The Captive Queen of Scots

by Виктория Холт

  “Your Majesty would wish me to leave you?” whispered Jacques.

  The Queen nodded.

  BESSIE WAS HOVERING near the door of the Queen’s apartment, and as he came out she threw herself into his arms.

  “It has been so long . . . .” she whispered. They were kissing, exploring each other’s faces with their lips.

  “Bessie . . . my Bessie . . . .” murmured Jacques.

  “You can have no idea how desolate this place is without our secretary Jacques.”

  “Can it be as desolate as the English Court without Bessie Pierpont?”

  “Oh Jacques . . . what shall we do . . . ?”

  “There is one thing we must do . . . and that quickly. Marry.”

  Bessie laughed. “I hoped you would say that.”

  “Do you think they will allow us to?”

  “The Queen never refuses me anything.”

  “What of your grandmother?”

  “I believe I am a little like her. I am going to do the deed and tell afterward . . . as she did in the case of Arabella’s parents.”

  Jacques was thoughtful. He had to remember that he was after all only a secretary. He wondered what action would be taken by the Shrewsburys if he married their granddaughter. He was passionately in love with this charming young girl, but he had to think for them both. It would be disastrous if for the sake of a brief week or so of passion they allowed their entire future to be jeopardized. Jacques was really in love for the first time in his life, but ardently as he desired Bessie, he could yet consider the years ahead of them. Bessie was not only to be his wife, but the mother of his children. This was no sudden blazing passion; he had watched Bessie grow since she was a child of four, and the happiest moments of those long ago days had been when she sat beside him, the tip of her little pink tongue showing at the corner of her mouth as she bent over a Latin exercise with which he was helping her. He had loved her then, and now that she was a woman he desired her as he had never desired a woman before; but the tenderness, the longing to protect had remained; and this he knew to be love in all its aspects.

  Thus when he had danced at the English Court, when he had paid the gallant compliments expected of a Frenchman, he had never ceased to dream of young Bessie Pierpont, and all other women could be nothing but passing fancies to him.

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her gently.

  “My Bessie,” he said, “my true love Bessie, I shall love you until I am laid in my tomb.”

  “And I you, Jacques,” she declared solemnly.

  “And because I love you as I do I will curb my need of you until that time when I can be sure that in taking and sharing the delights which must surely be ours, I can assure myself that no harm shall come to you.”

  “There is no time like this moment, Jacques,” cried Bessie. He embraced her with such fervor that she cried out in her ecstasy. But he released her suddenly and shook his head.

  “First there shall be marriage,” he said. “It is how it must be, since you are Bessie my only love. But there will be obstacles and, because I will not have you hurt, we must be patient. Little Bessie, from this day we shall begin to make our plans.”

  SIR RALPH SADLER was dismayed. He had often heard of the schemes which had harassed Shrewsbury during his term as jailor; having been with the Queen, and perceiving her patience, he had been inclined to believe most of them to be exaggerated. “All that happened in the early days of her captivity,” he told Somers. “Now she is too old and ill to think of escape. We should be grateful for that.”

  And now it seemed that he had been wrong.

  One day while he was at supper his servant came to tell him that a man was at the castle begging an interview, as he had news of great importance which he believed Sir Ralph must hear.

  Sir Ralph allowed the man to be brought to his presence and found him to be a certain Humphrey Briggs, an uncouth and unprepossessing man—clearly one who bore a grievance.

  “What is your business?” asked Sir Ralph.

  “I come to your honor because I feel there is news I should give you.”

  “Well, let me hear it.”

  The man hesitated.

  “You want payment?”

  The dull face brightened. “It’s important news, Your Honor. Touching our Lady Elizabeth herself.”

  “It sounds like treason. In that case, man, you would do well to tell me quickly, for it is treason to hold back anything that threatens the Queen.”

  Briggs looked a little taken aback. He stammered: “I’m a good subject of the Queen’s, Your Honor. I serve the Queen . . . .”

  “Then prove it by telling me what news this is.”

