by Jean Plaidy
“Think about this,” he said. “Tomorrow you will be brought before me again. I am eager to know the truth.”
Rowland Kitchyn was taken back to his cell; he was sick with fear. He did not know how he would stand up to torture. He had never suffered it. He was a man of great imagination, and he was afraid . . . terribly afraid that his body would take possession of his mind and insist on his saying that which was false, in order to save it from pain.
ROWLAND KITCHYN awoke in the night. He felt the cold of the stone floor through his pallet, yet he was sweating. He had dreamed that he was in a dungeon of this evil Tutbury and there they had tortured him; and that as the pain possessed him he lost all sense of decency, all sense of honor; thinking only to save his wretched limbs from pain, he had cried out lies against his master.
“I must not, I must not,” he moaned. “I will not.”
But how could he be sure? He knew full well that under torture men lost all sense of reason, all sense of justice.
They wished him to betray his master.
“I will never do it. I never will,” he whispered.
But in his dream he had done so; and how could he be sure when awake he would be more brave?
A terrible belief had come to him. The dream was a warning. He would betray his master under torture.
“I never will. I never will,” he moaned.
But how could he be sure?
There was a way. It was the only way. He lay in the dark, thinking of it.
SIR RALPH SADLER said to Somers: “I am sure that fellow Briggs was a vengeful rogue, and I am certain that both Langford and his secretary Kitchyn are guiltless of intrigue against the Queen. Catholics they are, alas. But there are many Catholics in England.”
“What do you suggest we should do? Release Kitchyn?”
Sir Ralph nodded. “Come with me to his cell. We will tell him that he is a free man.”
Together the pair made their way to the prisoner. Sir Ralph unlocked the door and, peering into the gloom, saw Kitchyn lying on his pallet; he was very still.
The two men approached, and Sadler murmured: “Kitchyn, wake up. We are come to speak to you.”
There was no answer and, bending over the figure of the man on the pallet, Sadler gave a sudden exclamation, which brought Somers to his side.
Both men stood staring down at the lifeless body of the prisoner, who had strangled himself.
HER WOMEN HAD NOT yet come into her bedchamber to help her rise, but Mary was awake. Something had awakened her early on this morning, some evil foreboding which prevented her from sleeping.
She had felt uneasy ever since she had seen that poor man being dragged across the courtyard to the chapel. The persecution of others never failed to move her deeply, perhaps because she had suffered so much herself.
She lay for a moment, wondering whether it was some unusual sound of activity which had awakened her; there was no sound now in the courtyard below.
As it was impossible to sleep, she rose and put her wrap about her; she went to the window and looked out.
For a moment as she stared at the horror which confronted her, she thought that she was living in some nightmare.
“No . . . ” she whispered, but it was so. That man who was hanging from the turret opposite her window was the prisoner whom they had been holding in the castle for the last three weeks.
For some seconds she stood staring at the lifeless form hanging there. Why had they hung him opposite her window? There could be only one answer. They were saying to her: This man offended us because he was a Catholic. You are a Catholic also.
On whose orders had that man been hung there?
Turning shuddering away, Mary went back to her bed and lay there.
It was thus that Seton found her.
“Seton!” she cried. “We have never been in such danger as we are now. I have felt it in my bones. And now I have proof.”
“What proof?” asked Seton.
“Go to the window and you will see.”
Seton went, and Mary heard the exclamation which escaped from her before, white and trembling, she came back to the bed.
THERE WAS NOT A CATHOLIC in Mary’s household who did not see in the fate of Rowland Kitchyn a grim warning to themselves.
Now an atmosphere of dread and suspicion existed throughout the castle. Looking back, Mary thought with longing of the early days when she had been in the charge of the Shrewsburys, before Bess had conceived her absurd lies.
Trouble was coming. Every day she expected to hear that she herself would meet the fate of Rowland Kitchyn. Young Bessie told her that he had strangled himself, but she did not believe that. He had been taken, she was certain, imprisoned in Tutbury and hanged as a warning to her of what she might expect.
She called Jacques Nau to her and asked him to repeat what Elizabeth had said to him on the subject of freedom of religion.
