The Captive Queen of Scots - Plaidy Jean - Страница 20

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“Their ankles get thick through too much standing at the washtub,” agreed the other. “And their hands are rougher than an ordinary serving girl’s.”

“That’s true.”

The women were preparing to step into the boat, while the connoisseurs of women watched them without much interest. It was true, they were thinking, that standing at the washtub thickened the ankles.

One of them caught his breath as a laundress stepped into the boat; then he saw that his companion had noticed too. What a pair of ankles! As neat and slim as any Court lady’s. It was not true then that all ankles were thickened at the washtub.

Four pair of eyes traveled up that slim body which, although enveloped in its shawl, they saw was comely. This woman was taller than the rest and the shawl was wrapped so closely about her head that it was impossible to see her face. She almost dropped her bundle as she stepped into the boat, and one of the other women put out a hand to steady her and there she was, throwing down her bundle and pulling the shawl even more tightly across her face as though she suffered from a toothache.

“I wonder if her face is as pretty as her ankles?”

“I’d like to find out.”

“I mean to . . . before we put them ashore.”

They had put only a short distance between them and the island, when the bolder of the two men called: “Hey, my beauty.”

The tall woman did not look in their direction, but kept her eyes steadily fixed on the mainland.

The man leaned forward to seize her shawl and when, as he jerked it, with a little cry of protest she put out a hand to prevent his snatching it, the hand attracted even more attention than the ankles; it was very white; the fingers were long, the nails the shape of a perfect filbert nut. It was the hand of one who had never done a day’s washing in her life.

The two men stared in amazement at the hand before it was hastily hidden within the folds of the shawl; then one of them grasped the shawl in both his hands and sought to pull it away; now two white hands were visible—equally perfect, as in grim desperation they gripped the shawl, holding it up to her face.

But she was of course no match for the oarsman; in a few seconds he had ripped off the shawl and was looking into the flushed face of the Queen.

There was an immediate silence. The laundresses looked on openmouthed; the oarsmen were speechless.

Then Mary spoke. “Continue to row,” she ordered. “Take the boat to the mainland. You will not regret it if you do.”

One oarsman scratched his head and regarded the other.

“That is a command,” Mary continued imperiously. “If you do not obey me your lives are in peril. I am the Queen.”

The second oarsman said: “I’m sorry, Madam, but it would be more than our lives are worth to take you to the mainland now.”

“It will be more than your lives are worth to take me back to the castle!”

“We canna do it, Madam.”

“Why not?”

“Our orders are to carry the laundresses . . . and only they.”

“But I have given you orders, and I am the Queen.”

The men were still perplexed.

“Come,” persisted Mary, “I am in a hurry.”

But the oarsmen continued to look at each other. “They’d take us prisoner,” whispered one. “They’d cut us into collops . . . ”

“I would reward you,” Mary began, but even so she saw the futility of pleading with them, for what were the promised rewards of a captive Queen worth?

“We’d like to do it, Madam,” said the first oarsman.

“But daren’t,” added the second. “Turn the boat, lad. We must row her back to the castle.”

As the two men applied themselves to their oars, Mary cried in desperation: “I beg of you, have pity on me.”

But they would not look at her. There was that about her which could make them weaken, and they had their lives to think of.

“We’ve got to take you back, Madam,” one of them said, “but we’ll say nothing to Sir William. If no one’s missed you . . . there’ll be no one to know . . . ”

Mary was almost weeping with frustration. The plan had so nearly succeeded. And when would there be another chance?

She could not bear to look at the island. Is there no hope? she was asking herself. Does everything I attempt have to end in failure?

It seemed so. For at the landing stage Sir William, who had seen the boat returning, was waiting to know the reason why.

There was a grim purpose in his eyes as he helped her ashore.

WHEN THE QUEEN was safely in her apartments Sir William went to his mother and told her what had happened.

Lady Douglas was shocked. “And what would Jamie have said if this had succeeded?” she asked.

“He would have said little, as is his custom,” replied Sir William grimly, “but his actions would have been far from insignificant. This must never be allowed to happen again. It points to one thing. There is a traitor in the castle and I am going to find out who it is. I have a shrewd idea.”

“You cannot blame George now.”

“But indeed I do blame George. George is involved in this. You may be sure of that. George is on the mainland with Seton and Semphill . . . and certain others. They were waiting there to receive her. Don’t you see the importance of this? By God, there might have been civil war—and George . . . your son George would have been responsible.”

“He is your brother,” Lady Douglas reminded him.

“I’m afraid young Willie has also had a hand in this. He goes to and from the mainland at will. I heard that he gambles with the soldiers. Where does he get the money with which to gamble?”

“Oh, Willie’s a sharp one. There are several ways in which he could get money, I dare swear.”

“I intend to find out.”

Sir William strode to the door and called to a servant. “Find Willie and bring him to me without delay,” he ordered.

Lady Douglas left him. There would be trouble, Willie would doubtless be beaten, and she did not want to witness such a scene.

Willie came boldly into Sir William’s presence. Willie was not perturbed. He had believed that Sir William was his father and that he must have had a special fondness for his mother to allow him to be brought up in the castle.

“Come here, boy,” said Sir William blandly.

Willie approached lightheartedly, and as he did so Sir William shot out an arm and gripped his shoulder.

“What do you know of this attempt of the Queen’s to escape?”

“Oh,” said Willie, “I know a lot. I saw her go out. She looked like the others . . . only taller. I saw her get into the boat and them row her away.”

“I mean how much did you know before it happened?”

Willie looked puzzled. “What should I have known before it happened, Sir William?”

“You knew there was a plot for her escape, did you not?”

“I reckon there’s been lots of plots.”

Sir William went on: “You gamble with the soldiers. Where do you find the money?”

“An odd job here and there brings its reward,” said Willie, slightly less truculent than usual.

Sir William took the boy by the shoulders and shook him until his freckled face was scarlet. “George Douglas gave you the money, did he not? You have been to see George Douglas on the mainland. You keep him informed of what is happening in the castle, do you not?”

Willie was silent. Sir William, who was not a violent man, was now a frightened one, and Willie’s stubborn silence alarmed him further.

He threw the boy across the room. Willie fell, knocking his head against a table. He felt the warm blood on his face, and as he picked himself up he was looking for the door. But Sir William was not prepared to let him go. He strode toward him and said in a quiet voice: “If you do not tell me all you know, I will give you the severest whipping you have ever had in your life.”

“It’s that I don’t know much, Sir William,” Willie began, but Sir William struck him again and this was no light blow. Willie felt as though the floor was coming up to meet him. He clenched his teeth together, and unfortunately Sir William noticed this and knew it meant that Willie was determined to let no secrets escape him.

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