Jean Plaidy - The Murder in the Tower: The Story of Frances, Countess of Essex

• Название: The Murder in the Tower: The Story of Frances, Countess of Essex
• Автор: Jean Plaidy
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

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Anne, the Queen, chose this time to visit the royal nursery. She came whenever she could, for she loved her children dearly, particularly her first-born who seemed to her all that a Prince should be.

So while Henry and Elizabeth talked to the little boy seated on the table, Anne came in followed by Katrine Skinkell and Anna Kroas.

“My sweet children!” she cried in her guttural voice. “So little Charles is here with his brother and sister.”

Lady Carey made a deep curtsy; Elizabeth did the same while Henry bowed and Charles looked on with earnest eyes.

“Henry, my Prince, how well you look; and you too, daughter. And my little Charles?”

“Making good progress Your Majesty,” Lady Carey told the Queen.

“And can he bow yet to his Mother?” asked the Queen.

Lady Carey lifted the little boy from the table and stood him down where he did his best to make a bow.

Anne signed to Lady Carey to lift him up and bring him to her, when she kissed him.

“My precious baby,” she murmured. “And what a pleasure to have my family at Court all at the same time.” A petulant expression crossed her otherwise placid face. She loved her children and had longed to be able to bring them up herself. She hated the royal custom which ordained that others should have charge of them. She would have been a good mother—even if she had tended to spoil her children—had she been allowed to.

Now here was Charles more devoted to Lady Carey than to her; and Henry—beloved Henry, a son of whom any parent might be proud—while affectionate, depended on her not at all.

She never saw Henry without remembering her joy at the time of his birth, when she had believed herself the most contented woman alive; but what anger and frustration had followed when she had learned that she was not to be allowed to bring up her son. That he should be taken from her and given into the care of the old Earl and Countess of Marr had been more than she could endure. James, always the most affectionate and tolerant of husbands, had commiserated with her, but had insisted that the custom of Scotland was that its kings should be brought up in Stirling Castle under the care of an Earl of Marr, and there was nothing he could do about that.

She had stormed and raged, and perhaps her relationship with James had changed from that moment. She had pointed out that a King should be the one to decide how his son should be brought up and, when his Queen passionately desired to nurture her own son, he should have thrust aside custom.

How she had hated the Marrs! She had never lost an opportunity of showing that hatred; and as there had been many turbulent lairds who were only too pleased to make mischief, James, who could be very clear-sighted, reprimanded her gently.

“I lived through a troublous childhood,” he told her, “and ambitious men used me in their schemes against my mother. I beg you, wife, do not seek to bring discord into this kingdom.”

Anne had been young and heedless, and not prepared to have her wishes set aside. There might easily have been trouble had James been of a different nature; but while he sought to please the Queen by arranging for her to see as much as was possible of her son, he never allowed her to poison his mind against the Marrs.

She had never forgiven James; she had continued to fret for her son; but soon she was pregnant again and Elizabeth was born, only to be taken from her to be given into the care of Lord Livingstone and his wife.

There had followed other pregnancies and Anne was in a measure resigned. The children were growing up now and she contrived that they should be at Court as much as possible; they were fond of her; and she tried to forget the grudge she bore against their guardians and gave herself up to the pleasures of ball and banquet.

She had become frivolous; there were some who declared that she had had a hand in the Gowrie plot, but that was nonsense. Anne would never bestir herself to plot against a husband who had been indulgent to her; there were others who said that she had preferred the Earl of Murray to the King; that was again not true. Anne was no intriguer; she was a thoughtless, somewhat spoiled woman, who, when she became a mother wanted to devote her life to the children she adored.

Now, as she gave herself up to the pleasure of talking to them, Anna Kroas came close to her and whispered: “The King has entered the Cockpit Gate, Your Majesty. He is on his way to the nursery.”

Queen Anne’s expression scarcely changed. “Is it so, Anna,” she said mildly.

Anna wanted to tell her that she had seen from the window that he had the new young man with him, the one who had broken his arm in the tiltyard and of whom the whole Court was talking. But her mistress would discover that soon enough; Anna hoped the Queen would not show too openly her dislike of the new favorite.

The door was opened and James came into the room, not as a King should come; he was quite without dignity, thought the Queen angrily. Sometimes when his young men were in high spirits she heard his voice weak with laughter. “You laddies will be the death of old Dad.”

