She called Jacques to her and told him what she intended to do.

“Your Majesty is overgenerous,” he murmured.

“Nay,” she replied gaily. “It does me so much good to see these young people happy.”

Jacques turned to her suddenly, and for a few seconds she waited for him to speak, but he remained silent and she thought she saw a sullen look on his face which had not been there before.

She thought: He is jealous of Curle.

She laid a hand on his arm. “My dear Jacques,” she said, “when you find a bride I shall do the same for you.”

He murmured conventional thanks; and it was from that moment she noticed the change in him. He was, she believed, a more complex character than her frank Gilbert Curle. Yet she was fond of him.

I am fortunate, she told herself, to have servants whom I can love. But it seems there must inevitably be these rivalries between them.

While the plans for the wedding were on, Mary was ill once more. It was to be expected, for November was almost upon them and so damp were her apartments that if the furniture was not wiped for a few days a mildew would begin to appear.

She wrote imploringly to the French ambassador, asking that she might be removed from the odious Tutbury—the worst of all her prisons; and he promised that he would endeavor to persuade Elizabeth to grant her request.

THERE WAS DANCING in Mary’s apartment. The bride and groom radiated such joy that the whole room seemed illumined with their happiness.

Mary could no longer dance but she could play the lute, and as she sat watching Barbara and Gilbert lead the dance while others joined in behind them, she noticed Jacques standing somewhat sullenly by, and Bessie with him . . . neither of them looking very pleased.

Was Bessie jealous of her affection for Barbara?

Mary sighed. So there must be intrigues even among her friends.

“Jacques,” she called sharply. “You must join the dance. And look you. Bessie is not dancing either. Both of you, dance at once. You dance so well together.”

They obeyed her and as she watched she tried to forget the pain in her limbs, the hopelessness of her cause; she tried to feel young and gay again with Gilbert and Barbara, Jacques and Bessie.

Sir Amyas came into the apartment, walking slowly because he was not unaffected by the discomforts of Tutbury. He looked with distaste at the scene of revelry. He hoped that the Queen was not attempting to convert Protestant Barbara to her Catholic ways because Barbara, flushed and excited, was behaving in a manner which he considered to be incompatible with her religion. Sir Amyas would have liked to see the marriage celebrated in a solemn and dignified way.

“Sit beside me, Sir Amyas,” said Mary cordially. “Have you come to wish the bride and bridegroom well?”

“I have come to tell Your Majesty that I have had word from the Queen,” he replied. “She grants her permission for you to leave Tutbury for Chartley Castle.”

Mary clasped her hands together in delight.

“Oh, what a happy day this is!” she cried. “I will have preparations made at once.” She looked around the walls of the room. “And when I leave this place,” she added vehemently, “I hope never to see it again.”

Sir Amyas, his hands folded in his lap, stared bleakly at the dancers.

Mary was unaware of him; hope, which was never far from her thoughts, came springing back. Let me leave Tutbury, she thought, this place of evil omen; let me enjoy a little comfort, and I shall be young again.

Who knew . . . perhaps she would be restored to her throne, perhaps she would hold her son in her arms; perhaps she would send for Seton. Perhaps the days of sorrow were over.

She was past forty but that was not so very old. She only felt so because she was in constant pain, and the pain was caused by the conditions in which she was forced to live.

The future had grown suddenly bright on that day when Barbara Mowbray married Gilbert Curle.

XVII

Chartley

SIR FRANCIS WALSINGHAM, whose great pleasure it was to serve his Queen, had for some time sought for a means to rid himself of one whom he considered to be an enemy.

Sir Francis understood his Queen; while Mary Queen of Scots lived Elizabeth was uneasy; willingly would she have given the order for her death, yet she held back; and the reason was that she knew Mary to be innocent of conspiring against her life; and Elizabeth, a Queen herself, could not happily condemn one who, she was pleased to say, was as royal as herself—although she secretly feared Mary was more so. It was necessary for the security of Elizabeth, for the peace of England, that Mary should be brought to the scaffold; what was equally necessary was that a strong case be made out against her. Sir Francis had long been seeking to prepare that case.

