LESLEY, BISHOP OF ROSS, came to Wingfield to talk with the Queen.
Mary received him eagerly and was pleased to see how optimistic he was, for Lesley was never a man to disguise the true state of affairs.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “I come in person because there are some matters it is better not to trust to letters. I have great hopes that your captivity will soon be over.”
“My dear Bishop,” cried the Queen, “you could not bring me better news.”
“Your marriage with Norfolk will bring you freedom, and the project is now receiving the support of men of standing.”
“Yes?”
“Leicester himself.”
“Leicester! Then this means that Elizabeth herself gives her consent.”
Lesley was thoughtful for a moment. “I am not sure that we have come as far as that. In her bad treatment of you, Elizabeth has been advised to act as she did by Cecil, who is determined to keep a Protestant ruler in Scotland. Cecil’s influence on the Queen does not please her ambitious ministers. But for Cecil, Leicester might have been Elizabeth’s husband. I believe that at the time of the Amy Robsart affair he came near to it. Leicester never forgave Cecil, and he sees now a chance of flouting his authority by giving his support to the marriage with Norfolk.”
“They say the Queen is still enamored of Leicester.”
“I believe it to be true. I have seen them together, and although she encourages others to admire her, there is a shade of difference in her manner when she is near him. If Leicester approves of the match with Norfolk, I am of the opinion that he will persuade Elizabeth to do so. I have letters here from Leicester and certain other noblemen in which they praise Norfolk and tell you that they will give their support to a marriage between you.”
“Give me the letters,” said Mary; and when Lesley did so she opened them with hands which shook with excitement. What Lesley had said was true. There was the letter, written in Leicester’s own hand, commending the Duke of Norfolk, persuading her to marry him, and assuring her that he had the nobility behind him when he told her that, should the Queen of England die without heirs, they would support her as the rightful heir to the throne. He went on to say that he was sure the Queen of England could be persuaded to see the wisdom and justice of this.
When Mary had finished reading, she looked at Lesley with sparkling eyes. She felt young again; full of hope. “I shall soon be free of my prison,” she murmured.
Then she thought of another prisoner. Bothwell. What hope had he of ever being released! The French would insist on his remaining shut away; they would never allow one who had played such a devastating role in her life to go free; and if he were free, where would he go? To Scotland, where certain death awaited him at Moray’s hands? To England? Elizabeth would never tolerate him there. What were his thoughts at this time? How much had he changed?
These months of imprisonment had for her been at times almost intolerable. But what of him? She at least had her friends, and a certain consideration must be shown a Queen even by her enemies. But what did Bothwell suffer, and how would one so bold and vital endure such suffering?
She had ceased to yearn for him as she had a year ago. She knew that he had disappeared completely from her life and she would never see him again. Indeed, if they did meet they would not be the same people because the Mary, who had lost her crown for love of him, had gone forever. A woman grown sober by captivity and suffering had taken the place of that headstrong girl. Bothwell must have changed too. What was that blustering, fascinating, irresistible adventurer now?
She was aware of Lesley, waiting for her to speak. “Bothwell?” she murmured.
“We do not anticipate any difficulty in having that marriage annulled,” said Lesley.
THE EARL OF SHREWSBURY was anxious. It was all very well for Bess to say that she would manage their affairs, but he was the one who would be blamed if they failed in their duty. The guarding of such an important political prisoner was a constant anxiety, and he had never been a man who could stand up against perpetual worry. His head ached continually; he found that when he rose from his bed in the mornings he was giddy. It was no use complaining to Bess of these matters, or even mentioning them. “All you need is a little fresh air,” she would say, “and you’ll be better tomorrow!”
Bess was alert however. She knew as well as he did that messengers from the North and South were finding their way to the Queen’s apartment. Intrigue was rife and, if it ever was brought into the light of day, the Shrewsburys must be on the right side.
Which was the right side? The Queen of England was strong; but if it were true that men such as Leicester, Arundel and Pembroke were eager to promote the marriage of Norfolk and Mary without having first obtained Elizabeth’s consent, who could be sure what would happen next?
Shrewsbury was a man who wished to remain poised cautiously between two factions, so that he might leap onto the winning side at an opportune moment.
He had already reported to Elizabeth that a young man named Cavendish—who was connected with Bess through her second husband, Sir William Cavendish—was bringing letters to Mary from Norfolk. Elizabeth’s reply had been that she was aware of this and that she wished Cavendish to be allowed to carry messages to the Queen. This sounded as though Cavendish were a spy for Elizabeth while feigning to work for Norfolk. Who could know who was a friend, who was an enemy, in such a morass of deceit?
It was small wonder that he found the task too much for him and sighed for the old days of comparative peace before he had been singled out to guard the Queen of Scots.
He went to his bedchamber and there, risking discovery by Bess, he lay on his bed; but when he did so the room seemed to rock as though he were on board ship.
He lay for some time and gradually the giddiness left him.
I never felt thus before, he thought. Is this an illness brought on by worry?
