“Yes,” said Margaret, “I would give everything I have to ensure his happiness.”
“How well I understand your feelings, for mine are the same. I love my Elizabeth even as you love your Charles. If we decide this must be . . . no matter what the consequences, we might journey to Sheffield Castle. I am sure the Queen of Scots would wish to help us.”
Margaret seemed happy with this suggestion as though, if they dared not ask for the consent of one Queen, it would be well to win that of another.
LITTLE BESSIE PIERPONT was happiest when her grandmother was not in the castle, for then she was no longer in fear of being summoned suddenly to her presence. Grandmother Bess believed that all little girls, however young, should each day be given tasks and that if these tasks were not completed by the end of the day, punishment should follow.
Bessie was not a very good needlewoman and the stitches in her tapestry were rarely all of a size. They had to be unpicked and done again; but even so they rarely came out looking like the stitches of her godmother, Queen Mary. Sometimes Godmother Mary did the stitches for her; then they were perfect. It was a secret they shared; and when Grandmother saw them she would purse her lips and say: “There, you see what comes from really trying. Next time, I wish them to be like this from the first.”
Grandmother Bess believed in whipping children who were not all she expected them to be—and of course she expected a good deal. Handwriting had to be neat and legible; history had to be learned; and Bessie, young as she was, had already been started on Latin exercises.
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.”
Bessie shook her head emphatically. “Can you always do it like that?” she asked.
He snapped his fingers. “Like that!” he said.
Bessie’s eyes were full of speculation. He laughed. “Next time,” he said, “do not cry. Come to me.”
There were shouts from below. There was bustle everywhere. The peaceful atmosphere of the castle was shattered. There was no doubt now that the Countess of Shrewsbury had come home.
Bessie hesitated and then flung her arms about the Frenchman’s neck and kissed him. She was happy because she knew that she had a new friend, and it was somehow wonderful because she had found him at precisely that hour when her grandmother had come home.
HAD BESSIE KNOWN IT, her grandmother’s thoughts were far from Latin exercises. As soon as she had settled her important guests into the castle and harried her servants into preparing a banquet worthy of them, she made her way to Mary’s apartments and asked her permission to see her.
Mary received her at once, asked if she had had a pleasant change and told her how sorry she was that she had been caught by the inclement weather.
Bess shrugged aside the weather. A wetting never hurt anyone, she was sure. Indeed, thought Mary, she looks more energetic than ever, and so triumphant that something important surely must have taken place. So little excitement was happening to her that Mary longed to hear Bess’s news, and said so.
“Such news, Your Majesty, that I could hardly wait to reach Sheffield to ask your help and advice.”
Mary could not help smiling. She was sure that Bess only wished her to confirm the wisdom of what she had decided to do. That was what Bess would call taking advice—because advice was something she would never take from anyone.
“It is my foolish daughter. What does Your Majesty think! The child has fallen in love . . . and so unwisely. I am torn in two. It is such a pleasure to see her happiness, but I am, alas, so fearful for her.”
“You mean Elizabeth?”
“Elizabeth, yes. Your Majesty will see the change in her. She is quite different from the girl who left Sheffield with me. She has fallen in love with Lennox. Charles Stuart, if you please. I said to her: ‘You foolish girl . . . what can come of such a match?’”
Mary was silent. Her father-in-law, the Earl of Lennox, who was father of this young man, had hated her. He had called for her blood, believing her to have been involved in the murder of his son, Lord Darnley. But that Earl was dead now, and his wife, Margaret, was of a gentler nature and she would know that, whatever else Mary was capable of, it was not murder.
She was aware that Bess was watching her covertly. “What can I do?” she moaned. “May I implore Your Majesty’s help?”
“I would help you with all my heart, if it were in my power to do so,” said Mary. “But I fear Elizabeth would never agree to the match, and you know it would be necessary to have her consent since, if Elizabeth died without heirs and I and my son followed her to the grave, young Lennox would be considered by some to be the heir of England.”
Bess’s eyes were sparkling, so she hastily covered them and murmured: “My foolish child. My poor Elizabeth!”
Then she sighed deeply and said: “May I bring the young people to you, and the Countess with them? They want to tell you themselves how much they love each other, how desolate they will be for the rest of their lives if cruel fate should part them.”
“I should be happy to receive them.”
“And, Your Majesty, will you help me to comfort these poor young people?”
“If they truly love and are to be parted, none of us will be able to comfort them.”
“I continually ask myself whether a way can be found out of this trouble.”
