The Hidden Evil

by Barbara Cartland

  A clever woman, she thought, would keep any man at arm’s length, however ardent.

  Then, with a little sinking of her heart, she told herself that she was not clever. She saw herself standing with crimson cheeks before the Duc and she saw herself running away as the Comte approached carrying her woollen shawl.

  How gauche, how naïve, how utterly humiliating!

  She should have stood her ground and held her head high.

  She should have shown the Duc that the blood that coursed through her veins could give her courage and control of her emotions.

  Instinctively, as she watched herself in the mirror, her chin went up. This gown would give her courage.

  She would be cool and gracious and not in the least apologetic for what was not her fault.

  “You look a real picture,” Maggie was saying. “I wouldna have believed it possible. No one would recognise you, not even your own father.”

  “That is what I want,” Sheena said almost beneath her breath. “I want them to forget the girl who arrived here yesterday.”

  Maggie looked at her in surprise, but there was no time for any explanations. There was a knock at the door and a footman reminded her that the Queen of Scotland was still awaiting her.

  Sheena swept out into the passage and followed the footman to the Apartments of Mary Stuart. She was very conscious as she moved of the rustle of silk around her feet, of the tight boning of her bodice and the smallness of her waist.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the gilt mirrors between the pictures in the corridors. She was well aware that a lady and gentleman passing her turned to look back at her, asking themselves no doubt who she was. It was a heady exciting feeling to know that one was being admired and to feel of consequence for the first time in one’s life.

  They reached the little Queen’s Apartments and, as Sheena went in, Mary Stuart sprang from her escritoire where she was writing and exclaimed,

  “You have come at last! I began to think you had not received my message.”

  Sheena sank down in a deep curtsey.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she said apologetically. “I have been waiting to change.”

  “Mon Dieu! What a gorgeous gown!” Mary Stuart said admiringly.

  She had been speaking English, but now, as if it was easier, she burst into French,

  “’Tis ravishing and enchanting! Where did you get anything so lovely? Surely there are not gowns like this in Scotland?”

  “No, indeed,” Sheena admitted honestly. “I have never seen anything so exquisite before. It has been given me by Queen Catherine.”

  “Queen Catherine!” Mary Stuart exclaimed in surprise. “Then it just cannot be hers. She must have purloined it from one of her Ladies-in-Waiting, perhaps the little Comtesse de St. Vincente, who is reputed to have more gowns than anyone else in the whole of France. She is about your size.”

  “However she came by it, it is indeed gracious of Her Majesty. How kind she must be, how thoughtful for others,” Sheena said, taking advantage of the opportunity to point out the Queen’s virtues.

  She saw an expression that she did not understand on Mary Stuart’s face. It seemed as if she was about to speak and then changed her mind, pressing her cupid’s bow mouth together as if in an effort to bite back the words.

  “Come,” she said a little awkwardly. “We must go to the tennis court or His Majesty will wonder where we are.”

  “Do you usually watch His Majesty play?” Sheena asked as they went down the broad staircase side by side.

  “He likes an audience,” Mary Stuart answered. “What man does not? They all want to be applauded and told just how clever they are, while we are longing for their compliments and jealous of their preoccupation with themselves.”

  The young Queen’s words left Sheena with a sense of dismay. What would they think in Scotland of such sentiments? Why indeed should this child, for she was little more, know so much about men?

  Why, oh why, had she been brought to this French Court at an early age and never had a chance to return home?

  As if she sensed there was criticism, Mary Stuart pressed all her weapons of charm and endearment into the smile she gave Sheena.

  “It is delightful to have you here,” she said. “I have so many friends, but it is fun to have one more. I was saying only this morning that we must teach you all the arts and graces of the Court. It is difficult for someone new not to commit gaucheries or to make mistakes.”

  “I shall be very grateful if you can prevent my doing that, ma’am,” Sheena commented.

  “We must try,” the Queen smiled, “and I think, looking at you now in that lovely gown, there will be a great many people willing to teach you especially those of the opposite sex.”

  Sheena tried to remember that she had come to instruct the Queen, not vice versa, but it was impossible to do anything but follow Mary Stuart into the gay laughing crowd who were seated or standing on the lawns next the tennis court watching the King playing what Sheena realised was a strenuous and extremely skilful game with three of his Courtiers.

  She had never seen tennis before.

  At first Mary Stuart and then several gentlemen standing around tried to explain to her the intricacies of the game. What surprised her was the King’s skill and the fact that, playing in his shirtsleeves with his lace cuffs floating in the breeze, there was nothing to single him out as being a King or to distinguish him from the other players.

  They had not been there for more than a few minutes when the company parted as the Duchesse de Valentinois came over the lawn with an exquisite grace that was somehow very peculiarly her own.

  She was dressed in a white gown with a few touches of black, the colours, Mary Stuart whispered, that were her own and were also worn as a Livery by all her servants.

  “Why black and white?” Sheena asked.

  “She vowed after her husband’s death to mourn for him always,” the little Queen replied with an impish smile. “But no one will deny that such colours are particularly flattering to her hair and her skin.”