There was a knock on the door, so quiet that he was not sure whether he had imagined it. He ignored it, and then he saw that the door was slowly opening, and the serving girl, Eleanor Britton, was standing in the doorway watching him.
“What is it?” asked the Earl.
“I come to ask if there is aught you want,” she answered.
“Why? I did not send for you.”
“But I saw how sick your lordship looked and, begging your pardon, I came to see if there was aught you needed.”
“Come in and shut the door.
She came slowly to his bedside and the light from the Gothic window shone on her round young face. She was comely; he noticed her neat yet plump figure beneath her serving maid’s gown; but it was the expression on her face which held his attention. She looked enraptured, almost angelic, he thought. What a strange girl she was! No wonder he had singled her out for his attention.
“My lord is well?” she asked; and that mobile face was suddenly filled with sorrow.
“I am well enough,” he answered.
“Is there aught I could do, my lord?”
“Nay.”
They looked at each other in silence for a few seconds, then he held out his hand.
“You are a comely girl,” he told her. “It pleases me to see you in my house.”
She lowered her eyes and dropped a curtsy—he was not sure why.
He wondered what would happen if Bess came in and saw the serving girl standing by his bed. The girl would be dismissed—and he . . . he would never hear the end of the matter. She could taunt him with what she called his bewitchment by the Queen of Scots. She did it half jokingly, although there was a certain malice in her words. She was displeased but not outraged that he should find Mary attractive; but what would she say if she knew that he, one of the noblest Earls in England, was a little fascinated by one of her humblest serving girls?
He was feeling a little light-headed, and in this unusual state he did not care.
“Come nearer,” he said.
She came, her lips lightly parted showing
good teeth; he knew then that he had only to order and she would obey.
He took her hand and drawing her to him kissed it, not with passion, but with gentleness while a soft flush spread from her neck to the roots of her hair.
She knelt beside the bed and pressed her lips against the hand which held hers.
He was aware of a rising passion such as he had never known before; he wanted to seize her roughly, to embrace her, but he knew that if he gave way to such feeling he would be too giddy to stand.
He thought then: She is so young and I shall not always be sick.
There was a sudden clatter of horses’ hoofs below. They were both startled, and the girl rose to her feet.
“You must go and see who has arrived,” he told her. “Come back and tell me.”
She left him and he lay still listening to the clamor below.
* * *
IT WAS NOT ELEANOR who came back to his apartment but Bess.
She came in without knocking and was startled to see him lying on the bed. He thought: She might have come thus when I was talking to Eleanor. And the thought made his heart beat fast.
“So you are lying down!”
“I felt unwell.”
“You look a little pale. You do not take enough fresh air. I came to tell you that Leonard Dacre is here.”
The Earl raised himself on his elbow. “Dacre!”
Bess nodded. “I think we should go down to greet him. In view of his connection with Norfolk we cannot know what he may be up to.”
The Earl passed a weary hand across his brow. “Not more trouble, I hope.”
Bess gave her short laugh. “Trouble! There will always be trouble while we have your romantic Queen under our roof. Did you not know that?”
“I am learning it.”
She gave him a sharp look. “And I’ll warrant you think such a beauty is worth the trouble.”
“I’d gladly give the task back to Scrope and Knollys,” he retorted, “for all her beauty.”
She appeared almost arch, but her gaze was searching. “I shall not tell her what you say,” she replied. “It would appear ungallant.”
He thought then that she would be a jealous woman if she discovered infidelity in her husband; and he wondered what form her jealousy would take.
Rising from his bed he tried to fight off his giddiness, and as he followed his countess down to the hall he felt it receding. By the time he was ready to greet Dacre it had left him.
Leonard Dacre would have been a handsome man but for the fact that one of his shoulders was higher than the other. He was very conscious of this as he was that he was the second son of Lord Dacre of Gilsland, and therefore not his heir. His elder brother had died leaving a son George, and George’s mother, Lady Dacre, had become the wife of Thomas, Duke of Norfolk. On her death Norfolk had, in Leonard Dacre’s opinion, concerned himself overmuch with the affairs of the Dacre family and, as there was a great deal of money involved, had arranged marriages between his three stepdaughters and his sons. As these girls were co-heiresses with their young brother George, Norfolk thus made sure that a large part of the Dacre wealth did not pass out of the Howard family.
This was a source of great annoyance to Leonard Dacre and he did not feel too kindly toward Norfolk in consequence.
Now he bowed low over Bess’s hand and expressed his hope that he found her in good health.
“My health is excellent,” answered Bess.
“And my lord Earl?”
“Oh, he does not take enough exercise. It is my continual complaint.”
“I have, it is true, been less well of late,” explained the Earl.
“He did not like Tutbury. He will be happier now that we are here at Wingfield Manor.”
“And you look less happy than when we last met,” said the Earl.
“I have had bad news,” Dacre replied. “My young nephew has died. I received the news this day.”
“Young George!” cried Bess. “But he can’t be more than seven! We are truly sorry. My poor Leonard! You must come to my private chamber and I will have wine brought. This is indeed sad news.”
