The Captive Queen of Scots - Plaidy Jean - Страница 86
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LIFE HAD BECOME STRANGE; Mary did not notice the passing weeks. She lived in a daze, sleeping a great deal of the time, going over the past when she was awake, constantly expecting a summons to death.
She could not go on in that state, thought Bess; but perhaps it was as well that she seemed so indifferent at this time. Shrewsbury was panic-stricken. He was wondering how much blame would be attached to him over this Ridolfi matter. He had become as he had been before his attack; Bess was a little anxious, particularly as of recent months he had seemed to be more serene.
He would grow out of this new phase, she promised herself. Each day carried them—if not Mary—farther from trouble. If Elizabeth had meant to reprimand them, she would have done so by now.
Mary’s spirits were raised a little when he heard from Lesley who had now been released from the Tower and, though still a prisoner of state, had been removed to Farnham Castle in Surrey where the Bishop of Winchester was his host and jailor. He sent her a book of meditations in Latin which he himself had written.
Mary roused herself from her lethargy to write to him and tell him that the knowledge that he was no longer in the Tower and had sent her his book brought her great comfort.
AUGUST CAME and it was stiflingly hot in the Queen’s apartments.
She lay listlessly dreaming of the past, and Seton came to sit beside her bed.
“Would Your Majesty not like to work at your tapestry?”
“No, Seton. I have no interest in it.”
“You know how it soothes you.”
“I do not think I could be easily soothed now, Seton.”
“Your Majesty should rouse yourself. This sorrow will pass like all others.”
“That may be, Seton. But what is at the end of it? How long have I been in England? What is the day?”
“It is the 24th day of August, Your Majesty, in the year 1572.”
“The 24th day of August, Seton. Is that not St. Bartholomew’s Eve?”
“It is indeed.”
“It was in June that they killed him . . . early June. It is nearly three months since he died.”
“Too long to mourn. Tears will not bring him back.”
“You are right, Seton, as you so often are. I believe now that in time I may begin to forget. Oh, Seton, if only some good would come to me! If only my French relations would do something to help me. Do you remember our days in France?”
“It is not easy to forget the happiest days of one’s life.”
“Those were the happy days, Seton. I will write to the King . . . reminding him.”
“Try to sleep now.”
“I will, Seton, and in the morning I will write to dear friends in France . . . to my uncles, to my grandmother, to the King my brother-in-law . . . even to the Queen-Mother.”
“I shall remember,” replied Seton, and there was a note of happiness in her voice, “that you began to throw off your grief on the Eve of St. Bartholomew.”
THE NEWS CAME to Sheffield Castle and Mary listened to it aghast. Terrible tragedy had struck the city of Paris, and it seemed that this tragedy was being repeated in the main cities of France. On the Eve of St. Bartholomew the Catholics had risen against the Huguenots and there had been slaughter in the streets such as had never been known before. The Admiral de Coligny had been brutally murdered and vile sport had been made with his body; he was but one of thousands of brave men who were dying in the streets of France on account of their Faith.
The Queen of England and her Protestant minister expressed their horror of such butchery; all over England there were cries of “Down with the Papists!” And it was said that one of the leaders and instigators of this most terrible massacre was the Duke of Guise, kinsman of the Queen of Scots.
In the streets of London and many cities in England men and women gathered to talk of what was happening across the Channel.
“It must never happen here,” they cried. “This is a good Protestant country. We’ll have no popery here.”
Then they remembered the revolt of the Northern Catholics, and many recalled the days of the Queen’s half-sister who was known as Bloody Mary because of the fires of Smithfield which, in her day, had consumed the bodies of good Protestant men and women.
There was another Catholic Queen in their midst. She was a prisoner in Sheffield Castle, but since she had been in England she had caused trouble enough.
“Down with popery!” shouted the people. “Down with the fair devil of Scotland!”
IT WOULD BE WELL, said Elizabeth, to keep a strict watch on the Queen of Scotland, for her own safety, because when the people of England had heard of the conduct of her Catholic friends and relations in France they were ready to tear her apart.
Now was the time, thought Elizabeth, to sever Mary’s head from her body, for never would she be as unpopular as she was now.
But Elizabeth remembered the Catholics in the land who were perhaps at this moment waiting to rise, as their fellow Catholics had risen in Paris.
No, she would restrain herself. The Queen of Scots should remain her prisoner. It should not be said that she had agreed to her execution because she feared her greater right to the throne.
Let her rest in prison strictly guarded. That was the best place for her.
The right moment will come, Elizabeth told herself. Then the deed can be performed with a good conscience and none will be able to say that Elizabeth of England slew her rival because she went in fear of her. Nay, at a time when it would have been so easy to bring her to the block, she, Elizabeth, had cherished her, protected her from the infuriated Protestants of England, remembering the respect due to royalty, desiring to show the world that she feared no one and would not consent to Mary’s execution merely because she could enjoy greater peace of mind in a world where Mary was not.
Orders were sent to Sheffield Castle. “Keep the Queen under even stricter surveillance. Double the guard. It is imperative that she should not escape . . . for her own sake.”
SO THAT SUMMER PASSED into winter. Another birthday came and went—her thirtieth.
“I am growing old,” she told Seton. “See how my life is passing by while I go from one prison to another.”
Christmas came, but there were no revelries in Sheffield Castle.
The winter was long and cold, but Mary scarcely noticed it, and in the spring the Earl and Countess came to her apartments to tell her that since the castle needed sweetening they proposed to move her to the Lodge in the Park.
Mary was glad of the move. Anything was welcome to relieve the monotony; but the Earl and Countess were less happy with their captive in the manor, for they believed escape would have been easier there than from the castle.
She was never allowed out of her apartment and whenever she looked out of her window she saw guards who stood beneath it all through the day and night.
“She will never escape from here,” joked the guards, “unless she has some magic which will turn her into a mouse or a flea.”
THE EARL BROUGHT THE NEWS to Mary, and as he told her he realized that she understood its importance. She turned pale and put her hand to her side where lately she had begun to feel much pain.
“The Castle of Edinburgh has surrendered, Your Majesty.”
She did not speak for a moment. She pictured the castle, high on the hill, seeming impregnable. It was the last and the most important fortress held in her name.
“English forces under Sir William Drury captured it,” Shrewsbury told her. “Kirkcaldy should have surrendered long ago. There was no hope of holding out against the Queen’s forces.”
She knew what had been happening in Edinburgh; she had heard stories of the bravery of those who had loved her, how the soldiers’ wives had allowed themselves to be let down the steep rock by ropes in order that they might go into the town to buy bread for the starving defenders of the castle; how when they had been caught, which was frequently the case, Morton had ordered that they should be immediately hanged. She had heard how the soldiers had been let down to the well by means of ropes that they might fill their buckets with the precious water.
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