The Captive Queen of Scots - Plaidy Jean - Страница 103

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Thinking of Seton’s fate, as she so often did, Mary was determined that this bright young girl should not suffer in the same way. Whenever she was able to lay her hands on rich materials—which were sometimes sent to her by friends in France through the French ambassador—it was clothes for Bessie that she planned. She had taught the girl to embroider, and as they sat together working on a new gown Bessie said suddenly: “It is twelve years that I have been with Your Majesty. I wonder if I shall always be with you.”

“Ah, Bessie, that must not be. One day you will marry and go away from me. I would not have you live your life in these drafty prisons.”

“Oh but . . . ” began Bessie, and she almost said: Jacques will be your secretary, and where Jacques is there must I be. Then she remembered that Jacques had said they must keep their secret as yet.

Mary laid her hand over Bessie’s. “My dearest,” she said, “I can never explain how much your presence here has meant to me. I lost my own child and to some extent you took his place. That is why, even though it will grieve me to lose you, I shall be happy to see you go . . . when the time comes.”

“Your Majesty,”—Bessie spoke breathlessly—” when do you think . . . the time will come for me to go?”

“It will not be long delayed,” answered Mary with a smile. “I will tell you something else. You do not think your grandmother could resist making a grand marriage for you, do you?”

Bessie was silent as the numbness of fear crept over her. Mary however did not notice the change in her goddaughter and continued: “It is to be a grand marriage for you, my dear. The Countess of Shrewsbury certainly has plans for you. It is some time now since she decided on a husband for you.”

“Who . . . ?” stammered Bessie.

“My Lord Percy, eldest son of the Earl of Northumberland.”

Bessie was staring down at the material in her hands; defiance was born in her then. Never! Never! Never! she was saying over and over again to herself.

“So you see,” went on the Queen, “you have not been forgotten, my dear; and when the time comes I shall use all my influence to bring about this match, for I consider it, though one of the best possible, not too good for my own dear grandchild.”

“I do not wish to marry Lord Percy,” said Bessie in a stony voice.

The Queen laughed. “You will . . . in time, my love.”

“I never shall,” replied Bessie vehemently.

She was trembling; she was about to throw herself at the Queen’s feet, to confess her love for Jacques, to implore Mary’s help. But Jacques had said that their love was to be a secret as yet . . . and she was afraid to do so. If her grandmother—the energetic Countess—had decided she was to marry Lord Percy, she must do something quickly.

She was saved from confessing the truth by the Queen’s next words. “I hear the sound of voices below. Someone is arriving at the castle.”

Mary had risen and the material had dropped to the floor. She still hoped that a messenger would bring news of her release, that some friend might have come to visit her, some loved one from Scotland or France, or perhaps Queen Elizabeth herself.

Bessie, trembling, went to the window and stood beside the Queen.

A man was being hustled into the castle; he looked harassed, as though he were a prisoner.

“I wonder who that can be,” said the Queen. “Bessie, go and see if you can find out.”

Bessie was glad to escape, but instead of obeying the Queen’s command she went straight to that chamber in which Jacques was working. He looked up from his writing table when he saw her, and for the moment all Bessie’s fears vanished as she watched the joy sweep over his face.

“My love!”

She ran to him and put her arms about his neck. “Oh Jacques . . . Jacques . . . what do you think? They are going to try to marry me to Lord Percy.”

He smiled into her frightened eyes, trying not to show that he shared her fear. “Why, Bessie,” he said, “do you think I should allow that?”

She laughed gaily. “Of course you wouldn’t. Neither of us would. We’d . . . die rather, wouldn’t we, Jacques.”

But her eyes were shining and she had no intention of dying. She was going to live and love.

In that moment young Bessie had a look of the grandmother whose name she shared.

SIR RALPH WAS INDULGING in his favorite occupation, which was composing letters to Elizabeth explaining why it would be wise to withdraw him from his post as guardian of the Queen of Scotland and put another in his place.

“I am crippled with rheumatism . . . I am unfit for this task . . . .” he murmured. How fortunate Shrewsbury was to escape it. But Shrewsbury had had fifteen years as jailor. Pray God he, Sadler, did not have to endure more than one.

He was particularly worried at this time, for he had found it necessary, on the testimony of that odious fellow Briggs, whom he had loathed on sight, to investigate the case of Nicholas Langford; and although Mr. Langford had answered his questions so plausibly that he could bring no accusation against him, his secretary, Rowland Kitchyn, had shown himself to be an ardent Catholic and had actually admitted serving the Mass.

Uncertain how to act, Sadler had had Rowland Kitchyn brought to Tutbury and was keeping him prisoner there while he submitted him to questioning.

If Sadler could prove Mary to be the center of a plot against Elizabeth, he would then go to London, see the Queen and implore her to send a younger and more healthy man to take charge of Mary. He was hoping that he would be able to prove this.

Rowland Kitchyn was each day brought from his dungeon in Tutbury Castle into the presence of Sadler and Somers and there questioned, but in spite of these examinations nothing could be drawn from him but the fact that he had served Mass; he refused to utter a word against his master and denied that he had been involved in a plot to free Mary and place her on the throne.

Since he admitted to being a Catholic, both Sadler and Somers thought it their duty to insist on his attending the chapel in order to hear prayers. As a Catholic, Rowland Kitchyn refused to attend the chapel; so before the service two guards were sent to his cell to bring him there; and often Mary would hear his cries of protest as he was dragged across the courtyard.

Bessie had discovered what was happening, for Jacques had told her.

Jacques was worried—not only because of the proposed match with Lord Percy, but because Sir Ralph Sadler was persecuting Rowland Kitchyn, whose only crime seemed to be that he was a Catholic.

“Bessie,” Jacques had said, “you and I are Catholics. If he decides to persecute one, he might persecute others.”

Bessie clung to him and said: “Jacques . . . what is happening all about us? Once I felt so safe. Now I feel safe no longer.”

Jacques did not answer that. He might have told her that they had been living in a dangerous world for as long as he could remember. The only difference was that Bessie was growing up and was becoming more and more aware of this.

“SETON,” said Mary, “what are they doing to that poor man?”

“They have brought him in for questioning, and they insist on his going to the chapel every day.”

“What does it mean, Seton?”

Seton shrugged her shoulders.

“Will they soon begin to persecute us, do you think?” asked Mary. “Do they drag him across the courtyard beneath my window every day, to remind me that I worship in a manner different from theirs?”

“Who can say?” sighed Seton.

“Oh, Seton, I am going to write to my aunt Renee. You are going to her. You must.”

Seton obstinately shook her head.

“Sometimes I despair of ever leaving my prison,” said Mary. “Sometimes I think I shall be carried from my prison to the tomb.”

“These are doleful thoughts, Your Majesty.”

“These are doleful times, Seton.”

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