Old Dad! And sometimes Old Gossip! A fine way for a King to behave. It was small wonder that the English sighed for the days of the Tudors when a King or a Queen was a being, far above them, whose smiles were coveted, whose frowns were feared.

“The family is assembled here then,” cried James with a chuckle.

He was leaning heavily on the arm of Robert Carr who had flushed and was uncertain how to behave when he saw the Queen.

He bowed in an embarrassed way but Anne did not look at him.

“Henry,” said James, “it does me good to see you so bonny. And Elizabeth.”

The children, Anne noticed with pride, ignored their father’s crude behavior and showed the respect due to a great King.

“Well, well,” laughed James, “get off your knees, lad. This is no state occasion. Why, Elizabeth, you’re taller every time I see you.” He smiled at Anne. “’Tis true, eh, Majesty?”

“’Tis true, Your Majesty,” Anne answered, and her tone was warm as it must be when she talked of her children.

“And I must not forget my youngest. Well, how’s my mannie?”

Lady Carey, who was at Charles’s side, took his hand and pressed it reassuringly while James came close to his youngest son and took his chin in his hand. Charles looked into his eyes, unafraid; no one could be afraid of James unless they had offended him deeply, and even then he would be calmly judicious.

“Prince Charles is walking a little now, Your Majesty,” Lady Carey told the King.

“Good news. Good news. And he is talking?”

Lady Carey whispered to the boy: “Say, ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’”

Charles opened his mouth and did his best, but the words were strangled. James nodded and patted the boy’s shoulder.

“Well done,” he said. “Well done.”

Then he laid his hand on Henry’s shoulder and pushed him toward the table on which young Charles was sitting. “Talk to your brother, lad,” he said. “And you with him, Elizabeth.”

Then he took the Queen by the arm and walked, away from the group round the table, toward the window, calling over his shoulder to Lady Carey to follow him.

When they had reached the window he said quietly to Lady Carey: “The lad does not improve.”

Lady Carey’s face puckered. “But, Your Majesty, he does, indeed he does. He is much better.”

“He is no longer a baby.”

“But he can speak a little. Forgive me, Your Majesty, but he is overawed by your presence.”

“He’s the only one in this Court who is then,” said James with a laugh.

Lady Carey was afraid, for the Queen was regarding her with the dislike she had for all those who took her children away from her.

“It cannot go on,” mused James.

“Your Majesty, he is improving. I do assure you of that.”

“I’ve been consulting my physicians about him, Lady Carey, and they believe he should be put in iron boots to strengthen his bones, and the string under his tongue be cut.”

“Oh no, Your Majesty. I implore you. Why, do you not see how he has improved since he has been in my care? The boots would be too heavy for him and he would never walk. He has a horror of them. Your Majesty, I beg of you, do not do this.”

Lady Carey’s eyes were full of tears; her lips twitching, her hands trembling. She looked imploringly at the Queen.

“Why should she have the care of my baby?” Anne asked herself. “She behaves as though she were his mother.”

Lady Carey was so overwrought that she laid a hand on the King’s arm. “Your Majesty, he is speaking more clearly than he was a month ago. He needs confidence … and loving care. To cut the string might mean that he would never speak again or at best have an impediment for the rest of his life.” Her eyes were shining with faith. “I know I can make him well. I am certain of it.” She looked from the King to the Queen and seemed suddenly aware of her temerity. “Your gracious pardons,” she murmured, lowering her head; and the King and the Queen saw that she was fighting to control her tears.

James looked at his wife, but she would not meet his gaze. She was thinking: This woman loves my Charles as though she were his mother in truth. And I hate her because she has taken him from me. But it is good for Charles to have one who loves him so.

The maternal instinct was stronger in Anne than any other and she could forget her jealousy in her concern for her son. So she said: “Lady Carey should be given a further opportunity to prove her words. It is true that Charles is better since she took charge of him. It is my wish that there should be no iron boots, nor cutting of the string … as yet.”

“My dears,” replied James, “this is the advice of the doctors.”

But the two women stood firm; there was a bond between them; they were so conscious of their feelings for the child, and they shared the belief that the power of maternal love could exceed the experiments of doctors, however wise.

James regarded them with mild good nature. They loved the boy; there was no doubt of that; and there was also no doubt that young Charles loved his nurse.

James often preferred to thrust aside decisions.

“Then for the time let things be as they are.”

Lady Carey seized his hand and kissed it.

