The Captive Queen of Scots - Plaidy Jean - Страница 76
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Each day melancholy news was brought to Mary of the suffering of her supporters, who could not hold out against the military superiority of the English.
That winter and early spring were desperate days, and in addition to her sorrow and despair Mary suffered the return of the pains in her limbs and the sickness which seemed to her to grow out of the contaminated air of Tutbury.
She found small comfort in her tapestry and the companionship of her faithful friends. Bess and George Talbot were friendly, but she knew that they were—as they must be—spies for their Queen. They were not harsh jailors, but they were determined not to let her escape.
“How I wish,” she told Bess, “that I could ride out into the country now and then. I should love to have my horses again; I always had my dogs, for I love the creatures. I sadly miss having no animals of my own.”
“It may be that someday the Queen will consent to your having pets if you wish for them,” was all Bess offered. Yet Mary believed that, had Bess decided she might have a little dog, she would not have thought it necessary to ask the Queen’s permission.
There was some good news. When Scotland was defeated and there was no longer any hope that an army of Mary’s faithful followers would come marching to Tutbury to rescue her, Elizabeth released the Bishop of Ross from the Tower.
But even when Scotland was subdued, there were continuous arrests of those who had rebelled in the North and many were taken to London, tortured, and finally subjected to the horrible traitor’s death. Mary knew that these men were tortured in the hope that they would betray her as having urged them to rebel against the Queen of England.
Each day when she arose she wondered whether it would be her last on Earth; every time there was an arrival at the castle she wondered whether an order had been brought to conduct her to the Tower.
THE EARL OF SHREWSBURY had recovered from his sickness, and the gentleness Bess had shown him during his illness had disappeared. She was sharp and domineering, and there were times when George Talbot deeply regretted having married her.
Often he would find himself comparing her with two women—the Queen and the serving maid.
He was deeply aware of Eleanor Britton and it seemed to him that in the course of the day he saw more of her than he did of any other person. Perhaps he was always aware of her; perhaps he sought her out, and she was eager to be sought. When he sent for a serving girl, it was often Eleanor who came; he found himself thinking of the tasks he could give to one of the serving girls; thus she came often to his apartments.
It was dusk and when he had sent for a girl to light a fire in his ante-chamber, it was Eleanor who came, graceful, hesitant yet eager, her coarse gown cut low to show her white skin; her apron clean, having been hastily donned since she was to come to him; her hair was hidden by her cap and he felt an irresistible urge to see it.
“My lord desires a fire?” she asked in her gentle voice.
He nodded.
She said: “I have just lighted one in the Queen’s apartments, where my lady sits with Her Majesty. They are together at the tapestry.”
She did not move as he came toward her.
He took off her cap, and her hair fell about her shoulders; it was long, thick and gold-colored.
“It seems a shame to hide it,” he murmured.
She was waiting breathlessly for what would happen next; although she knew; and he knew; for in that moment they both realized that this was inevitable. This was what they had been waiting for since they had first become aware of each other.
DURING THAT LONG WINTER, Mary suffered greatly from the rigors of Tutbury. She was longing for the spring to come. When she received the news that a papal bull had been obtained, which dissolved her marriage with Bothwell on the grounds of rape, she was devoid of emotion. There was one thing it did teach her though; she was free of Bothwell in all ways. She no longer thought of him as her husband; she thought of herself as a widow—Darnley’s widow—and it was as though that most turbulent relationship had never existed.
She longed to change her state of widowhood. Sometimes she would call Seton, Jane and the others to her and discuss the gowns she would have made after her marriage. It would be wonderful, she told them, to have beautiful clothes again. “I shall have some little dogs,” she declared. “Oh, how I long to be free again!”
Of the desires which were nearest to her heart she spoke rarely. Most of all she longed to see her son again. He was a sturdy little fellow now and the letters she enjoyed receiving most were those which contained some scrap of news of him. He was astonishing his tutors by his cleverness, for he had a natural aptitude for book leaning. He was in the charge of the Earl and Countess of Mar who, like all her enemies, did their best to make her son forget he had a mother. But he was a wise little boy, and obstinate; she learned that he asked questions only of those who he believed would give him truthful answers.
So it was a delightful daydream to picture herself in the company of her son, with her husband beside her. She had endowed Norfolk with all the qualities she looked for in a husband. It was true that she had seen him rarely, but she knew him to be young and personable; they had corresponded frequently since those days when Lady Scrope had smuggled letters in and out of Bolton Castle. She believed that he was serious, devoted, affectionate and wise—everything that she longed for in a husband. She would not believe that she had created a myth out of her own desire and desperate need.
Those were happy days which brought a letter from Norfolk or one containing news of her son; and doubly precious were those letters since there was such a risk in sending and receiving them.
One day there came a letter from an old French servant of hers who had found service in young James’s household.
She wrote: “When Lady Mar inquires of him whom he loves best, his mother or her, he replies boldly, although he knows the answer will displease: ‘My Mother.’”
Mary sat reading those words again and again, and when Seton came to her she found her seated in her chair holding the letter against her breast while the tears fell unheeded.
BESS CAME INTO the Queen’s apartment, her face alight with satisfaction.
“Good news, Your Majesty. Huntingdon has received his marching orders.”
Mary showed her relief. She understood, of course. The rebellion in Scotland was quashed; the Queen of England believed she need not fear the Catholics of the North. It was possible to relax the rigorous rules which it had been necessary to impose during such disturbances.
“I guessed that you would be pleased,” went on Bess. “So now Shrewsbury and I are in sole charge. I can tell, Your Majesty, you cannot be more pleased than I. The idea of having that man . . . in my house . . . giving his orders, enraged me.”
“It was the price you paid for disobeying the Queen’s orders.”
Bess smiled triumphantly. “I do believe that Shrewsbury would not be here today if I had not insisted on his taking the baths.” She studied Mary. “Your Majesty would benefit from a trip to Buxton. I must speak to the Queen. Not immediately though. We are still not quite back in favor.”
“You believe that the baths would help to rid me of these pains in my limbs?”
Bess who had never felt a pain herself nodded vigorously. Let the Queen believe she was receiving the right treatment, and her pains would disappear. The only illnesses Bess believed in were those which were manifest by some outward sign. For instance, when the Earl had been unable to speak or move she accepted the fact that he was very ill. Mary’s ailments, she believed, grew out of boredom produced by captivity.
“I will suggest it later. In the meantime I have written to Her Majesty to tell her that you are melancholy in this place and that it does not suit your health. I have asked for a move.”
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