The Hidden Evil. Barbara CartlandЧитать онлайн книгу.
the coach to stare about her with wide eyes at the fine Châteaux which they passed from time to time and the cultivated fields which lay on either side of the road as far as the eye could see.
Every mile that she travelled to her destination made her realise her own inadequacy and the poverty of her appearance. She had not expected anything so luxurious or so comfortable as the coach sent by the King to convey her from the little fishing Port to Paris.
“We shall travel at great speed,” one of the gentlemen in her escort had said to her and, after the rough roads in Scotland and the uncomfortable hard coaches that had been her lot until now, Sheena could hardly believe it possible that horses could move so quickly or that she could lie back in such comfort against the coach’s padded cushions.
Her knees were covered with a rug of velvet lined with fur and she thought wryly that it was incongruous that anything so delicate should be required to cover the coarseness of her gown.
She had felt so elegant when she had left her home in Scotland for she had sat up half the night struggling with the old seamstress of the village to achieve what she then imagined was an exceedingly fashionable wardrobe and worthy of the girl who had the privilege of waiting upon the Queen of Scotland.
Now she felt that she looked nothing but a laughing stock.
But she could only compare her own possessions with those of the young gallants who accompanied her. As they rode on either side of the coach, the silver accoutrements on their horses’ harness glittered in the sunshine, their cloaks of velvet and satin billowed out behind them in the wind and the ostrich feathers on their caps waved with every single movement that they made.
‘I must look like a servant girl,’ Sheena whispered to herself.
Then defiantly her little chin went up.
Her blood was as good as theirs if not better and the blood of Scotland was being shed at this very moment in the defence of her Queen.
Yet at seventeen it is hard to be resolute in the face not of adversity but of plenty. Sheena did not miss the way that at every inn at which they stopped the ostlers ran forward to change the horses, the innkeeper bowed low to the ground and the maidservants curtseyed.
She was travelling in a Royal coach, she was under the protection of the King of France, and therefore she was treated with a respect which was akin to reverence. It was something she had never known before in her whole short life in the barren Castle in Perthshire.
The Priest, who had been her companion on the sea voyage, had gone no further. He was journeying to Calais to join the English Garrison there and to bring back the homesick bored troops news of their homeland.
Sheena and Maggie were all alone and Maggie with her high cheekbones, sharp, angular features and bright inquisitive eyes, was somehow something strong and familiar to which she could cling almost desperately in her apprehension of what lay ahead.
“Dinna fuss yoursel, ma wee bairn,” Maggie said, sensing what Sheena was thinking, “You’re as good as they are, nay even better. All they’ve got that you haven’t is money and what has money brought them but laziness and corruption?”
“You cannot say that, Maggie,” Sheena responded, laughing, although she felt more like bursting into tears. “We have not seen the Court. We must not judge until we have been there. The King has been very kind to us. Look at this wonderful coach and our escort. He could do no more if we were the Queen herself and not just a troublesome addition to her household.”
Maggie snorted.
“Fine feathers! Men dressed up like women in silks and satins and diamonds. I’d rather have a mon who can wear a plaid and knows just how to wield a claymore. Pah! ’Tis doubtful I am if any of this crowd will fight for Her Majesty.”
“Hush, Maggie! Hush!” Sheena urged her.
“They’ll no understand us,” Maggie said scornfully.
“Look at that house,” Sheena breathed in admiration as they swept past a great Château standing back from the road with a garden of ornamental lakes and fountains playing.
There were swans, black and white, swimming on the silver water and it all seemed to Sheena as if the whole scene was out of some Fairytale.
She thought a little wistfully of her own home, the ramparts crumbling from old age, the doors and staircases sadly in need of repair and the rooms furnished shabbily and without any comfort.
Everything here in France appeared to have been newly painted. Even the villages they passed through seemed clean and the people thriving and prosperous. She had heard many tales from the Elders in Scotland of the extravagance of the French Monarchs, how Francis I, the father of the present King, had taxed his people unmercifully to pay for his war with Spain and for the band of innumerable mistresses who travelled with him wherever he went.
She could hear her uncle, the Earl of Lybster, denouncing him with a violence that made his voice echo round the room.
“A dissolute and corrupt man,” he had boomed, “who died from a disease that came from his excesses. A King who was a disgrace to the Monarchy wherever he might reign.”
Sheena had only been a child at the time and her uncle had not realised that, sitting in the window, half-hidden by a. tattered velvet curtain, she was listening to him.
“You must concede, sir, that he was at least a patron of the arts,” someone remarked.
“Arts!” Lord Lybster shouted. “What does art lead to but licentiousness? To men such as rule over France it means statues and pictures of naked women, it means debauchery where there should be discipline and lassitude where there should be strength of purpose.”
Sheena had wondered why they all should feel so violently about a King who had lived so many miles away and was long since dead. And then they had gone on to speak of Henri II, son of Francis I, who now ruled France and to whose protection they had entrusted the Queen of Scotland.
It was amazing, she thought, the stories and gossip which managed to drift back across the sea. Mary Stuart had enchanted the French King. She had sung to him and had recited a poem that had almost moved him to tears.
A tale that was most often repeated was that when Mary had first curtseyed to Henri II at Saint Germaine when she was not yet six years old, he had exclaimed,
“The most perfect child I have ever seen!”
It was compliments of that sort that fed the loyalty of the rough Scotsmen and kept them eternally on the defensive against the ever-encroaching onslaughts of the English.
“Tell Her Majesty that we are fighting for her by day and by night,” Sheena’s father, Sir Euan McGraggan, had said as he kissed his daughter farewell. “Make her understand how loyal the Clansmen are, and how much she means to us that we live for her return.”
Sheena had been moved at the simplicity of his words. She had known only too well that they were nothing but the truth and that the men waving goodbye as her ship moved away from the windswept quay sent with her a part of their hearts.
She had been utterly convinced at that moment that it was right that she should go. Mary Stuart must not be allowed to forget those who strove for her against almost overwhelming odds.
She thought it would be easy to tell the Queen stories of the heroism and courage and unquenchable bravery which drove the Scots into battle against far superior forces and which made them accept, with an almost unbelievable fortitude, the burning and laying waste of their lands and crops.
Now, nearing Paris, she began to be afraid. What had this sunlit and rich land in common with the great barren moors, the burns, swamps and dales where a man could march for days, if not weeks, and not meet another soul that he could pass the time of day with?
“Maggie, I am frightened,” Sheena said impulsively.
“Shame on you! You’re nothin’ of the sort,” Maggie retorted tartly.
She