Queen of This Realm - Plaidy Jean - Страница 77

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Yes, I did know, and I understood that a man in Robert's position had many enemies. But could this story be true? I knew that Douglass Sheffield and her sister had been enamored of him. Had others seen that—and when Douglass's husband died rather mysteriously, had they fabricated the story to discountenance Robert?

It might well be—but on the other hand it might not.

The gossips said that Robert had had a love affair with Douglass Sheffield. This was possible. He was a man and certainly he had no sexual satisfaction from me. I had often thought that he must seek that elsewhere, and if he did so all well and good…as long as I did not know about it, and it was done discreetly and out of sight. That was one condition which I was sure Robert understood.

Apparently this affair with Douglass Sheffield had gone farther. He had, it was said, written a letter to her which he had asked her to destroy as soon as she had read it, but, foolish woman that she was, she had failed to do this. In this letter he had stated that he would marry her when her husband died, and he had added that damning sentence “and that may not be very long.”

It was like the casket letters all over again. What fools people were to put these dangerous thoughts on paper! What greater fools not to destroy them when they had been read!

She had kept the letter under her pillow to read it many times during the days and nights; and then the little idiot had dropped it; she hunted everywhere and could not find it. Of course she could not, for it had already been found by her sister-in-law who promptly took it to Douglass's husband.

And what did Lord Sheffield do on reading that letter? He decided to go to London to arrange for a divorce from the wife who, with her lover he believed, was seeking to murder him. Then came the damning part. Lord Sheffield died before he could show the letter to his lawyers and his death was due to dysentery—often the result of poison.

Why should Lord Sheffield have died so suddenly when he was about to disclose the relationship between Robert and his wife?

Well, it made a good subject for gossip. The alarming part was that Sheffield was dead. I could not believe though that Robert had planned to marry Douglass. He would know how furious I should be to receive such news, and he would never risk my anger for the sake of that silly little woman. On the other hand, could he have written such a letter? Yes, possibly in the hope of seducing the woman if she were holding out against him; and then when he was about to be exposed could he have arranged Sheffield's death?

I did not know. There was so much I did not know about Robert. Was that why he was so fascinating?

How often I had asked myself: How did Amy Robsart die? Was it an accident? Did she commit suicide? Or was she hastened to her death—and if so who would want that more than Robert? He would wish Lord Sheffield dead if he were going to create a scandal which would come to my ears.

I could never be sure.

It was a disturbing end to the otherwise pleasant visit to Warwick.

THAT AUGUST WE had news of one of the greatest catastrophes the world has ever known. It set Christian men and women all over the world shivering and turning in disgust from the King and Queen Mother of France, at whose instigation it must have taken place.

I refer to the massacre on St Bartholomew's Eve when many of the leading Huguenots of France were gathered together in Paris for the marriage of Marguerite, daughter of Catherine de' Medici, and my one-time suitor Henri of Navarre. He miraculously escaped, but few of his faith did.

The horror of it, the cruelty of it, the folly of it, were hard to believe.

I could not stop thinking of that terrible night when the tocsins rang out announcing the massacre was about to begin and when the Catholics went into the streets bent on murdering those of their fellow countrymen who did not wish to worship God in the same way that they did.

Charles the King, we knew, was mad; but surely that wily serpent, his mother, knew better than this! Why had she roused the city of Paris to this frenzy? Could she not see that generations to come would revile her?

People at Court spoke of nothing else and they spoke in whispers—not with the usual excitement which one sees on people's faces when ill news is told of others. No! There was no one who was not bitterly shocked and dismayed by what had happened.

The French were regarded as monsters; I could not bring myself to receive La Mothe Fenelon, though that cultivated and fastidious gentleman was in no way to blame and I was sure fully realized the folly of this wanton cruelty and the odium in which it would place his country.

I saw him eventually and decided the meeting should take place at Woodstock, but to stress my horror at what had taken place I ordered that all my courtiers should be dressed in black.

There was a deep silence when La Mothe entered the chamber and, taking a few steps toward him, I said: “I regret that I have kept you waiting for an audience, my lord. Pray tell me is it possible that this terrible news we have had is true?”

“Your Majesty, I come to lament with you over this sad accident. My King deeply regrets that for the sake of his life and that of his family it was necessary to put down traitorous plots of men who had conspired against him. What has happened has been as painful to the King of France as though one of his arms had to be cut off to save the rest of his body.”

“I do not understand, my lord. You must explain to me why it was necessary to murder thousands of Huguenots in cold blood.”

I was sorry for La Mothe. It is always a difficult task for ambassadors to try to find excuses for their masters. He flustered through his explanations, stressing the perfidy of the great Admiral de Coligny, who, we all knew, was one of the most saintly men living.

“If the Admiral was indeed guilty of treason could he not have been tried and brought to justice?” I asked. “Was it necessary to kill so many?”

“It was a grim accident. Orders were misinterpreted…”

I took pity on him. One should not blame ambassadors for their kings' misdemeanors.

The Council came to hear his explanations.

“Accidents! Mistakes!” they cried. “St Bartholomew's Eve will be remembered in the centuries to come as one of the greatest blots on the history of France.”

Burghley said: “It is the greatest crime since the Crucifixion.”

AFTER THE MASSACRE there was a strong determination among those about me to be rid of Mary Stuart.

The chief instigator of this was, oddly enough, Burghley. He was by no means a bloodthirsty man, but he was an ardent Protestant and it was such as he who had been particularly horrified by what had happened. I think in his heart he was terrified that if anything happened to me, Mary Stuart would take the throne and he dreaded to think to what terror the country could be brought under a rule of the Catholics. I could understand that. It was not so long ago that we had smelt the burning flesh in Smithfield.

I was the one who hesitated. I could not forget that she was my kinswoman—and, of course, she was royal. I was very like my grandfather who did not want to shed blood wantonly. He would kill though if he thought his throne was threatened. I had believed I would do the same; but somehow I could not condemn Mary Stuart to the scaffold.

Burghley pointed out that I had ample reason for doing so. Had she not written to Norfolk? Did she not join in the plan to kill me and set herself up in my place?

I knew this, but somehow I could not believe that Mary had really agreed willingly to my assassination. Why not? Had she not agreed to Darnley's?

It was Robert who came up with the idea that we should let others remove Mary for us. It was a devious plot and perhaps characteristic of Robert. It occurred to me that he was good at such plotting. Had he plotted thus for the removal of Amy Robsart and Lord Sheffield? I reproached myself for these thoughts. Now he was only thinking of my good as he assured me he did night and day. My welfare was his chief concern.

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