“There are only two ways open for them,” answered Mary. “They must separate and live with their unhappiness; or marry and face whatever punishment Elizabeth thinks they deserve.”
“I cannot bear to think of their misery. I almost believe that . . . ” Bess looked cautiously at Mary. Then she sighed. “But I will bring them to you, and you may judge of their love.”
“Bring them with all speed,” said Mary. “I long to see them.”
* * *
WHEN MARY SAW the young people together, she had no doubt of their love. She was very sorry for them, and wished that she had the power of Elizabeth to grant them their wish.
Margaret Lennox lingered when the others had left with Bess, and Mary guessed that the Countess had told them that she wished to speak with her in private.
When the door had closed and they were alone, Margaret said: “I have news for Your Majesty. I have been with George Douglas who is awaiting the opportunity to bring my grandson—your son—out of Scotland. He has a ship in readiness which will carry the boy to Spain.”
Mary clasped her hands. “I pray it may succeed. My little boy is constantly in my thoughts. I fear for his safety while he is in the hands of such men.”
Although Margaret Lennox had been loud in her condemnation of Mary during her husband’s lifetime when she had deeply mourned the death of Darnley, she had always been inclined to doubt Mary’s complicity in the murder; now she was certain of Mary’s innocence and wanted to make amends for the accusations of the past. She had believed Mary, a mother herself, would understand her grief at Darnley’s death. She was certain of that now. Mary was ready to trust her and, when she saw Mary’s anguish on account of her son, it was clearly ridiculous to imagine that such a gentle, loving woman could have taken part in that cold-blooded murder.
So now Margaret had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the plot to remove young James from Scotland and carry him off to Spain. James was Mary’s son but he was also her grandson, and the child’s plight was therefore of deepest concern to them both.
“The poor child, in Morton’s hands, left to the care of that odious Buchanan!” said Margaret with a shiver. “I have provided Douglas with money . . . the King of Spain is prepared to receive the boy. It is now only a matter of waiting for an opportunity to rescue him.”
They talked for a long time of this plan, and at length the Countess said: “What think you of this love between my son and Elizabeth Cavendish?”
“I think that it is indeed love on the part of the two young people.”
“I am inclined to say to them: Marry, and face the consequences after. It is rarely that one sees such love among people of the nobility. Marriages are arranged for them; they miss that ecstasy which is so sweet.”
Mary thought of her marriage with Franço
is. No ecstasy there. She had briefly loved Darnley, until he had killed her love with his unworthiness; as for Bothwell . . . that was a mad, all-consuming passion. It had brought her brief ecstasy and these dreary years of imprisonment. Yet she knew that if she had to choose again, she would choose Bothwell.
“If I were in their places . . . ” she began.
The Countess of Lennox looked at her swiftly: “Your Majesty would choose love, I know. There is too little love in the world. I believe, if these young people had the support of myself, of the Countess of Shrewsbury and Your Majesty, they would not hesitate.”
“What of the Earl?”
“Oh, you know how the Countess manages matters in this household. She will not have told him as yet.”
“He would never agree to go against his Queen’s wishes. He would ask her permission for them to marry.”
“To do that would be an end to their hopes. Elizabeth would never consent.”
“Then,” said Mary, “if they wish to marry, they should do so and tell Elizabeth afterward. If their love is deep enough they will think it well worthwhile to accept whatever punishment she may inflict.”
A few days later Elizabeth Cavendish and Charles Stuart, Earl of Lennox, were married.
QUEEN ELIZABETH was with Lord Burleigh and the Earl of Leicester when the news of the marriage was brought to her. Her face grew purple with indignation.
“What’s this!” she cried. “Lennox married to that girl Cavendish! Lennox! What madness is this? This is the work of Bess of Hardwick. I tell you there is no holding that ambitious woman. So she would marry her daughter to Lennox, would she! And do it before I have time to stop her!”
“It seems, Your Majesty,” murmured Burleigh, “that others were in the plot. The bridegroom’s mother is not guiltless, and since this intrigue took place at Sheffield Castle doubtless one other had a hand in it.”
“Meddling women!” snapped Elizabeth. “I’ll teach them to defy me. They shall all be lodged in the Tower.”
“Your Majesty, to bring the Queen of Scotland to the Tower might be hazardous,” put in Leicester. “In the first place attempts might be made to rescue her during the journey; and in the second if she were lodged in London her case would be brought more conspicuously to the notice of the people. In the Tower she would indeed be your prisoner; in Sheffield Castle she might still be called your guest.”
The Captive Queen of Scots Page 40
