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

Bessie shook her head emphatically. “Can you always do it like that?” she asked.

He snapped his fingers. “Like that!” he said.

Bessie’s eyes were full of speculation. He laughed. “Next time,” he said, “do not cry. Come to me.”

There were shouts from below. There was bustle everywhere. The peaceful atmosphere of the castle was shattered. There was no doubt now that the Countess of Shrewsbury had come home.

Bessie hesitated and then flung her arms about the Frenchman’s neck and kissed him. She was happy because she knew that she had a new friend, and it was somehow wonderful because she had found him at precisely that hour when her grandmother had come home.

HAD BESSIE KNOWN IT, her grandmother’s thoughts were far from Latin exercises. As soon as she had settled her important guests into the castle and harried her servants into preparing a banquet worthy of them, she made her way to Mary’s apartments and asked her permission to see her.

Mary received her at once, asked if she had had a pleasant change and told her how sorry she was that she had been caught by the inclement weather.

Bess shrugged aside the weather. A wetting never hurt anyone, she was sure. Indeed, thought Mary, she looks more energetic than ever, and so triumphant that something important surely must have taken place. So little excitement was happening to her that Mary longed to hear Bess’s news, and said so.

“Such news, Your Majesty, that I could hardly wait to reach Sheffield to ask your help and advice.”

Mary could not help smiling. She was sure that Bess only wished her to confirm the wisdom of what she had decided to do. That was what Bess would call taking advice—because advice was something she would never take from anyone.

“It is my foolish daughter. What does Your Majesty think! The child has fallen in love . . . and so unwisely. I am torn in two. It is such a pleasure to see her happiness, but I am, alas, so fearful for her.”

“You mean Elizabeth?”

“Elizabeth, yes. Your Majesty will see the change in her. She is quite different from the girl who left Sheffield with me. She has fallen in love with Lennox. Charles Stuart, if you please. I said to her: ‘You foolish girl . . . what can come of such a match?’”

Mary was silent. Her father-in-law, the Earl of Lennox, who was father of this young man, had hated her. He had called for her blood, believing her to have been involved in the murder of his son, Lord Darnley. But that Earl was dead now, and his wife, Margaret, was of a gentler nature and she would know that, whatever else Mary was capable of, it was not murder.

She was aware that Bess was watching her covertly. “What can I do?” she moaned. “May I implore Your Majesty’s help?”

“I would help you with all my heart, if it were in my power to do so,” said Mary. “But I fear Elizabeth would never agree to the match, and you know it would be necessary to have her consent since, if Elizabeth died without heirs and I and my son followed her to the grave, young Lennox would be considered by some to be the heir of England.”

Bess’s eyes were sparkling, so she hastily covered them and murmured: “My foolish child. My poor Elizabeth!”

Then she sighed deeply and said: “May I bring the young people to you, and the Countess with them? They want to tell you themselves how much they love each other, how desolate they will be for the rest of their lives if cruel fate should part them.”

“I should be happy to receive them.”

“And, Your Majesty, will you help me to comfort these poor young people?”

“If they truly love and are to be parted, none of us will be able to comfort them.”

“I continually ask myself whether a way can be found out of this trouble.”

“There are only two ways open for them,” answered Mary. “They must separate and live with their unhappiness; or marry and face whatever punishment Elizabeth thinks they deserve.”

“I cannot bear to think of their misery. I almost believe that . . . ” Bess looked cautiously at Mary. Then she sighed. “But I will bring them to you, and you may judge of their love.”

“Bring them with all speed,” said Mary. “I long to see them.”

WHEN MARY SAW the young people together, she had no doubt of their love. She was very sorry for them, and wished that she had the power of Elizabeth to grant them their wish.

Margaret Lennox lingered when the others had left with Bess, and Mary guessed that the Countess had told them that she wished to speak with her in private.

When the door had closed and they were alone, Margaret said: “I have news for Your Majesty. I have been with George Douglas who is awaiting the opportunity to bring my grandson—your son—out of Scotland. He has a ship in readiness which will carry the boy to Spain.”

Mary clasped her hands. “I pray it may succeed. My little boy is constantly in my thoughts. I fear for his safety while he is in the hands of such men.”

Although Margaret Lennox had been loud in her condemnation of Mary during her husband’s lifetime when she had deeply mourned the death of Darnley, she had always been inclined to doubt Mary’s complicity in the murder; now she was certain of Mary’s innocence and wanted to make amends for the accusations of the past. She had believed Mary, a mother herself, would understand her grief at Darnley’s death. She was certain of that now. Mary was ready to trust her and, when she saw Mary’s anguish on account of her son, it was clearly ridiculous to imagine that such a gentle, loving woman could have taken part in that cold-blooded murder.

So now Margaret had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the plot to remove young James from Scotland and carry him off to Spain. James was Mary’s son but he was also her grandson, and the child’s plight was therefore of deepest concern to them both.

“The poor child, in Morton’s hands, left to the care of that odious Buchanan!” said Margaret with a shiver. “I have provided Douglas with money . . . the King of Spain is prepared to receive the boy. It is now only a matter of waiting for an opportunity to rescue him.”

They talked for a long time of this plan, and at length the Countess said: “What think you of this love between my son and Elizabeth Cavendish?”

“I think that it is indeed love on the part of the two young people.”

“I am inclined to say to them: Marry, and face the consequences after. It is rarely that one sees such love among people of the nobility. Marriages are arranged for them; they miss that ecstasy which is so sweet.”

Mary thought of her marriage with Francois. No ecstasy there. She had briefly loved Darnley, until he had killed her love with his unworthiness; as for Bothwell . . . that was a mad, all-consuming passion. It had brought her brief ecstasy and these dreary years of imprisonment. Yet she knew that if she had to choose again, she would choose Bothwell.

“If I were in their places . . . ” she began.

The Countess of Lennox looked at her swiftly: “Your Majesty would choose love, I know. There is too little love in the world. I believe, if these young people had the support of myself, of the Countess of Shrewsbury and Your Majesty, they would not hesitate.”

“What of the Earl?”

“Oh, you know how the Countess manages matters in this household. She will not have told him as yet.”

“He would never agree to go against his Queen’s wishes. He would ask her permission for them to marry.”

“To do that would be an end to their hopes. Elizabeth would never consent.”

“Then,” said Mary, “if they wish to marry, they should do so and tell Elizabeth afterward. If their love is deep enough they will think it well worthwhile to accept whatever punishment she may inflict.”

A few days later Elizabeth Cavendish and Charles Stuart, Earl of Lennox, were married.