The Captive Queen of Scots - Plaidy Jean (читать книги онлайн бесплатно без сокращение бесплатно txt) 📗

She forgot grim old Sir Amyas, and constantly invited Gilbert and Barbara to her apartment.

There were two others who watched the new lovers with interest.

“See how the Queen helps them,” said Bessie. “Surely she would help us also.”

“It is different,” answered Jacques. “Barbara is not promised to a noble lord.”

“But I feel sure I could persuade her. Shall I try, Jacques?”

But Jacques was fearful. Each day he loved her more; each day he was more impatient for her. But they must curb their impatience, he told her again and again. Their whole future was at stake.

Barbara had arrived in September, and before October was out she and Gilbert Curle had asked the Queen for her blessing on their marriage.

“I see no reason why this should not take place,” Mary told them. “I will write to Sir John and tell him that, if he will but give his approval, the match shall have my blessing.”

And why not? she reasoned. Gilbert Curle was of good family, and when two people loved each other as these two did and there was no reason why they should not marry, it seemed sinful to put any obstacle in their way.

When Sir Mowbray replied that, since the Queen of Scots considered the match a worthy one for his daughter, he could have no objection, there was rejoicing throughout the Queen’s apartments. Mary busied herself with preparations for the wedding; she herself would make the bride’s dress; she had little money to spare, but she was going to give the young couple two thousand crowns as a wedding present.

She called Jacques to her and told him what she intended to do.

“Your Majesty is overgenerous,” he murmured.

“Nay,” she replied gaily. “It does me so much good to see these young people happy.”

Jacques turned to her suddenly, and for a few seconds she waited for him to speak, but he remained silent and she thought she saw a sullen look on his face which had not been there before.

She thought: He is jealous of Curle.

She laid a hand on his arm. “My dear Jacques,” she said, “when you find a bride I shall do the same for you.”

He murmured conventional thanks; and it was from that moment she noticed the change in him. He was, she believed, a more complex character than her frank Gilbert Curle. Yet she was fond of him.

I am fortunate, she told herself, to have servants whom I can love. But it seems there must inevitably be these rivalries between them.

While the plans for the wedding were on, Mary was ill once more. It was to be expected, for November was almost upon them and so damp were her apartments that if the furniture was not wiped for a few days a mildew would begin to appear.

She wrote imploringly to the French ambassador, asking that she might be removed from the odious Tutbury—the worst of all her prisons; and he promised that he would endeavor to persuade Elizabeth to grant her request.

THERE WAS DANCING in Mary’s apartment. The bride and groom radiated such joy that the whole room seemed illumined with their happiness.

Mary could no longer dance but she could play the lute, and as she sat watching Barbara and Gilbert lead the dance while others joined in behind them, she noticed Jacques standing somewhat sullenly by, and Bessie with him . . . neither of them looking very pleased.

Was Bessie jealous of her affection for Barbara?

Mary sighed. So there must be intrigues even among her friends.

“Jacques,” she called sharply. “You must join the dance. And look you. Bessie is not dancing either. Both of you, dance at once. You dance so well together.”

They obeyed her and as she watched she tried to forget the pain in her limbs, the hopelessness of her cause; she tried to feel young and gay again with Gilbert and Barbara, Jacques and Bessie.

Sir Amyas came into the apartment, walking slowly because he was not unaffected by the discomforts of Tutbury. He looked with distaste at the scene of revelry. He hoped that the Queen was not attempting to convert Protestant Barbara to her Catholic ways because Barbara, flushed and excited, was behaving in a manner which he considered to be incompatible with her religion. Sir Amyas would have liked to see the marriage celebrated in a solemn and dignified way.

“Sit beside me, Sir Amyas,” said Mary cordially. “Have you come to wish the bride and bridegroom well?”

“I have come to tell Your Majesty that I have had word from the Queen,” he replied. “She grants her permission for you to leave Tutbury for Chartley Castle.”

Mary clasped her hands together in delight.

“Oh, what a happy day this is!” she cried. “I will have preparations made at once.” She looked around the walls of the room. “And when I leave this place,” she added vehemently, “I hope never to see it again.”

Sir Amyas, his hands folded in his lap, stared bleakly at the dancers.

Mary was unaware of him; hope, which was never far from her thoughts, came springing back. Let me leave Tutbury, she thought, this place of evil omen; let me enjoy a little comfort, and I shall be young again.

Who knew . . . perhaps she would be restored to her throne, perhaps she would hold her son in her arms; perhaps she would send for Seton. Perhaps the days of sorrow were over.

She was past forty but that was not so very old. She only felt so because she was in constant pain, and the pain was caused by the conditions in which she was forced to live.

The future had grown suddenly bright on that day when Barbara Mowbray married Gilbert Curle.

XVII

Chartley

SIR FRANCIS WALSINGHAM, whose great pleasure it was to serve his Queen, had for some time sought for a means to rid himself of one whom he considered to be an enemy.

Sir Francis understood his Queen; while Mary Queen of Scots lived Elizabeth was uneasy; willingly would she have given the order for her death, yet she held back; and the reason was that she knew Mary to be innocent of conspiring against her life; and Elizabeth, a Queen herself, could not happily condemn one who, she was pleased to say, was as royal as herself—although she secretly feared Mary was more so. It was necessary for the security of Elizabeth, for the peace of England, that Mary should be brought to the scaffold; what was equally necessary was that a strong case be made out against her. Sir Francis had long been seeking to prepare that case.

When Mary had been under the care of the Shrewsbury he had had to more cautiously. He believed that the Earl and the Countess—until the latter had brought those ridiculous accusations—had been Mary’s friends. It would not have been easy to work against her while she was guarded by such jailors. But now he had Amyas Paulet with whom to deal, and that was different.

The moment had come, Walsingham decided; and when he considered that wide network of spies which it had been his joy to build up, he believed he knew how to bring the Queen of Scots to her doom.

WALSINGHAM LOOKED AT THE PRIEST who had been brought to his presence.

He said: “Pray be seated, father. I have work for you.”

Gilbert Gifford obeyed and, as he looked across the table which separated them, he knew that the work he was going to be called upon to do was more important than anything he had done before.

Walsingham gazed down at his own hands which rested idly on the table. Gifford, who had worked for him before, guessed that behind that calm expression Walsingham was excited.

“I am ready to obey my lord’s commands,” answered Gifford.

“You are to leave at once for France.”

Gifford nodded. He had become accustomed to such orders since he had entered Walsingham’s spy ring, and he knew that he was one of his master’s most valuable agents, chiefly because he was a Roman Catholic priest and therefore accepted as a friend by many of Walsingham’s enemies.