by Jean Plaidy
I am not old. Some would say I am in the prime of life. Thirty-five might be called that. Yet I begin to feel that my life is over. There are times when I awake in the night and put out a hand to touch Owen. Then a terrible desolation sweeps over me. “Where are you, Owen?” I cry. “What will become of us all?”
The peace of the Abbey is all around me, but there is no peace for me. I am envious of those black-clad figures who go hither and thither, their lives governed by the bells. It is the bells which tell me what they will be doing at various times of the day. Sometimes I hear their chanting voices. I see them working in the gardens. I envy them.
I long for news. But there is none. And I feel shut away in my own despair.
How long the days seem! I start to think of my life and what has led me to this. And then, when I think of the old days, I find myself reliving them. The hours seem to slip by, and the bells tell me that another day is coming to its close.
I will go right back to the beginning. I will follow my life step by step. I will write it down, slowly savoring each scene. And I will ask myself how I came to end thus—a prisoner in Bermondsey Abbey.
The Hôtel de St.-Paul
My earliest recollections are of that drafty and comfortless mansion, the Hôtel de St.-Paul, in which, at that time, was incarcerated the man who was known throughout France as Charles the Mad.
There were six of us children living there: Louis, Jean, Marie, Michelle, myself, and baby Charles. We had been put there because our mother did not know what to do with us, and as she had no great interest in our existence, the best thing seemed to her to be to shut us away.
Charles was just over a year younger than I. We all felt tender toward him because he was the baby and used to toddle after us with a rather bewildered look on his little face, which was appealing. In truth, we were all rather bewildered.
Moreover, we were often hungry because there never seemed enough food to go around. The soup grew thinner every day until it was more like water. Louis used to ask for more. He was more important than the rest of us because he was the Dauphin—and he felt that entitled him to privileges.
He was promptly told that there was no more, so that was the end of the matter.
We had a governess who was always whispering to the nurse. “It’s a shame and a scandal,” she used to say. “Poor little things . . . and her going on as she does.”
We listened avidly. We knew there was something odd about the place and we—at least the little ones—were quite unaware of what it was. Louis might have known something and he might have whispered it to Jean, but they were the eldest and boys. We were the young ones . . . and girls at that—with the exception of Charles, who was only a baby.
Marie was different from the rest of us. When we complained about being cold and hungry, she would say: “It is God’s will. We must accept what He gives us and be grateful to Him.”
“How can you be grateful for what you do not have?” asked Michelle.
“If you do not have it, it is God’s will that you should not,” insisted Marie, “and we must all be grateful to Him.”
I wished I could have been like Marie. It must be wonderful to feel there is something virtuous about being cold and hungry.
While the rest of us shivered in bed at night, even after having covered ourselves with everything we could find to keep ourselves warm, Marie would be kneeling by the bed, her hands and feet blue with the cold, thanking God.
Marie was different from the rest of us, and it was Michelle and I who were the closer friends.
One day stands out more clearly in my memory of those early days than any other.
It was winter—always to be dreaded, for there was never enough wood to keep the fires going, and to be cold and hungry is so much worse than merely being hungry.
I did not realize it at the time, but it must have seemed very strange to our nurse and governess and the few attendants who were in the Hôtel that, although we lived in such misery, the days were conducted as though our upbringing was the normal one for children of our rank.
We had our lessons every day; and on this occasion we were all seated at the table in the schoolroom and our governess was attempting to teach us, when suddenly the door opened and a strange creature stood there.
We children all stared at him in wonder.
He was very pale and his hair was in wild disorder. He wore an elaborately embroidered jacket, the splendor of which was impaired by a tear in the sleeve and stains down the front.
Our governess gave a little start and for a few seconds seemed uncertain what to do. Then she rose to her feet and bowed with great respect.
We children all sat staring at the intruder.
I caught my breath in terror when he approached the table, for he was truly an alarming sight.
“My children,” he began, and I noticed at once that he had one of the most musical voices I had ever heard.
Louis surprised me. He must have suddenly realized who the man was, for he rose from his chair and knelt before him.
The man stared down at him. He put out a hand and touched Louis’s head, and I saw the tears running down his sunken cheeks.
“You are Charles,” he said, in his beautiful voice. “Charles the Dauphin.”
“No, Sire,” replied Louis. “I am Louis the Dauphin.”
“But Charles . . . ”
“Charles is our younger brother now, Sire.”
“And what of Charles . . . Dauphin Charles . . . ?”
“He is dead, Sire. He was ill . . . and he died.”
The man stared ahead of him and his lips trembled. He smiled suddenly and said: “And you . . . Louis . . . you are now the Dauphin.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Louis . . . when did you last see your mother?”
“I do not remember. It was a long time ago.”
“My child, I have been ill . . . but I am better now. Yes. I shall be better now.” He looked at us children sitting there at the table watching this scene in bewilderment. He held out a hand to us.
We looked questioningly at our governess, who nodded to us, implying that we should rise and go to him.
He looked at us all in turn.
At length his eyes rested on me. “And you, little one?” I was surprised that I was no longer afraid of him.
“I am Katherine,” I said.
“Katherine, my dear child . . . God bless you.”
He turned to the governess. “How long have the children been living here . . . like this?”
She told him when we had come.
“These are the Children of France,” he said. “It is unbelievable that they should live so.”
“We were sent here, Sire. We have done our best.”
“I know that well,” he replied. “Now . . . it will be different. Everything that is needed will be sent. I shall command it to be done and there will be no delay.”
I remember no more of that scene, but I had learned something. The mad man of the Hôtel de St.-Paul was our father and the King of France.
Read Jean Plaidy’s Queens of England series in historical order:
* * *
Copyright © 1963 by Jean Plaidy
Reader’s Group Guide copyright © 2006 by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. The excerpt is from The Queen’s Secret, to be published in 2007 by Three Rivers Press.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
Three Rivers Press and the Tugboat design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Originally published in hardcover in the United States by G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, in 1963.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Plaidy, Jean, 1906–
The captive Queen of Scots / Jean Plaidy.—1st pbk. ed.
p. cm.
1. Mary, Queen of Scots, 1542–1587—Fiction. 2. Scotland—History—Mary Stuart, 1542–1567—Fiction. 3. Great Britian—History—Elizabeth, 1558–1603—Fiction. 4. Queens—Scotland—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6015.I3C36 2006
823'.914—dc22
2006003183
eISBN: 978-0-307-35198-2
v3.0