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.
“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.