  Briggs, now alarmed, decided to forgo hopes of reward and content himself with revenge. “I worked for Nicholas Langford, Your Honor.”

  “And he has dismissed you?” asked Sir Ralph shrewdly.

  “’Twas no fault of mine.”

  “Never mind. Tell me.”

  “My master, with the help of his secretary, Rowland Kitchyn, hears the Mass regularly in his house . . . and that’s not all. He receives priests in his house, Your Honor; and he writes letters.”

  “Letters?”

  “To the fair devil of Scotland, Your Honor. And with one end. He is with them that wants to see her in place of our own good Queen. And that’s why I thought it right to tell Your Honor . . . .”

  Sir Ralph nodded.

  “You may go to the kitchen,” he said. “There they will give you food.”

  “I’m a poor man, Your Honor . . . .”

  “It will be necessary for me to look into this matter,” said Sir Ralph. “I know you to have been a servant of Nicholas Langford and to have been dismissed by him. You bear a grudge against him. But if I find your information to be true, have no fear that you shall lack a reward . . . but first it must be proved.” He waved his hand for the man to go; and when he was alone he wrote down the names of Nicholas Langford and Rowland Kitchyn, and planned how he would begin his investigation.

  IT WAS NOT EASY for Bessie to hide her happiness. Mary noticed that the girl seemed subdued and it occurred to her that she was, after all, no longer a child and that perhaps it was high time she married.

  Thinking of Seton’s fate, as she so often did, Mary was determined that this bright young girl should not suffer in the same way. Whenever she was able to lay her hands on rich materials—which were sometimes sent to her by friends in France through the French ambassador—it was clothes for Bessie that she planned. She had taught the girl to embroider, and as they sat together working on a new gown Bessie said suddenly: “It is twelve years that I have been with Your Majesty. I wonder if I shall always be with you.”

  “Ah, Bessie, that must not be. One day you will marry and go away from me. I would not have you live your life in these drafty prisons.”

  “Oh but . . . ” began Bessie, and she almost said: Jacques will be your secretary, and where Jacques is there must I be. Then she remembered that Jacques had said they must keep their secret as yet.

  Mary laid her hand over Bessie’s. “My dearest,” she said, “I can never explain how much your presence here has meant to me. I lost my own child and to some extent you took his place. That is why, even though it will grieve me to lose you, I shall be happy to see you go . . . when the time comes.”

  “Your Majesty,”—Bessie spoke breathlessly—” when do you think . . . the time will come for me to go?”

  “It will not be long delayed,” answered Mary with a smile. “I will tell you something else. You do not think your grandmother could resist making a grand marriage for you, do you?”

  Bessie was silent as the numbness of fear crept over her. Mary however did not notice the change in her goddaughter and continued: “It is to be a grand marriage for you, my dear. The Countess of Shrewsbury certainly has plans for you. It is some time now since she decided on a husband for you.”

  “Who . . . ?” stammered Bessie.

&nbs
p; “My Lord Percy, eldest son of the Earl of Northumberland.”

  Bessie was staring down at the material in her hands; defiance was born in her then. Never! Never! Never! she was saying over and over again to herself.

  “So you see,” went on the Queen, “you have not been forgotten, my dear; and when the time comes I shall use all my influence to bring about this match, for I consider it, though one of the best possible, not too good for my own dear grandchild.”

  “I do not wish to marry Lord Percy,” said Bessie in a stony voice.

  The Queen laughed. “You will . . . in time, my love.”

  “I never shall,” replied Bessie vehemently.

  She was trembling; she was about to throw herself at the Queen’s feet, to confess her love for Jacques, to implore Mary’s help. But Jacques had said that their love was to be a secret as yet . . . and she was afraid to do so. If her grandmother—the energetic Countess—had decided she was to marry Lord Percy, she must do something quickly.

  She was saved from confessing the truth by the Queen’s next words. “I hear the sound of voices below. Someone is arriving at the castle.”