  “They are indeed,” Sheena agreed in grudging admiration.

  “Three lovely redheads,” Mary Stuart replied with a grin. “The Duchesse, you and me! We ought to be able to get up to some mischief, ought we not?”

  Sheena’s first impulse was to reply to her lightly and then she remembered her role as Governess and said demurely,

  “I think there are more important and serious things to do, ma’am. I want, when you will permit me the time, to speak to you of Scotland.”

  Mary Stuart’s face did not change nor did she say anything. But Sheena had the feeling that she had withdrawn from her even though they were still standing side by side.

  She had a feeling of hopelessness and of being confronted suddenly with a blank wall.

  And then the voice she hated came from behind her,

  “And what does our visitor think of His Majesty’s skill?”

  He was mocking her, Sheena thought, knowing full well that she would never have seen tennis before and have no standard to compare the King with anyone else.

  Fortunately Mary Stuart had plenty to say.

  “There are so many things I am going to show Mistress McCraggan,” she said. “I cannot believe that amongst the snow and barren mountains of Scotland there are many amusements. We must entertain her, monsieur, show her that France can still be elegant and gay even when we are at war.”

  “Which we are not at the moment,” the Duc pointed out.

  “Oh, are we not?” Mary Stuart asked lightly. “To be sure, I am never quite certain. One day we are marching over the Spanish border and the next day we are marching back. I was never very bloodthirsty for detail.”

  “Your Majesty has no need to worry your head about anything as brutal as war!” the Duc said emphasised.

  Sheena gave a little gasp.

  “On the contrary, Your Grace,” she interposed. “Her Majesty’s subjects are fighting at
this very moment on her behalf, fighting valiantly and against almost overwhelming odds to keep her Kingdom intact.”

  Sheena threw the words at him like a challenge and so she had the satisfaction of seeing him, for the moment, look discomfited. And yet it was only for a moment.

  “Your pardon, mam’selle,” he said. “I was meaning that in all the affairs of France Her Majesty need not concern herself. With superb Diplomacy the King has managed to keep the peace since last January.”

  It was not what he had meant, Sheena thought angrily. He had forgotten Scotland, just as Mary Stuart was in danger of forgetting it and she clenched her fingers together in an effort not to be rude and not to tell him that there were better, finer and braver men in Scotland than were ever likely to be found fighting for France.

  She bit back the words as the Duchesse de Valentinois joined them.

  Sheena curtseyed, but stiffly and not very low.

  “Did I hear you praising the King?” she said to the Duc with a smile that made even her enemies feel as if the sun had come out.

  “When I do so,” the Duc answered, “it is obvious that I also pay homage to Your Grace, for we all know how much we owe to your Statesmanship and your magnificent handling of the political situation.”

  “You are very kind, monsieur,” the Duchesse said but she did not contradict him. Instead she glanced at the tennis court with an expression on her face that seemed to Sheena almost maternal.

  “In two minutes I must interrupt him,” she said. “Who would be a King? One cannot enjoy oneself for half an hour without the heavy cares of State volleying back at one far more forcibly than any opponent can strike.”

  “The game is just about finishing,” the Duc then told her. “Would you like me to fetch His Majesty?”

  “Please,” the Duchesse said gently.

  Sheena watched the Duc crossing the court, saw that the King hardly waited for him to speak before he came quickly with long strides to where the Duchesse was waiting.

  He then raised her hand to his lips. It was no perfunctory gesture. His lips lingered for a moment on the softness of her skin and Sheena saw his fingers tighten on hers.

  “You want me?”

  “I am afraid so, Sire. The Ambassadors are all here. We cannot begin without you.”

  “No, no, of course not. Although you could have handled them far better than I.”

  “I still need your authority, Sire.”

  She smiled into his eyes and Sheena next saw his face lightening as if some invisible message had passed between them. Then he turned to thank those who had played with him and walked away with the Duchesse towards another entrance to The Palace.

  “I told you we should be late,” Mary Stuart said in a disappointed tone. “You have not even seen the King play a full game. Never mind. We must come again tomorrow. Now we had best go and visit Her Majesty.”

  She spoke reluctantly and Sheena forced an eager note into her voice as she said,

  “It is most kind of you to take me, I am very anxious to meet Queen Catherine.”

  Again she had the impression that Mary Stuart was withdrawing from her. Then before she could be sure of it the young Queen turned to the Duc and said,

  “Mistress McCraggan has received a present from Her Majesty, and a very fine one at that. Do you not admire her appearance, monsieur?”

  “Naturally,” the Duc answered in his slow slightly cynical voice. “I was amazed at the transformation. But what has that to do with the Queen?”

  “Everything,” Mary Stuart replied. “The gown is a present.”

  “From the Queen?”

  The Duc’s voice suddenly held a sharp note and Sheena realised that he glanced across the lawn to where the Duchesse and the King were walking through an opening in a clipped yew hedge.

  “Yes, indeed,” Mary Stuart said. “It is very unlike Her Majesty to be so generous. I have received nothing from her save at Festivals.”