“Her Majesty assured me,” answered Jacques, “that it was never her wish that any of her subjects should suffer for the sake of conscience or religion.”
“But there are fanatics in this land,” she said. “I fear them, Jacques.”
“I am of the opinion that Queen Elizabeth is not one of them.”
“You comfort me,” Mary told him; and he wondered whether now was the moment to tell her of his desire to marry Bessie. No, he decided. At this time she was too anxious about other matters. They must wait, he and Bessie. There must be no betrayal of their secret until they were sure. The fact that Lord Percy had been selected for Bessie was going to raise great difficulties. There was too much at stake to risk their future happiness.
Mary dismissed Jacques and wrote to Elizabeth.
. . . If it should ever come to pass that an open attack were made on me for my religion, I am perfectly ready, with the Grace of God to bow my neck beneath the axe, that my blood may be shed before all Christendom; and I should esteem it the greatest happiness to be the first to do so. I do not say this out of vainglory while the danger is remote . . .
When she had finished writing this she resolutely took up a pen and wrote to her aunt Renée at Rheims.
She was not going to plead with Seton any more. She was going to order her to go to France. Seton was in danger even as she was; she could no longer bear to watch her dearest friend growing a little more haggard, a little more crippled every day, sacrificing life itself for her sake. When she had written those letters and dispatched them, she sent for Seton.
“My dear friend,” she said, “I have written to Rheims. You must prepare to leave.”
Seton was speechless, but Mary had become regal.
“It is an order, Seton—one I should have given long ago.”
“You are commanding me to leave you?”
Mary turned away, desperately afraid of weakness.
“There will be our letters, Seton. You must write to me regularly. I must know all that happens to you.”
Seton was staring out of that window where, not long ago, the lifeless body of a man had hung.
SURELY THE PARTING with Seton was the most bitter tragedy that had happened since her imprisonment. It had been useless for Seton to plead; Mary had been adamant. She had written to her aunt and asked her to care for Seton, to nurse her back to health for her dear sake; and she knew that Renée would do it.
“At last,” she whispered when she embraced her dearest and most faithful friend for the last time, “I shall know that you are enjoying some comfort, and that must give me pleasure. Oh, dearest Seton, you cannot guess how it has grieved me to see you growing more and more infirm.”
Seton’s mouth was set in pain. “You know that my place is with you.”
“No, Seton. You have lived my life too long. Do you realize that that is what you have done from the very moment when you were brought to my nursery—the dearest of my four Marys? If you wish to comfort me, write to me that you sleep in a warm and comfortable bed, that you take fresh air; that your pains grow less. That is wh
at I ask of you now: and you have never denied me what I wanted—save that you refused to leave me long ago when I told you that you should.”
When the moment of parting had come they had clung together and Seton had cried out that she would never leave her mistress. Only Mary knew how near she had come to agreeing, for she could not conceive how dreary the days would be without this loving companion.
But she would not say it; and she restrained her tears until from her turret window she saw that Seton and the little party which accompanied her were too far off to notice how she wept when they turned to wave the last farewell.
NOW JANE KENNEDY and Elizabeth Curle had become her constant companions, trying to take the place of Seton. Mary turned to them, although she knew that there could never be another Seton. They would sit over their needlework and talk of what the future might hold; and this was a cheerless occupation, for tension still brooded over the castle.
“Yet,” said Mary, “I do not think we should despair. I am sure Sir Ralph would never allow me to be the victim of foul play while I am under his care.”
“He hanged the dead body of Rowland Kitchyn opposite Your Majesty’s window,” Jane reminded her.
“Because he hopes to make a Protestant of me,” answered Mary. “It is true he is a fanatic on matters of religion. But in all else I feel him to be a just man. That is why I am going to ask him if I may not have a friend to replace dear Seton. The Countess of Atholl has written to me asking me to take her into my service. I think I will speak to Sir Ralph now. Jane, go and ask him to come to me.”
Jane did as she was bid, and in a short time Sir Ralph entered the apartment.
