The Captive Queen of Scots

The two men conferred further together, and when Lesley arrived he was greeted warmly by the banker, who hinted that he was aware of Spain’s desire to help the Queen. He was certain too that the Pope deplored her present plight.

Lesley left, with the money which seemed like a fortune to him; and, what seemed almost as good, the knowledge that Mary had powerful friends.

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 ma

“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 a

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 wi

He had already reported to Elizabeth that a young man named Cavendish—who was co

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?