  “So Her Majesty doubtless has her reasons,” the Duc said and Sheena felt that there was something else behind the words, something that she could not understand and something that made her feel vaguely uncomfortable.

  And then before she could reply there was a sudden cry and the sound of voices shouting from the direction that the Duchesse and the King had gone in.

  Instinctively and quickly everyone surged in the direction of the noise.

  It took them only a few seconds to move across the lawns, to pass through the opening in the yew hedge and to find themselves outside one of the entrances to The Palace in the big, beautifully shaped courtyard at the end of which were wrought-iron gates opening onto the road.

  Mary Stuart and Sheena seemed to be almost the first to reach the courtyard.

  They saw the Duchesse and the King standing on the steps leading to The Palace, while in front of them was several men wearing the sombre garments of respectable tradesmen.

  They appeared ordinary and harmless enough, but one of them, a man with flashing eyes and an unkempt beard, was shouting in a country dialect that made it difficult to understand what he said.

  Then with a kind of sick horror Sheena found herself translating the words.

  “Harlot! Prostitute! You have sucked France dry and humbled decency and respectability to the dust. You have seduced and corrupted the King. And you have brought him down to the level of debauchery that is part of your trade.”

  The man was still shouting as the guards came hurrying across the cobbled courtyard and seized him and his friends.

  None of the men made the slightest resistance, but the one who had been speaking went on shouting out, “Wanton! Whore! Harlot!” until a blow in the mouth from one of the guards dragging him along silenced his voice and brought a rush of blood from between his lips.

  Sheena felt paralysed with what was happening right in front of her, as apparently was everyone else. She could only stare as the men were dragged away and then she saw the King make a hasty movement as if he would follow them.

  The Duchesse put out her hand and laid it on his arm. She was very pale but otherwise completely composed and, still with her hand on the King’s arm, she went up the steps and without a backward glance disappeared into The Palace.

  “Who are they? What does it mean?” Sheena asked almost beneath her breath, because there was something horrible and almost indecent both in the words the man had used and the hatred in his voice.

  “I think they are protestors,” Mary Stuart said. “People who are against the True Faith.”

  “Is that who they are?” Sheena said. “We have them in Scotland too.”

  She was thinking of the tales that had been brought to her father of how the little Queen’s mother had been denounced in public by an unknown fanatic called ‘John Knox’.

  “How could they have come in here?” she heard one of the gentlemen of the Court ask angrily.

  “Perhaps they are encouraged,” the Duc answered.

  “Encouraged!” the questioner expostulated, but before any more could be said, the Duc walked away, following the King and the Duchesse up the steps and into The Palace.

  Sheena watched him go. The scene she had just witnessed had been disturbing, terrifying and unpleasant.

  She felt Mary Stuart take her hand in hers.

  “Come,” she said. “There is nothing we can do. It is best to ignore these people. There are only a few of them and the Duchesse will see that they are burned at the stake.”

  “Burned at the stake!” Sheena repeated the words automatically.

  It was horrifying that a man should burn to death whatever crime he had committed.

  “Yes, indeed,” Mary Stuart remarked almost gleefully. “The Duchesse always insists on the death penalty for such rebels. It has been said that the Holy Father has sent her his special blessing for the work she is doing in trying to stamp out heresy.”

  “How could they be so mad to come here knowing what the penalty might be?” Sheena asked.

&nb
sp; “Oh, they will want to be martyrs, I suppose,” Mary Stuart replied. “Don’t let us think about them. It is too boring. This is not the first time it has happened and I expect the King will have something to say to the Captain of the Guard.”

  “How indeed could the sentries have let them through?” Sheena asked.

  Mary Stuart gave her a little sideways glance.

  “Did you not see what uniform the Guards were wearing today?” she questioned.

  “I don’t think I noticed,” Sheena answered, “and if I did it would convey little to me. I am afraid I am not yet conversant with the French Regiments.”

  “No, of course not,” Mary Stuart said. “If you were, it might seem significant to you. But never mind, let us see the Queen and get it over.”

  There was so much impatience in her voice that somehow Sheena did not dare to argue any further. Instead she followed the young Queen back through the garden and in through another entrance to The Palace.

  A sentry saluted them and she thought that they wore the same uniforms as the sentries in the courtyard but she could not be sure.

  They were met in the crystal and golden hall by a gentleman-at-arms, resplendent in gold and many decorations, but with an expression of such cynicism on his face that Sheena had the uneasy impression that he thought that his position was not good enough for him.

  They climbed the stairs, waited for only a short while in the audience chamber and then a magnificent gentleman-at-arms said that Her Majesty was ready for them.

  Sheena had expected someone small and oppressed with unhappy eyes and the uncertain manner of someone who is being persecuted.

  Instead, to some surprise, she saw a fat dumpy little woman with an ugly face, protruding eyes and the quick interested manner of someone who is alert and inquisitive.

  The room was dark and rather badly decorated. The Queen, while covered with endless jewels and wearing a gown of satin and lace, somehow contrived to look dowdy.

  She embraced Mary Stuart and turned to Sheena, who had sunk in a deep curtsey to the ground.