Royal Road to Fotheringhay - Plaidy Jean (читать книги полностью без сокращений .txt) 📗

Darnley had complained: “It is a shameful thing that you keep your husband waiting while you play at cards with a low musician.”

“My shame,” she had retorted, “is that I have such a husband to keep waiting.”

She cared nothing for him, and now she was unkind to him. She kept all secrets from him. He was never allowed to see any state papers.

He had seized her arm and said: “Madam, I demand my rights.”

“Your rights?”

“To share your life, your bed, your crown.”

She had laughed and pushed him from her. “You have forfeited those rights, Henry. Now leave me and send my women to me, for I am tired and wish to go to bed.”

“I will not go!” he had declared. “I shall stay here. You cannot turn me away.”

“I can and I will.”

“I shall shout to the whole palace that you are turning me out of your apartment.”

“Shout all you wish. You will only be telling what is already known.”

“Mary… dearest… I love you.”

“No,” she had said. “It is a good thing that neither of us love each other. Now go or I shall have to have you turned out.”

He had ignobly left the apartment, and the memory rankled.

Now he continued to scowl at Morton as he said: “The Queen is not in love with her husband.”

“The Court knows it,” said Morton, “and resents it.”

“Resents it?” said Darnley, alert.

“Do you think, Your Majesty, that we like to look on at the vulgar intrigue between the Queen and this foreign upstart?”

“So there is an intrigue!”

“Does Your Majesty doubt it?”

“I… yes … no … I am not sure.”

“They would be very careful in your presence, I doubt not.”

“Very careful! You… you mean …?”

“Your Majesty, he is with her night and morning. What are they doing, think you—discussing state secrets all the time?”

Darnley’s eyes narrowed. “It is true. It is shameful. I … a king … to be treated so! I… who have been faithful to the Queen!” He faltered and looked at Morton but Morton was not smiling at the obvious lie. He merely looked sympathetic.

“There are many of us,” said Morton slowly, “who wonder why you do not do the fellow to death. None could blame you if you did.”

“No!” repeated Darnley. “None could blame me.”

“I have received news from the Queen’s brother in England.”

“Moray! He is no friend to me.”

“But would be. It is a shameful thing, he says, that you should be denied your rights. Not only are you denied the Queen’s bed, but the Crown Matrimonial. Lord Moray says that if you will restore to him and the exiled lords their estates which have been confiscated, the first thing he will do on his return to Scotland will be to give you that crown.”

“How could I bring about his return? How could I restore his confiscated estates?”

“Alas, how could you? A short while ago when the Queen doted on you, it might have been possible for you. But now… another holds her favor. David Rizzio is the man who enjoys all her favors… every one… adviser, secretary of state… lover …”

“I would I could kill that man!”

Morton smiled. “Your Majesty,” he said, “let us leave the palace. Let us be sure that we cannot be overheard. There is something we have to say to each other.”

BOTHWELL AND his household had moved from Crichton to another of his houses, Haddington Abbey. He was finding enough to entertain him in his own household for a few weeks. Jeans attitude toward him had not changed in the least, and he was still intrigued by it. Bessie Crawford supplied the erotic entertainment which he had always found necessary—and life passed pleasantly.

There were matters to be attended to on the estate. Jean was doing for Haddington what she had done for Crichton; she was never idle; even when she sat resting she would have her embroidery in her hands.

He saw Bessie often. Her great eyes would follow him, waiting for the signal. Upstairs in the loft… this minute … or out in the fields away from the Abbey… Bessie would be there—a small, quiet girl who could be aroused at his touch to a passion which equalled his own.

He liked Bessie. Between them they—she and Jean—were responsible for his long stay on his estates. He might have continued to stay but for one thing.

It happened quite simply. He went to the sewing room because he had been reminded suddenly of Bessie and felt an immediate need of her company. Bessie was there alone; his wife had been with her, for they were working together on the same piece of tapestry; but when he arrived Jeans chair was empty.

He said: “To the loft! Wait there for me.”

Bessie scrambled up. Her eyes were anxious. She began: “My lord … I cannot—”

“Go, my girl. Go up, I say.”

She stammered: “My lord… my lady …”

He seized her by the shoulders and pushed her toward the door. She almost fell, laughing on a note of high-pitched laughter that betrayed the rising excitement, that complete abandonment to his will. She picked herself up, dropped a hurried curtsy and ran from the room.

He laughed, and after a few moments followed her to the loft.

Bessie was always inarticulate with him. They had exchanged few words. Words were unnecessary in such a relationship. But now it seemed she was trying to tell him something. She had work to do. She must not be long. He would not listen; he did not want chatter from Bessie. He forced her down on to the dusty floor of the loft. The very fact that she wished to go made him determined to keep her there. He liked resistance; he had come to expect it on the Border.

So he kept her there longer than usual, and Bessie, while she could temporarily forget her anxiety, found that it had returned to her when she was at last released.

She made her way down to the sewing room. The Countess was there; so were several of the servants.

Bessie, red-faced, her dress dusty, put in a shamefaced appearance.

“And where have you been?” demanded Jean.

“Please, my lady… I—”

“Look at the dust on your dress. What has happened?”

Bessie stammered: “I… I… went to the loft—”

“You went to the loft when you should have been using your needle! Look at your hands. They’re filthy. Go and wash them. You must not do delicate needlework with hands like that. Then I shall want to know why you left the sewing room to go there.”

Bessie, glad to escape, almost collided with the Earl who was then coming into the room. Bessie ran. The Earl scarcely looked at her. But he was betrayed. His clothes were as dusty as those of Bessie. It was a strange sort of dust. Remains of cobwebs could be seen attached to his doublet as they had been to Bessie’s hair.

Jean looked at him sharply. She knew that the servants were looking too. She was aware of suppressed laughter. Knowing the Earl, and understanding Bessie, there was only one conclusion to be drawn.

She said nothing to her husband, but mentioning that she had work for them to do, she commanded the servants whom she would need, to accompany her to the kitchens where she wished to make arrangements for that night’s supper.

Half an hour later she returned to the sewing room where Bessie—the dust brushed from her dress and her hands clean—was diligently working.

“Oh, Bessie,” said Jean, “your father lives in the smithy outside Haddington town, I believe.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

“That is fortunate for you. Gather your things together and go to him immediately.”

“Go… m’lady?”

“Yes, Bessie. I find that I no longer require your services.”

Bessie blushed and stammered, then burst into tears. To leave this wonderful house, to live in her father’s wretched smithy, to help at the anvil instead of doing fine needlework, to have as a lover some village lout instead of the great Earl of Bothwell—it was too much to be borne!

“Now, Bessie, it is no use weeping. Get ready. Go at once. I shall expect you to be gone in an hour.”