The Captive Queen of Scots

by Jean Plaidy

  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.

  “Do you know a man named Thomas Morgan,” went on Walsingham, “a fiery Welshman who, with a certain Parry, once worked hard to raise a rebellion for the sake of the Queen of Scots?”

  “I do, my lord.”

  “He is a prisoner in the Bastille. Her Majesty has asked for him to be sent to England, but the King of France, while making him a prisoner, shelters him there.”

  “You wish me to seek him out?”

  “I fancy he still conspires against Her Majesty. I would make certain of this. I want you to go to Paris, to see Morgan. It will not be difficult, I am sure, although he is in the Bastille, because he is not ill-treated and doubtless allowed to receive visitors. The King of France does not wish to punish the friends of the Queen of Scots—only to shield them from their just deserts.”

  Gifford bowed his head.

  “You will go to him,” went on Walsingham, “and tell him that you are in a position to carry letters from him to the Queen of Scots. Tell him that as a Catholic you wish to see her on the throne. He will have no reason to doubt you.” Walsingham smiled grimly. “Your cloth inspires such respect. I wish to discover what manner of letters the Queen of Scots is writing to her friends.”

  “I will leave at once,” said Gifford.

  Walsingham went on: “I know that Morgan was once involved in an attempt to assassinate our good Queen Elizabeth and set up Mary in her place, and that the King of Spain, the Pope and the Duke of Guise were anxious to help in this endeavor. It is part of the policy of that organization which they call the Holy League to remove all Protestant rulers, and set up Catholics in their places. You understand we live in dangerous times, Gifford.”

  The priest’s eyes glowed. This was a mission which greatly appealed to him, although he knew that he was playing only one small part in it.

  “And the letters which I receive I bring to you?” he asked.

  Walsingham nodded. “And when I have examined their contents you will take them to the Queen of Scots with a letter from Morgan recommending you to her.”

  “I shall win her confidence with the greatest ease,” Gifford added. “I have an uncle living not ten miles from Chartley where I understand the Scottish woman is now imprisoned.”

  “I am sure you will act with your usual good sense. It is important that none should guess that you work for me, but there is one however whom we must take into our confidence. That is Sir Amyas Paulet. I shall write to him to tell him that you will be coming to Chartley in due course. Together you and he must devise a way for the Queen to smuggle letters out of Chartley which will seem plausible to her. She will think they are being taken to Morgan and her friends abroad. Some may reach them, but first they will pass through my hands.”

  “I understand,” said Gifford.

  “Then be on your way. Our work may be of long duration and I fear there is danger in delay.”

  When Gifford had gone, Walsingham sat alone for some time deep in thought. He was setting the snare which he believed would soon be closing about his prey.

  CHARTLEY WAS A PLEASANT CHANGE from Tutbury. Situated on a hill rising from a fertile plain, it was about six miles from the town of Stafford, and from its windows Mary had views of magnificent scenery.

  She had liked the circular keep and round towers as soon as she had set eyes on them; but perhaps almost anything would have pleased her after Tutbury.

  Her spirits were high and to some extent this helped her to forget her pains; and the fact that Sir Amyas was also complaining of his rheumatism made her feel that, suffering in similar fashion, he would be more inclined to have sympathy for her. This was not the case however, and he displayed a malignant pleasure because she was more affected by this disease than he was.

  But almost as soon as the royal party arrived at Chartley, life seemed to become more ex
citing.

  The first pleasant happening was when Barbara Curle confided to Mary that she was pregnant. Mary was delighted in the happiness of the young people and immediately began making plans for the birth of the child. The sullenness of Bessie though was becoming more apparent, and this disturbed Mary; she made up her mind that she must not allow Bessie to think that Barbara, a newcomer, had usurped her place in the Queen’s affections.

  Another of her ladies, Elizabeth Curle, sister of Gilbert, became engaged to Andrew Melville, her Master of the household; and it was a great pleasure to Mary to see the happiness of those about her.