The Earl slipped his arm through that of Dacre, and the Countess summoned a servant and gave orders.
“How did it happen?”
“While he was practicing vaulting at Thetford. A bad fall on his head. He died soon afterward.”
“What tragedy! First the father . . . then the son . . . . So you are now the heir.”
“It is of this matter that I come to talk to you and the Countess.”
When they were all seated in the Countess’s private chamber, Dacre explained why he was angry.
“The barony is one which descends to the female members of the family,” he said. “So that not only do his young sisters inherit the Dacre fortune, but the title also.”
“Norfolk was wise,” commented the Countess, “in betrothing his sons to the three Dacre girls.”
“Very wise, very sly,” added Leonard. “I intend to contest the case.”
Bess nodded. She doubted whether he would stand much chance of winning.
They talked for some time of family affairs and eventually Bess said: “I must present you to the Queen of Scots. She would take it ill if she knew you had been here and not called to pay your respects.”
“I should be pleased to speak with Her Majesty.”
Thus it was that Mary made the acquaintance of Leonard Dacre.
THE YOUNG MAN, Cavendish, had brought Mary a letter from the Duke of Norfolk.
Mary seized on it delightedly. The intrigue with which she seemed to be surrounded since coming to Wingfield Manor had brought new liveliness and she welcomed it.
Taking the letter to her bedchamber, Mary sat at the window and opened it.
The Duke wrote that he was deeply disturbed because he had heard rumors that the Papal spies in London, together with the Spanish ambassador, were planning to marry her to Don Jon of Austria. He needed reassurance. He must have it by return. He was sending her a diamond which was intended to pledge his troth to her and he was asking that a contract be drawn up between them without delay.
Why not? thought Mary. The sooner marriage with Norfolk became a fact, the sooner she would be free of her prison. She had come to see marriage with him as the only way out for her. Moreover she wanted marriage; she was weary of living without a man. She assured herself that she had forgotten Bothwell and that he no longer meant anything to her.
She took up a miniature of herself and a tablet of gold. She would write, sending these to Norfolk as her pledge, and she would ask Lesley to draw up the contract of marriage without delay.
She answered Norfolk’s letter in most affectionate terms and, enclosing the letter with the tablet and miniature, dispatched Cavendish back to the Duke.
Shortly afterward the contract was drawn up between Mary and Norfolk, although those English peers who had given their support to the marriage were not made aware of this.
Norfolk was unsure who was his friend, who his enemy, and was therefore uncertain whom to trust. As he saw it, all that mattered was that the contract had been signed.
He was sure—and so was Mary—that before long she would be his wife.
* * *
THE EARL AND COUNTESS were discussing the ill luck of Leonard Dacre.
“It seems to me that he has little love for my lord Norfolk,” said Bess.
“That is easily understood.”
Bess nodded. Both she and her husband agreed on that point. To see title and fortune, to which one felt one had a right, taken by others was intolerable!
“I believe Leonard plans to contest the matter,” said the Earl, “but he’ll not have a chance.”
He walked to the window to look out over the country, and as he did so he reeled slightly.
“You have drunk too much wine,” said the Countess with a laugh.
The Earl turned, feeling a sudden wave of anger against her. He was about to utter a protest when he
felt very faint; he stretched out to catch the hanging; that was the last he remembered for some time.
WHEN HE WAS AGAIN CONSCIOUS, he was lying in his bed, and Bess was in the room, with the doctors, Caldwell and Francis.
The Earl tried to call out but he appeared to have lost his voice; he tried to lift his arm but could not move it.
Bess was beside his bed. “Do not try to move, my dear,” she said gently.
His mouth formed words which he could not utter and she went on: “You have been ill; but you will be all right now. I am going to see to that. The doctors are here. They are very hopeful of your recovery.”
She laid her hand on his brow; it was very cool and it seemed to him as though some of that tremendous vitality of hers flowed into him.
“B . . . Bess . . . ” His lips formed the word and his eyes filled with tears. He felt so weak that he rejoiced in her strength.
“You must rest for some time,” she told him. “Close your eyes now and try to sleep. All will be well in time. I have told the doctors that they are not to leave Wingfield until I am satisfied with your condition.”
He obeyed her, and it seemed that he slept awhile.
* * *
IT WAS A WEEK OR SO after his attack before the power of speech returned to the Earl, and although he could move his limbs he was still slightly paralyzed.
Bess rarely left the sickroom; she herself prepared gruels and potions for her husband; she guarded the sickroom and would allow him no visitors except the doctors. With them she was in constant conference, and all agreed that the Earl owed his life to the indefatigable Bess of Hardwick.
When she judged him to be well enough to listen to her plans she sat beside his bed and talked to him.
“My dear,” she said, “you have suffered from inflammation of the brain. The doctors think it is a condition which has been brought on by your anxiety. Your dear captive, by the way, has sent affectionate messages to you every day and insists on hearing of your progress. I am sure that will help you to get well.”
The Captive Queen of Scots Page 28