  Mary had risen and the material had dropped to the floor. She still hoped that a messenger would bring news of her release, that some friend might have come to visit her, some loved one from Scotland or France, or perhaps Queen Elizabeth herself.

  Bessie, trembling, went to the window and stood beside the Queen.

  A man was being hustled into the castle; he looked harassed, as though he were a prisoner.

  “I wonder who that can be,” said the Queen. “Bessie, go and see if you can find out.”

  Bessie was glad to escape, but instead of obeying the Queen’s command she went straight to that chamber in which Jacques was working. He looked up from his writing table when he saw her, and for the moment all Bessie’s fears vanished as she watched the joy sweep over his face.

  “My love!”

  She ran to him and put her arms about his neck. “Oh Jacques . . . Jacques . . . what do you think? They are going to try to marry me to Lord Percy.”

  He smiled into her frightened eyes, trying not to show that he shared her fear. “Why, Bessie,” he said, “do you think I should allow that?”

  She laughed gaily. “Of course you wouldn’t. Neither of us would. We’d . . . die rather, wouldn’t we, Jacques.”

  But her eyes were shining and she had no intention of dying. She was going to live and love.

  In that moment young Bessie had a look of the grandmother whose name she shared.

  SIR RALPH WAS INDULGING in his favorite occupation, which was composing letters to Elizabeth explaining why it would be wise to withdraw him from his post as guardian of the Queen of Scotland and put another in his place.

  “I am crippled with rheumatism . . . I am unfit for this task . . . .” he murmured. How fortunate Shrewsbury was to escape it. But Shrewsbury had had fifteen years as jailor. Pray God he, Sadler, did not have to endure more than one.

  He was particularly worried at this time, for he had found it necessary, on the testimony of that odious fellow Briggs, whom he had loathed on sight, to investigate the case of Nicholas Langford; and although Mr. Langford had answered his questions so plausibly that he could bring no accusation against him, his secretary, Rowland Kitchyn, had shown himself to be an ardent Catholic and had actually admitted serving the Mass.

  Uncertain how to act, Sadler had had Rowland Kitchyn brought to Tutbury and was keeping him prisoner there while he submitted him to questioning.

  If Sadler could prove Mary to be the center of a plot against Elizabeth, he would then go to London, see the Queen and implore her to send a younger and more healthy man to take charge of Mary. He was hoping that he would be able to prove this.

  Rowland Kitchyn was each day brought from his dungeon in Tutbury Castle into the presence of Sadler and Somers and there questioned, but in spite of these examinations nothing could be drawn from him but the fact that he had served Mass; he refused to utter a word against his master and denied that he had been involved in a plot to free Mary and place her on the throne.

  Since he admitted to being a Catholic, both Sadler and Somers thought it their duty to insist on his attending the chapel in order to hear prayers. As a Catholic, Rowland Kitchyn refused to attend the chapel; so before the service two guards were sent to his cell to bring him there; and often Mary would hear his cries of protest as he was dragged across the courtyard.

  Bessie had discovered what was happening, for Jacques had told her.

  Jacques was worried—not only because of the proposed match with Lord Percy, but because Sir Ralph Sadler was persecuting Rowland Kitchyn, whose only crime seemed to be that he was a Catholic.

  “Bessie,” Jacques had said, “you and I are Catholics. If he decides to persecute one, he might persecute others.”

  Bessie clung to him and said: “Jacques . . . what is happening all about us? Once I felt so safe. Now I feel safe no longer.”

  Jacques did not answer that. He might have told her that they had been living in a dangerous world for as long as he could remember. The only difference was that Bessie was growing up and was becoming more and more aware of this.

  “SETON,” said Mary, “what are they doing to that poor man?”

  “They have brought him in for questioning, and they insist on his going to the chapel every day.”

  “What does it mean, Seton?”

  Seton shrugged her shoulders.

  “Will they soon begin to persecute us, do you think?” asked Mary. “Do they drag him across the courtyard beneath my window every day, to remind me that I worship in a manner different from theirs?”