“Sir Ralph,” said Mary, “the Countess of Atholl asks if she may come and stay with me. As you know, I have lost one of my closest friends. Do you think you might use your influence to bring this about?”
Sir Ralph was silent for a while, then he said: “I have to tell Your Majesty that I shall not be with you much longer. I have had orders from my Queen to retire from this post. She is sending another of her servants to take my place. This request of yours is therefore one which you must make to him.”
Mary was startled. She had not known that change was contemplated. She was alarmed. Sir Ralph had scarcely been a generous guardian but there could be many worse.
“May I know the name of the man who is to succeed you?”
“Your Majesty, it is Sir Amyas Paulet.”
Mary was stunned. She knew the man to be the fiercest of Puritans, a man who, because she was a Catholic, would believe her to be the wickedest of sinners.
She had not been mistaken. Harsher measures were going to be taken; her prison was to become more rigorous than ever.
Sadler, watching her, read her thoughts. Since he had been guarding her and had suffered so much himself from the lack of comfort and had been aware of the deterioration of his own health, he had softened toward her.
Her life with him had been cheerless; he knew, as she did, that it would be worse with Paulet.
He said gently: “Your Majesty, if you ask for the Countess of Atholl to be allowed to come here, your request will almost certainly be refused, for the Atholls are known to be your friends, and Catholics. If you were to ask for the company of a Protestant lady, I doubt not that your request would be granted; and I have heard that there are Protestants in Scotland who are your friends.”
Mary did not answer; she had sunk into a chair; rarely had she felt so deeply submerged in despair.
THE SPRING HAD COME and with the warmer weather Tutbury was always more bearable, even though Sir Amyas had arrived at the castle and he proved to be as stern and forbidding as Mary had feared. There were new rules to be observed; the guards received strict instructions that on no account was Mary to leave the castle; if any attempt at escape were made, Mary was to be killed rather than allowed to go free. Sir Amyas was shocked because she had tried to bring a little color to her dreary apartments with the bright tapestries she and her women had worked and hung on the walls. He told her that she would be well advised to pass her time in prayer rather than in sewing fancy silks and playing the lute. He offered to instruct her in the Protestant religion, and when she refused this invitation he muttered that she was heading for eternal damnation.
When during May Sir Ralph and Somers left—they had stayed some weeks until Sir Amyas was accustomed to the routine of the castle—Mary felt she would be ready to try any foolhardy scheme to escape from Paulet’s rule. Never in all the years of captivity had the days seemed so long and dreary.
Then two newcomers arrived at the castle, and their coming lightened the gloom and brought a little change to the dull days.
The arrivals were two charming girls, Barbara and Gillies Mowbray, the younger daughters of Sir John Mowbray, the Protestant Laird of Barnbougal. Mary welcomed the two girls with great warmth, for she was always touched that anyone should wish to leave a luxurious home to share her prison life, and she knew that Barbara and Gilles had begged to be allowed to do so.
On the day the girls arrived, Mary staged a gay gathering in her apartment, because she did not want them to find their new life too gloomy. She need not have worried; they were sprightly creatures, very fresh and lovely, particularly Barbara; and as soon as Mary saw them she loved them.
So it was a merry party which took place in her apartment, and it pleased her to see the young people dancing. As Bessie was there, dancing with Jacques, she had invited her other secretary, Gilbert Curle, to join the dance. She was very fond of Gilbert, who was Elizabeth Curle’s brother and a Scotsman devoted to her interests. He might not be so dashing and handsome as the French Jacques, but she trusted Gilbert; and as she herself played the lute and watched Bessie trip her measure with Jacques, and Barbara with Gilbert Curle, she thought that at all the grand balls of the past she had never seen four such handsome young people so happy together.
WITH GILBERT CURLE and Barbara Mowbray it was love at first sight. They made no secret of it; and indeed had they tried they would have been unable.
Everyone was talking about the lightning courtship and what a difference it had made to the little community of Tutbury Castle. How much more pleasant it was to contemplate a love affair than wonder whether an attempt was being considered to remove one from this world! thought the Queen. She concentrated on the one, and refused to dwell on the other.
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.
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“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.”
