asked him.

“I have to tell you, sir, that I know of a plot to rescue the Queen from Chatsworth and put her on a boat at Harwich.”

Cecil showed no sign of the excitement he was feeling.

“Tell me more of this plot,” he said quietly.

“Thomas and Edward Stanley are at its head. They plan that the Queen shall escape from her window by means of a cord. It is arranged with her servants, and will very shortly take place.”

“Are you involved in this plot?”

The boy flushed painfully and drew himself up to his full height. “I am a loyal subject of my Queen Elizabeth. I take no part in plots against her.”

“Well spoken,” replied Cecil. “How then do you know of this plot?”

The boy hesitated as though he were fighting an inner battle with his conscience. Then he blurted out: “Because my father is involved in it.”

“You have done well,” said Cecil. “The Queen will not forget one who serves her. Now the names of the conspirators . . . and all the details you have. I believe we have little time to lose.”

WHEN THE CHIEF conspirators were under arrest, Cecil wrote to Elizabeth telling of what was happening at Chatsworth.

“It would seem, Your Majesty, that the Queen of Scots enjoys too much liberty at Chatsworth. It might be advisable to remove her from that place. Shrewsbury could take her to his castle in Sheffield, which to my mind would be a meet and fitting place to house her.”

XII

Sheffield

IT WAS ON A BLEAK NOVEMBER DAY that Mary traveled over the mountains from Chatsworth to Sheffield. Through the mist she caught her first glimpse of her new prison, which stood on a hill above that spot where the rivers Don and Sheaf met, the latter giving its name to the nearby town. The fame of this town was already known to Mary because it was noted for the mineral wealth which had enabled its inhabitants to become the foremost manufacturers of edged tools such as knives, spear and arrow heads.

The Earl had decided that she should not go at once to the castle but occupy the more cozy Manor House which was about two miles from it and in the center of a wooded park. Bess had pointed out that the Queen would find Sheffield less comfortable than Chatsworth, and that as the winter lay before them the Manor House would provide a more congenial lodging than the castle.

So to the Manor House came Mary. On that day when the trees were dripping with moisture, and the spiders’ webs, draped over the bushes, looked as though they were strung with tiny crystal beads, Mary felt a numbing sense of foreboding. Seton, close to her as ever, understood her thoughts. Thus must it ever be when they entered a new prison. They must always wonder how long they would stay and whether this would be their last resting place.

The situation was charming enough with avenues of oak and walnut leading to the house from several directions, and in the manor, which had two courts, an outer and inner, Mary had been allotted a suite which was adequate for her needs.

Yet as she entered the Manor House she said to Seton: “I remember hearing that it was to this place that Cardinal Wolsey came after his arrest. I seem to feel his spirit lingers still. I understand so well his feeling, for he had fallen from greatness. He went on to Leicester to die. I wonder what my fate will be.”

Seton tried to brush away such melancholy thoughts.

“It is always difficult to adjust ourselves to a new lodging,” she said.