  “Who can say?” sighed Seton.

  “Oh, Seton, I am going to write to my aunt Renée. You are going to her. You must.”

  Seton obstinately shook her head.

  “Sometimes I despair of ever leaving my prison,” said Mary. “Sometimes I think I shall be carried from my prison to the tomb.”

  “These are doleful thoughts, Your Majesty.”

  “These are doleful times, Seton.”

  There was silence for a while then Mary said: “They are bringing him back now. What does it mean, Seton? What are they planning now?”

  SIR RALPH LOOKED into the face of the man who had been brought to him for questioning.

  “I have told you all I know,” said Rowland Kitchyn.

  “How can we be sure of that?”

  “I have nothing else to say.”

  “We have means of extracting the truth,” said Sir Ralph.

  He saw that the man had turned pale, and he noticed that he was a frail man, a man more accustomed to wielding a pen than a sword.

  “You mean you would torture me?”

  “We would consider the means were unimportant if through them we arrived at the truth.”

  “Do men speak truth under torture? You know they do not always do so, my lord. They cry out what is demanded of them . . . anything to stop the torture.”

  Sir Ralph looked into that pale face and saw the sweat at the temples; the fear in the eyes. It was not the fear of pain, so much as the fear that he would not be able to withstand it. There was a difference, and Sir Ralph was wise enough to see it. He wondered whether it would only be necessary to talk of torture. He hoped so, for he was not a violent man.

  “Think about this,” he said. “Tomorrow you will be brought before me again. I am eager to know the truth.”

  Rowland Kitchyn was taken back to his cell; he was sick with fear. He did not know how he would stand up to torture. He had never suffered it. He was a man of great imagination, and he was afraid . . . terribly afraid that his body would take possession of his mind and insist on his saying that which was false, in order to save it from pain.

  ROWLAND KITCHYN awoke in the night. He felt the cold of the stone floor through his pallet, yet he was sweating. He had dreamed that he was in a dungeon of this evil Tutbury and there they had t
ortured him; and that as the pain possessed him he lost all sense of decency, all sense of honor; thinking only to save his wretched limbs from pain, he had cried out lies against his master.

  “I must not, I must not,” he moaned. “I will not.”

  But how could he be sure? He knew full well that under torture men lost all sense of reason, all sense of justice.

  They wished him to betray his master.

  “I will never do it. I never will,” he whispered.

  But in his dream he had done so; and how could he be sure when awake he would be more brave?

  A terrible belief had come to him. The dream was a warning. He would betray his master under torture.

  “I never will. I never will,” he moaned.

  But how could he be sure?

  There was a way. It was the only way. He lay in the dark, thinking of it.

  SIR RALPH SADLER said to Somers: “I am sure that fellow Briggs was a vengeful rogue, and I am certain that both Langford and his secretary Kitchyn are guiltless of intrigue against the Queen. Catholics they are, alas. But there are many Catholics in England.”

  “What do you suggest we should do? Release Kitchyn?”

  Sir Ralph nodded. “Come with me to his cell. We will tell him that he is a free man.”

  Together the pair made their way to the prisoner. Sir Ralph unlocked the door and, peering into the gloom, saw Kitchyn lying on his pallet; he was very still.

  The two men approached, and Sadler murmured: “Kitchyn, wake up. We are come to speak to you.”

  There was no answer and, bending over the figure of the man on the pallet, Sadler gave a sudden exclamation, which brought Somers to his side.

  Both men stood staring down at the lifeless body of the prisoner, who had strangled himself.

  HER WOMEN HAD NOT yet come into her bedchamber to help her rise, but Mary was awake. Something had awakened her early on this morning, some evil foreboding which prevented her from sleeping.

  She had felt uneasy ever since she had seen that poor man being dragged across the courtyard to the chapel. The persecution of others never failed to move her deeply, perhaps because she had suffered so much herself.

  She lay for a moment, wondering whether it was some unusual sound of activity which had awakened her; there was no sound now in the courtyard below.