When Mary had been under the care of the Shrewsbury he had had to more cautiously. He believed that the Earl and the Countess—until the latter had brought those ridiculous accusations—had been Mary’s friends. It would not have been easy to work against her while she was guarded by such jailors. But now he had Amyas Paulet with whom to deal, and that was different.

The moment had come, Walsingham decided; and when he considered that wide network of spies which it had been his joy to build up, he believed he knew how to bring the Queen of Scots to her doom.


* * *

WALSINGHAM LOOKED AT THE PRIEST who had been brought to his presence.

He said: “Pray be seated, father. I have work for you.”

Gilbert Gifford obeyed and, as he looked across the table which separated them, he knew that the work he was going to be called upon to do was more important than anything he had done before.

Walsingham gazed down at his own hands which rested idly on the table. Gifford, who had worked for him before, guessed that behind that calm expression Walsingham was excited.

“I am ready to obey my lord’s commands,” answered Gifford.

“You are to leave at once for France.”

Gifford nodded. He had become accustomed to such orders since he had entered Walsingham’s spy ring, and he knew that he was one of his master’s most valuable agents, chiefly because he was a Roman Catholic priest and therefore accepted as a friend by many of Walsingham’s enemies.

“Do you know a man named Thomas Morgan,” went on Walsingham, “a fiery Welshman who, with a certain Parry, once worked hard to raise a rebellion for the sake of the Queen of Scots?”

“I do, my lord.”

“He is a prisoner in the Bastille. Her Majesty has asked for him to be sent to England, but the King of France, while making him a prisoner, shelters him there.”

“You wish me to seek him out?”

“I fancy he still conspires against Her Majesty. I would make certain of this. I want you to go to Paris, to see Morgan. It will not be difficult, I am sure, although he is in the Bastille, because he is not ill-treated and doubtless allowed to receive visitors. The King of France does not wish to punish the friends of the Queen of Scots—only to shield them from their just deserts.”

Gifford bowed his head.

“You will go to him,” went on Walsingham, “and tell him that you are in a position to carry letters from him to the Queen of Scots. Tell him that as a Catholic you wish to see her on the throne. He will have no reason to doubt you.” Walsingham smiled grimly. “Your cloth inspires such respect. I wish to discover what manner of letters the Queen of Scots is writing to her friends.”

“I will leave at once,” said Gifford.

Walsingham went on: “I know that Morgan was once involved in an attempt to assassinate our good Queen Elizabeth and set up Mary in her place, and that the King of Spain, the Pope and the Duke of Guise were anxious to help in this endeavor. It is part of the policy of that organization which they call the Holy League to remove all Protestant rulers, and set up Catholics in their places. You understand we live in dangerous times, Gifford.”

The priest’s eyes glowed. This was a mission which greatly appealed to him, although he knew that he was playing only one small part in it.

“And the letters which I receive I bring to you?” he asked.

Walsingham nodded. “And when I have examined their contents you will take them to the Queen of Scots with a letter from Morgan recommending you to her.”

“I shall win her confidence with the greatest ease,” Gifford added. “I have an uncle living not ten miles from Chartley where I understand the Scottish woman is now imprisoned.”

“I am sure you will act with your usual good sense. It is important that none should guess that you work for me, but there is one however whom we must take into our confidence. That is Sir Amyas Paulet. I shall write to him to tell him that you will be coming to Chartley in due course. Together you and he must devise a way for the Queen to smuggle letters out of Chartley which will seem plausible to her. She will think they are being taken to Morgan and her friends abroad. Some may reach them, but first they will pass through my hands.”

“I understand,” said Gifford.

“Then be on your way. Our work may be of long duration and I fear there is danger in delay.”

When Gifford had gone, Walsingham sat alone for some time deep in thought. He was setting the snare which he believed would soon be closing about his prey.

CHARTLEY WAS A PLEASANT CHANGE from Tutbury. Situated on a hill rising from a fertile plain, it was about six miles from the town of Stafford, and from its windows Mary had views of magnificent scenery.