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

So it was not surprising that with Grandmother Bess away from Sheffield Castle Bessie felt free. It was a pleasure to wake each morning; to steal out of the bed she shared with her godmother and run to the window to look out at the confluence of the Sheaf and the Don, and to wonder whether she would be allowed to ride with one of the grooms this day. It was almost certain that she would, for her grandfather would be so busy when she asked him that he would say yes; and then all she had to do was tell Eleanor that she had her grandfather’s permission, and Eleanor would tell the groom to saddle her horse.

But Bessie was often too sad to ride after all, because her dear godmother could not come with her and she feared that if she went riding it reminded the Queen that she was a prisoner.

It was a very sad thing to be a prisoner, Bessie knew, because the Queen had told her so. The Queen told her a great deal when they were in bed together; Bessie often requested stories to help her go to sleep. Then the Queen would remember the days when she was Bessie’s age and tell her about the monastery on the island called Inchmahome and how she had lived with the monks there; she would tell of how she had sailed to France on a big ship and that even then the English had sought to make her their prisoner, although the great Queen Elizabeth was not Queen then, but only a little girl like Bessie herself.

It was all very bewildering and somehow sad. Bessie wished that she could do more to make the Queen happy. Although she did quite a lot, Queen Mary herself told her.

Bessie stood at the window watching the rain falling down. So she could not go riding even if she had permission. Bessie did not know what to do. There was no one to play with. She wished she had four Bessies as the Queen had had four Marys to play with her. What games they could have played in Sheffield Castle!

As she did not know what else to do Bessie decided to go along to find the Queen and see how she was getting on with the new gown she was making for her. Perhaps if the Queen were stitching with some of her ladies Bessie would ask for a story about Inchmahome or the French Court. She never tired of hearing them.

She went to the Queen’s apartment, and quietly pushed open the door. At first she thought the room was empty; then she saw a man sitting at a table, writing. Bessie was about to turn and run when he said: “I see you. It is useless to hide. What do you want?”

Bessie came into the room, trying to look haughty. Grandmother had made her walk seven times around a room regularly each morning with a book on her head. That was to make sure she kept her back straight and her head high. It was another unpleasant duty evaded in Grandmother’s absence. So now Bessie walked as though she carried books on her head and, looking as haughty as Grandmother could have wished, said: “And who are you to question me, sir?”

The man’s dark eyes seemed to shine more brightly; his mouth turned up at the corners. “Only Her Majesty’s secretary, Your Grace—or should I say Your Majesty?”

“Yes,” said Bessie, laughing suddenly, “say both.”

The man rose from the table, laid down his pen and bowed.

“You speak in a strange way,” Bessie told him.

“That is because English is not my native tongue. I am Her Majesty’s French secretary, Your Majesty.”

Bessie laughed again. “What is your name?”

“Jacques Nau.”

“That’s a strange name, not like Bessie.”

“Not like Bessie at all.”

“Still,” said Bessie, “we can’t all be called Bessie.”

“I do not think the name would suit me as well as it suits you.”

Everything he said seemed to Bessie extraordinarily funny. He was less like a grown-up person than anyone she knew.

“What are you writing?” she asked.

“Letters for the Queen.”

“You must be clever.”

“Very, very clever,” he assured her.

Bessie suddenly lost interest in him and went to the window. She wanted to see if the rain had stopped.

“I could then go out on my pony.” She threw the words over her shoulder.

“Has the rain stopped?” he asked.

She shook her head and knelt on the window seat. The sky was lowering and the rivers looked swollen. She did not look around but she could hear from the scratching of his pen that the man with the strange name had returned to his work. She liked him for not telling her to run away. He made her feel that she was not a foolish child, but a grown-up person whose desire to ride or look out of windows was as necessary to her as it was for him to write the Queen’s letters.

She was content to kneel, watching the rain, listening to the scratch of his pen.

Bessie forgot him as she knelt there. She was imagining that she had four little friends and they were all named Bessie. She had to give them nicknames as the Queen had given her Marys. “Seton, Beaton, Livy and Flem . . . ” she whispered to herself. And she saw herself as their leader. They sailed on a great ship to France, and when they arrived everybody was very pleased to see them.

Suddenly she saw a party of riders coming toward the castle. She stared; they must be very wet. Ought she to go and tell Eleanor or one of the maids that visitors were coming this way?

A sudden panic came to her. What if Grandmother Bess were among those travelers? She was very still, watching; and thus she remained for fully ten minutes. By that time her fears were confirmed. That was Grandmother Bess, and the respite was over.

Bessie now remembered tasks uncompleted. Her Latin exercise was not done. How fortunate that the Queen had helped her with her tapestry. But what if Grandmother Bess summoned her to her presence at once, demanding to see the finished exercise?

Tears welled up into Bessie’s eyes. Grandmother had a hard hand and, although she said it grieved her to punish Bessie more than the blows hurt Bessie, that was hard to believe.

The secretary must have heard the sounds of arrival for, turning suddenly, she found him standing behind her.

He said: “Ha, so the Countess is returning with friends. Things will not now be quite as they have been, my little Bessie.” He said her name as though there were several e’s at the end of it instead of one. Bessie liked the sound of it but it could not comfort her now.

He had noticed the tears in her eyes, for he said: “Why, little one, you are crying.”

Because his voice was gentle the tears flowed the faster. He lifted her up, carried her to the table and sat her on his knee.

“Now tell the funny Frenchman,” he said, wiping away the tears.

So Bessie told him. “It takes hours and hours . . . and I have done none of it . . . .”

He listened carefully, then looked very thoughtful. Bessie stared intently at his face, noticing how dark his eyes were and his skin, and that his lashes and brows were thick and black.

Suddenly he clapped his hands and said: “I have it.”

“Yes . . . yes?” she cried impatiently.

“Go and bring the exercise to me.”

Bessie slipped to the ground and went to the little table in the corner of the room which the Queen had said was hers, and opening the drawer took out the exercise.

The Frenchman put his head on one side; he laughed showing very white teeth, and looked so funny that Bessie was laughing too, although an occasional sob escaped her.

“We will a miracle do,” he said and, picking up his pen, he completed the exercise as though he did not have to think at all.

Bessie stared at him in wonder. “Is it right?” she asked.

“Your grandmother herself could not do better.”

“Let me see.” Bessie held the paper close to her face and studied it. It looked right; she could not be sure of course; but at least Grandmother would not whip her for being idle.

“Listen,” said the Frenchman. “They are arriving now. Copy out your exercise and when your grandmother asks for it you must not tell her who helped you.”