“Why,” he said kindly, “it is the Queen and myself who should be showing gratitude to you, my dear.”

The Queen’s mouth tightened. “I know,” she added, “that Lady Carey has looked after him as though she were his mother. She could not do more than that.”

James turned to Robert Carr who had been standing at some little distance while this conversation took place.

“Come ye here, Robbie,” he said. “Give me your arm.”

“So Your Majesty needs support, even as little Charles?” murmured Anne maliciously.

“Aye,” retorted James. “I like a strong arm to lean on.”

“There might be stronger and more practiced arms,” said the Queen.

And when Robert Carr came to the King she turned her back on him.

James, smiling, went to the children, exchanged a few jocular words with them and then, learning on the arm of Robert Carr, left the apartment.

James went on to his own quarters and when his little party arrived there he dismissed them all, with the exception of Robert, because he sensed that the Queen’s antagonism had upset his favorite.

“Sit down, lad,” he said, when they were alone, and Robert took a stool and placed it by the King’s chair. He sat leaning his head against James’s knee while the grubby royal fingers gently pulled at his golden hair. “Ye mustna let the Queen upset ye, Robbie,” went on James. “She never did take kindly to my lads.”

“I thought she hated me,” Robert said.

“No more than many another. The Queen’s a kind woman in her limits and it grieves me to plague her. Ours has been a good union, though, and we’ve children to prove it. Two boys and a girl left out of seven; and the two eldest as bonny as children could be. Little Charles … well, you heard how the women stood against me, Robbie. But ’tis on account of their fears for the boy. The Queen would have been a good mother if she’d been in another station of life. Queens, poor bodies, are not permitted to care for their own. From the time of Henry’s birth she changed toward me, and all because I’d not dismiss the Marrs and give her charge of the bairn.”

“I fear that she will poison Your Majesty’s mind against me.”

“Nay, laddie. Never. I’ve been a happy man since my Robbie came to cheer up his old Dad. Dinna take much notice of the Queen’s little spites. Bless ye, boy, others have felt it before you.”

“Sire, there is something I must explain to you.”

“Your old Dad is listening, Robbie.”

“Your Majesty has raised me so high in so short a time. But often I feel out of place at Court. Your ministers look down on me—men like the Howards. I’m not one of them. I’m shabby … I’m poor.”

“Give your old gossip time, laddie. I’m going to make ye the most grand gentleman among them. Ye shall have fine clothes and in time an estate of your own. Why, I might find you a rich bride. That would be a fine plan, eh?”

“Your Majesty is so good to me.”

“I like to see my boys happy. Now, dinna fret. All will be well. If fine clothes would help you to be happier, fine clothes you shall have. This very day you shall see some silks and satins, brocades and velvets; and make your choice. Why, mannie, there’ll be no one to hold a candle to you. Though your old Dad thinks that’s the case without fine clothes.”

“How can I thank Your Majesty?”

“Ye do well enough, Robbie. Now bide quiet a wee while and let me chat with you. Conversation is a pleasant pastime; and when ye’ve spent a little more time with your books, there’ll be conversation in plenty for us.”

“I fear I am a simpleton—and Your Majesty so learned.”

“And you such a winsome fellow and me an old scarecrow. Dinna make protest, lad. I was ne’er a beauty. Which is surprising, for my mother was reckoned the foremost beauty of her day; and my father was a handsome fellow. But ye see, I was never cared for as a babe. There were too many who wanted what I had—a crown. And I had it too young, Robbie, for they took it from my poor mother who was the captive of the Queen of England, and they wanted it … they wanted it badly. And now I’m no longer a boy; and there are still some who’d like to see me out of the way. Look at these padded breeks. I often wonder, when my subjects press too close, whether one of them is not waiting … with a hidden dagger.”

“No one would harm Your Majesty.”

“Oh, laddie, ye’ve not long come to Court. Did ye never hear of the Gunpowder Plot? Did ye never hear how the Catholics planned to blow up the houses of Parliament while I and my ministers were sitting?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Everyone was talking of it at the time and rejoicing in your escape.”

“Aye,” murmured James. “Yet the scoundrels might so easily have succeeded. Do you know, lad, if one of the conspirators had not been anxious to save the life of Lord Monteagle, if he hadn’t warned him to stay away from Parliament, the cellars would never have been searched; we should never have discovered the gunpowder and Guido Fawkes keeping watch. And that would have been the end of the Parliament and your King, Robbie.”