“I know of him,” replied Mary, and she was trembling a little.
“He gave me this letter to give to you.”
Mary took the letter he held out to her, and read that the bearer was one Gilbert Gifford, a priest of the Roman Catholic Church, a man in whom she could place her complete trust.
The color had come into Mary’s cheeks; all the excitement of the old days was returning. This was as it had been when she had been young and full of hope, and had believed she had many friends eager to help her. So she still had friends. This was the most wonderful news she had had for a long time, and she was intoxicated with dreams of freedom.
“I will see that any letters you wish to write to your friends are delivered,” he told her.
She shook her head. “I am indeed a prisoner now as I never was before. Since Sir Amyas Paulet has been my jailor I have no means of sending letters to my friends; and if you come here often you would quickly fall under suspicion. Even now you may be searched before you are allowed to leave. The very fact that you are of my faith will arouse suspicions against you.”
“Your Majesty, I have thought of this and talked of it with your friends. You have rich and powerful friends, but you have humble ones also. There is a brewer in the nearby town of Burton—an honest man—who sends you your beer . . . he is your friend.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because I have long sought means of helping you. Cautiously I made my discoveries. This brewer has promised to conceal a box in one of the barrels. It will contain letters from those who wish to see you free. This box can be taken from the barrel when it arrives at the castle. And when you write your replies, you will place them in the box and put it in the empty barrel which will be taken away by the brewer when he comes to collect them. He will pass these letters to me.”
“That is a clever notion.”
“I agree with Your Majesty and I shall see that they reach the persons for whom they are intended. To whom would Your Majesty wish to write?”
Mary considered. “To the Duke of Guise who will have heard rumors of my life here, and mayhap none of them true. To Archbishop Beaton, and of course to Morgan to thank him for sending you to me.”
Gifford nodded. “Have no fear. Paulet will never suspect. The next time the barrels are delivered you will find the box and I doubt not that Your Majesty will soon be putting it to good use.”
Thus Mary felt that in coming to Chartley she had begun to live again.
WALSINGHAM WAS RESTIVE. The plan was a good one, he was ready to admit, but it was moving too slowly. Mary was writing her letters which were passing by means of the brewer into Gifford’s hands; they were then conveyed to Walsingham and opened by one of his men who was skilled in the art of breaking seals and resealing in such a manner that it was impossible to discover they had ever been broken. However, many of the letters were in ciphers and the Queen did not always use the same one. Walsingham employed one of the best decipherers in the country, a man named Phillips, but even he found difficulty in decoding some of the letters.
This it was which slowed down the progress, and Walsingham decided that he could not get very far until he was in possession of all the Queen’s ciphers. He had for some time been watching an attaché in the service of the French embassy, for he believed a time would come when he could use this man. Walsingham prided himself that he could pick a bribe-taker at a glance, and Cherelles he believed to be one.
Now if Cherelles could be persuaded to visit Mary with letters from the King of France say, and asked her for the keys to the ciphers, she would not hesitate to give them. And for such a service what would Cherelles want? Say two hundred crowns? It would be money well spent.
MARY WAS DELIGHTED TO RECEIVE A VISIT from Cherelles. He brought with him letters from the King of France which were always a comfort to her. He listened sympathetically to an account of her sufferings and promised to do all he could to bring them to the notice of those who could help to alleviate them.
“There is one matter which has grieved some of your friends,” he told her. “They have been unable to decipher certain of your letters.”
“Is that so?” asked Mary surprised. “I must speak to my secretaries. I am sure they have introduced nothing new into the ciphers.”
“There is no need to do that. If Your Majesty will let me have the keys to all the ciphers in use, I will see that this difficulty is removed.”
“I will indeed do so, but I do not understand why my friends should suddenly fail to decipher my letters. However I will give you the keys.”
“And I shall lose no time in placing them in the right hands.”
“You must take great care that they do not pass into the wrong hands!” said Mary with a smile.
“Your Majesty can trust me.”
“I know. I wish I could show my gratitude in some way, but I am so poor now. Do you know, one of my greatest sorrows is that I can no longer give presents to my friends.” She looked down at her hand and drew off a diamond ring. “But take this,” she said. “I should be so happy if you would accept it.” Then she went to her table and opening a drawer took out a book which was bound in crimson velvet, and the corners of which were edged with gold.
“The embroidery was done by myself,” she said, laying her hand on the embossed velvet, “and I have written in it those thoughts which pleased me. Pray take it with my blessing. It is a small reward for all you have done for me.”
Cherelles was conscious of a sense of shame as he took the gifts, so graciously and generously given.
He was rather relieved to ride away from Chartley, but when he had placed the keys to the ciphers in Walsingham’s hands and had been complimented by that important man, the shame lingered.
JACQUES NAU WAS WRITING A LETTER from the Queen’s notes. It seemed that he and Gilbert Curle were constantly employed in this task now that they had the means of sending and receiving letters through the services of that honest man, the brewer.
Life was so frustrating. He and Bessie were no nearer marriage now than they had been when they had first talked of their desire for that state; and it was particularly galling to sit with Curle, listening to his conversation, and learn of his contentment with the married state. It was so unfair. Jacques had loved Bessie before Curle had known of the existence of Barbara Mowbray, and yet here they were, not only married but expecting to become parents. He could not go on in this way. He must do something.
Then, as he was writing the Queen’s letter, he remembered that Sir Henry Pierpont was at the Court of Elizabeth and that it might be possible to write a letter to him by way of Gifford and the box in the barrel.
No sooner had this idea occurred to him than he wrote to Sir Henry telling of the devotion he had felt for Bessie over many years, and that Bessie herself returned his affection. He implored Sir Henry to grant him permission to marry his daughter.
Having written and dispatched the letter, Jacques told Bessie what he had done. They could scarcely contain their impatience for Sir Henry’s reply.
MARY HAD READ THE LETTER before she realized that it was not intended for her but for her secretary. She was deeply shocked. Sir Henry Pierpont was giving his consent for the marriage of his daughter with Jacques Nau, although the girl had been promised to Lord Percy and it was the will of Queen Elizabeth, as well as the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury, that this marriage with Percy should take place.
Mary saw the danger in this situation. Bess of Hardwick had been forced to stop spreading her scandals against Mary, but if her granddaughter were allowed to marry Mary’s secretary, Bess would seek means of revenging herself on Mary whom she would almost certainly blame. Moreover although Jacques Nau was of good family, he would not be considered worthy to mate with the Shrewsburys’ granddaughter. What hurt Mary more than anything else was that Bessie, whom she had brought up since the girl was four, had not confided in her.