  The third excitement was the arrival at Chartley of a priest whose uncle lived some ten miles away.

  Sir Amyas, after what seemed like a good deal of deliberation, allowed the priest to visit her. It was always a comfort to talk with a Catholic priest, and Mary welcomed the man with great warmth; but when they were alone together and she heard what he had to say, her pleasure intensified.

  “Your Majesty,” Gifford told her, “I have been recently in France and while there had conversation with a certain Thomas Morgan who is lodged in the Bastille.”

  “I know of him,” replied Mary, and she was trembling a little.

  “He gave me this letter to give to you.”

  Mary took the letter he held out to her, and read that the bearer was one Gilbert Gifford, a priest of the Roman Catholic Church, a man in whom she could place her complete trust.

  The color had come into Mary’s cheeks; all the excitement of the old days was returning. This was as it had been when she had been young and full of hope, and had believed she had many friends eager to help her. So she still had friends. This was the most wonderful news she had had for a long time, and she was intoxicated with dreams of freedom.

  “I will see that any letters you wish to write to your friends are delivered,” he told her.

  She shook her head. “I am indeed a prisoner now as I never was before. Since Sir Amyas Paulet has been my jailor I have no means of sending letters to my friends; and if you come here often you would quickly fall under suspicion. Even now you may be searched before you are allowed to leave. The very fact that you are of my faith will arouse suspicions against you.”

  “Your Majesty, I have thought of this and talked of it with your friends. You have rich and powerful friends, but you have humble ones also. There is a brewer in the nearby town of Burton—an honest man—who sends you your beer . . . he is your friend.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because I have long sought means of helping you. Cautiously I made my discoveries. This brewer has promised to conceal a box in one of the barrels. It will contain letters from those who wish to see you free. This box can be taken from the barrel when it arrives at the castle. And when you write your replies, you will place them in the box and put it in the empty barrel which will be taken away by the brewer when he comes to collect them. He will pass these letters to me.”

  “That is a clever notion.”

  “I agree with Your Majesty and I shall see that they reach the persons for whom they are intended. To whom would Your Majesty wish to write?”

  Mary considered. “To the Duke of Guise who will have heard rumors of my life here, and mayhap none of them true. To Archbishop Beaton, and of course to Morgan to thank him for sending you to me.”

  Gifford nodded. “Have no fear. Paulet will never suspect. The next time the barrels are delivered you will find the box and I doubt not that Your Majesty will soon be putting it to good use.”

  Thus Mary felt that in coming to Chartley she had begun to live again.

  WALSINGHAM WAS RESTIVE. The plan was a good one, he was ready to admit, but it was moving too slowly. Mary was writing her letters which were passing by means of the brewer into Gifford’s hands; they were then conveyed to Walsingham and opened by one of his men who was skilled in the art of breaking seals and resealing in such a manner that it was impossible to discover they had ever been broken. However, many of the letters were in ciphers and the Queen did not always use the same one. Walsingham employed one of the best decipherers in the country, a man named Phillips, but even he found difficulty in decoding some of the letters.

  This it was which slowed down the progress, and Walsingham decided that he could not get very far until he was in possession of all the Queen’s ciphers. He had for some time been watching an attaché in the service of the French embassy, for he believed a time would come when he could use this man. Walsingham prided himself that he could pick a bribe-taker at a glance, and Cherelles he believed to be one.

  Now if Cherelles could be persuaded to visit Mary with letters from the King of France say, and asked her for the keys to the ciphers, she would not hesitate to give them. And for such a service what would Cherelles want? Say two hundred crowns? It would be money well spent.

  MARY WAS DELIGHTED TO RECEIVE A VISIT from Cherelles. He brought with him letters from the King of France which were always a comfort to her. He listened sympathetically to an account of her sufferings and promised to do all he could to bring them to the notice of those who could help to alleviate them.

  “There is one matter which has grieved some of your friends,” he told her. “They have been unable to decipher certain of your letters.”

  “Is that so?” asked Mary surprised. “I must speak to my secretaries. I am sure they have introduced nothing new into the ciphers.”

