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“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.”
“Why Bess,” he said, “nothing could help me get well more than your loving care.”
Bess laughed. “You do not think I would allow a husband of mine to become an invalid, do you? You are going to get better, I tell you.”
“I feel better.”
“Of course you do. All the time you have been lying on that bed you have not been worrying about the messages which are going to and from your precious captive. You have ceased to think of the charming creature. Let me tell you, George Talbot, that is why your health has improved. There is one thing you need above all others now. That is to leave all this behind and pay a visit to the baths of Buxton. I know that will cure you completely. And I propose to take you there.”
“But what of the Queen . . . .”
“Which? Your Queen or . . . the other? But I forgot they are both your Queens, are they not? Do not fret about the Queen of Scots. She is still here even though you have not been able to guard her. You see, there are others who can carry out the task of jailor as well as the Earl of Shrewsbury. No, my love, you are going to Buxton. I have quite made up my mind to take you there.”
“Do you not remember that, when Knollys’ wife was dying, the Queen would not allow him to visit her?”
“I am not Knollys. I say you are in need of Buxton baths and you are going to have them. I have already written to the Queen, telling her of your state of health and asking for permission to take you to Buxton.”
“And you have had no word?”
“I have had no word . . . although I expected it ere now.”
“Bess, even you will not get consent. She will give the same answer to you as she gave to Knollys.”
Bess’s face hardened suddenly. “You are my husband,” she said, “and it is my duty to cure you. I know that this can be done by a visit to Buxton, and Queen or no Queen, you are going to Buxton.”
He smiled up at her. She seemed invulnerable. But he did not believe they would go to Buxton.
LEONARD DACRE had been a constant caller at Wingfield during the Earl’s illness and, since the Countess was continually occupied with the sickroom, it was not difficult for Dacre to visit the Queen whenever he wished.
Dacre was a very bitter man. He had received no satisfaction regarding his claim to the family fortune, and he was furious contemplating how wily Norfolk had been in marrying his brother’s widow and arranging matches with his nieces, so that he had maneuvered the vast Dacre estate into his greedy hands. Norfolk was—without the Dacre fortune—the richest peer in England. He hated Norfolk.
With the Earl sick and the Countess occupied in nursing him, it had been easy to discover something of the intrigues of the household—a little friendship here, a little bribery there—and he knew that Norfolk was not only anxious to marry the Queen of Scots but that he had already a secret contract with her.
Dacre was going to do his best to stop that marriage.
He knew also that there was another faction in England which was eager to prevent it. This was the Catholic party of the North who were determined that Mary should never marry with Protestant Norfolk. The fact that this party was headed by Dacre’s cousin, the Earl of Northumberland, made it easy for Leonard Dacre to become a member of it; and, since he was on visiting terms with the Queen of Scots, he was in a position to be very useful.
Dacre was determined that Mary should reject Norfolk and agree to the plans of the Northumberland faction, which were that she should make an alliance with Don Jon of Austria, who would come to England and fight for her cause—and not only her cause. There was another, very dear to the hearts of the Catholics of the North—the dethroning of the Protestant Queen whom they looked on as a bastard and no true Queen of England, and the setting up in her place of the Catholic Mary Queen of Scots.
It was while Countess Bess was with her sick husband and preparing to leave for Buxton—for although she had not yet received Elizabeth’s permission she had gone ahead with her preparations—that Dacre called at Wingfield Manor and asked for an audience with the Queen. Mary was working on her tapestry with Seton and Jane Ke
Dacre knew that they were in her confidence and to be trusted, and that if he were alone with the Queen it would give rise to suspicion, so he decided to lay his plan before the three of them.
“I believe, Your Majesty,” he said, “that it would not be difficult for you to leave this prison.”
Mary, who had continued her work, held her needle poised while she looked at Dacre. He noticed the quick color in her cheeks. Talk of escape could always excite her.
“How so?” she asked.
Dacre went on: “I have a perfect plan to lay before you. Do you think that I have not given a great deal of thought to this, nor that I am the only one behind it. Your Majesty, not far from this place armed men are waiting to help you. You have only to escape from this manor, gallop a few miles, and you will be with them. They are ready to put hundreds of men in the field to fight for you.”
“You mean . . . Norfolk?”
Dacre could not help the note of anger creeping into his voice. “I mean my cousin Northumberland.”
“Ah yes,” said Mary quietly.
“You know that he is working for you. He has the Pope and the King of Spain behind him.”
“They are too ambitious,” said Mary. “They want to give me not only Scotland but England. I can be content with Scotland.”
“They will meet your wishes in every way. Westmorland is with Northumberland. They ca