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

“It is necessary that I do not have a return of my illness,” he retorted coldly.

“Then don’t beckon it back with such loving words. You talk too tenderly of your pains. What an unsympathetic wife I am! How different is your beautiful Queen; she listens and those lovely eyes are filled with compassion for poor Shrewsbury. Lovely eyes would not have nursed you back to health, George Talbot, nor would sympathetic sighs. Remember that.”

He did remember. It was why he felt so remorseful now that he was away from Eleanor. Perhaps he should end the liaison. A noble Earl and a serving wench! Not the first time it had happened, it was true—but this was no passing fancy. Perhaps when he returned to Chatsworth he would break off the relationship. Yes, he would. Bess might joke about his passion for the Queen of Scots; what would she say if she knew of that for Eleanor Britton?

He dared not think. He could almost feel the lash of her tongue now. And a woman like Bess would not stop at words. He warned himself that he must seriously consider ending the liaison.

But he knew that he would not.

THE DAYS SPENT AT BUXTON were the happiest Mary had known since her captivity had begun. She was now able to walk with her old springy step and the sounds of laughter came from her rooms in Low Buxton; she would play on her lute and sing songs with which she had once delighted the Court of France.

It needed little, thought those who loved her, to restore her spirits and make her well again. She suffered from no serious malady. She was young still, but she had always thrived on gaiety and she needed it now. The pains in her limbs would disappear if only she could enjoy a little comfort and did not have to pass her days and nights in big drafty apartments.

One day there was an expedition to Poole’s Hole, and thither Mary rode surrounded by her friends and guards. The cavern at the foot of Grinlaw Hill was only half a mile or so from Buxton, and when Mary arrived there she insisted on dismounting and entering the cave. Surrounded by ladies, guards and torch bearers, and stooping almost double, she made her way along the slippery passage, crying out warnings to those who followed; some of the ladies looked down at the stream below and shuddered because it would have been so easy to falter and stumble on those slippery stones. But Mary went on until she came to a group of stalactites, and here she paused to admire and call to her friends to do the same.

It was a weird scene there in the cave, lighted by the torches of those who had gone on ahead to show the way, the Queen’s animated face looking like an excited child’s in that light.

“It would be dangerous to go farther,” said one of the guards, and Mary immediately agreed that they should turn back.

It was Seton who said: “We will call that group of stalactites Queen Mary’s Pillar.”

Mary laughed with all her old gaiety. “It was worthwhile coming so far to give it my name,” she added.

Then with some torch bearers going on ahead and others bringing up the rear, the party made its way out of the cavern and back to Low Buxton.

Those happy days at Buxton passed all too quickly, but with the coming of September it was necessary to return to Chatsworth.

ALL THROUGH SEPTEMBER and October Mary’s health remained good. She would sit with her friends over her tapestry and they would recall the visit to Buxton.

“Next year,” said Mary, “I shall hope to go for the whole of the season. How pleasant it would be if we could spend June, July and August there . . . .”

She stopped suddenly and a grave expression crossed her face. Seton, watching, understood. Mary was thinking that she had become accustomed to being the prisoner of the Queen of England.

At the end of October the weather changed and the sunny days they had spent at Buxton seemed far away.

“I am thankful,” said Seton, “that we are at Chatsworth. Sheffield would not be so comfortable with the winter coming on.”

“Or Tutbury!” added Mary with a shudder.

And here again, she thought, I betray my resignation to my fate. I think as a prisoner, and I am grateful for a prisoner’s concession.

Bess came to her apartments in a dark mood.

“Orders from Elizabeth,” she announced, and Mary knew before she was told that Bess was angry because she was being ordered to leave her beloved Chatsworth.

“I trust we are not going to be moved from Chatsworth,” said Mary.

“I fear so. Her Majesty has heard that you have uttered complaints against her. She declares herself to be shocked by your ingratitude.”

“Should I be so grateful for my long imprisonment?”

“Someone has evidently carried tales to Her Majesty. She is most displeased. She writes that she fears you have too much freedom at Chatsworth. We are to return without delay to Sheffield.”

XIV

Return to Sheffield

SO BACK TO SHEFFIELD CAME MARY, and those who were close to her were aware of the change in her. She was no longer the hopeful young girl who believed that shortly she would be rescued and restored to her throne. It was as though she had come to terms with life; as though she had told herself: This is how it must be and I must therefore try to make this restricted life as happy as I can for those who have made sacrifices in order to be with me; thus I can find something to make life pleasant.

Since she had been to Buxton and her health had been so much better she tried to enjoy a little gaiety in her apartments. She made plans for working elaborate tapestry and wrote to the French ambassador asking him to buy her materials in France.

“There,” she explained to her ladies, “he can find colors which are more beautiful than those obtainable in London; and the silks are finer.”

Seton guessed that she planned to make a present for the Queen of England, knowing how Elizabeth loved to receive gifts. Perhaps thus, mused Mary, she may be persuaded to view my position with more kindness.

She longed for some little pets, for she loved all animals and in particular little dogs.

“I could be so happy if I had a few little dogs to care for. I shall write to France for them. Surely someone will send me a little dog. I would not wish for only one. He would need a companion. I would not have him lonely. And I must ask for them to be sent in baskets with warm coverlets. I would have them prepared for the cold in Sheffield Castle.”

She also asked her French friends to send her some clothes for which she would pay when she could recover some of her possessions.

“Ah, Seton,” she said, “do you remember the caps I used to wear with crowns of gold and silver? How becoming they were! I remember the King of France once told me that they became none as they did me. I should like some more. But perhaps there are newer fashions now. I shall ask for the latest designs to be sent to me. But perhaps I should not wear them myself but send them to Elizabeth. She is always eager to see the French fashions, I heard, and to be the first to wear them.”

So the days were now spent in planning tapestry designs and hoping for the arrival of the little dogs. It was less exciting but more restful than making dangerous plans for escape.

There were times when the yearning to see little James was so strong that the Queen lapsed into melancholy; and Bess, realizing this and feeling sorry for the Queen, decided to do something about it.

Bess, who had her children with her and took an active part in their affairs, could therefore understand Mary’s grief in being parted from her only son; and, since that son was a King, in Bess’s eyes it made the situation even more tragic.