  “There is no need to do that. If Your Majesty will let me have the keys to all the ciphers in use, I will see that this difficulty is removed.”

  “I will indeed do so, but I do not understand why my friends should suddenly fail to decipher my letters. However I will give you the keys.”

  “And I shall lose no time in placing them in the right hands.”

  “You must take great care that they do not pass into the wrong hands!” said Mary with a smile.

  “Your Majesty can trust me.”

  “I know. I wish I could show my gratitude in some way, but I am so poor now. Do you know, one of my greatest sorrows is that I can no longer give presents to my friends.” She looked down at her hand and drew off a diamond ring. “But take this,” she said. “I should be so happy if you would accept it.” Then she went to her table and opening a drawer took out a book which was bound in crimson velvet, and the corners of which were edged with gold.

  “The embroidery was done by myself,” she said, laying her hand on the embossed velvet, “and I have written in it those thoughts which pleased me. Pray take it with my blessing. It is a small reward for all you have done for me.”

  Cherelles was conscious of a sense of shame as he took the gifts, so graciously and generously given.

  He was rather relieved to ride away from Chartley, but when he had placed the keys to the ciphers in Walsingham’s hands and had been complimented by that important man, the shame lingered.

  JACQUES NAU WAS WRITING A LETTER from the Queen’s notes. It seemed that he and Gilbert Curle were constantly employed in this task now that they had the means of sending and receiving letters through the services of that honest man, the brewer.

  Life was so frustrating. He and Bessie were no nearer marriage now than they had been when they had first talked of their desire for that state; and it was particularly galling to sit with Curle, listening to his conversation, and learn of his contentment with the married state. It was so unfair. Jacques had loved Bessie before Curle had known of the existence of Barbara Mowbray, and yet here they were, not only married but expecting to become parents. He could not go on in this way. He must do something.

  Then, as he was writing the Queen’s letter, he remembered that Sir Henry Pierpont was at the Court of Elizabeth and that it might be possible to write a letter to him by way of Gifford and the box in the barrel.

  No sooner had this idea occurred to him than he wrote to Sir Henry telling of the devotion he had felt for Bessie over many years, and that Bessie herself returned his affection. He
implored Sir Henry to grant him permission to marry his daughter.

  Having written and dispatched the letter, Jacques told Bessie what he had done. They could scarcely contain their impatience for Sir Henry’s reply.

  MARY HAD READ THE LETTER before she realized that it was not intended for her but for her secretary. She was deeply shocked. Sir Henry Pierpont was giving his consent for the marriage of his daughter with Jacques Nau, although the girl had been promised to Lord Percy and it was the will of Queen Elizabeth, as well as the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury, that this marriage with Percy should take place.

  Mary saw the danger in this situation. Bess of Hardwick had been forced to stop spreading her scandals against Mary, but if her granddaughter were allowed to marry Mary’s secretary, Bess would seek means of revenging herself on Mary whom she would almost certainly blame. Moreover although Jacques Nau was of good family, he would not be considered worthy to mate with the Shrewsburys’ granddaughter. What hurt Mary more than anything else was that Bessie, whom she had brought up since the girl was four, had not confided in her.

  She immediately sent for Jacques and Bessie.

  “This letter has come to my notice,” she said coldly. “And I must confess I am deeply shocked.”

  When Jacques saw what it was he turned pale.

  “It is an answer to one which you wrote to Sir Henry Pierpont,” Mary told him. “You are not going to deny you wrote such a letter?”

  “I do not deny it,” answered Jacques with dignity. “Bessie and I wish to marry. It was natural that I should ask her father’s permission.”

  “I should have thought it would have been more natural if you had asked mine.”

  “I did not expect the same favor as Your Majesty bestows on Gilbert Curle.”

  “You are insolent,” said Mary. “I will not speak to you until you have recovered your good manners. Please go now.”

  Jacques bowed, and as he was retiring Bessie prepared to follow him.