The Hidden Evil. Barbara Cartland
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protector of the young Queen, a lady of importance, of a very good family and a Scot, had let them all down by her adulterous and despicable behaviour.
They all realised the problems involved of trying to replace Lady Fleming. Should they send a woman so ugly and unattractive that the King would not look at her, there was every chance that the young Queen, already by all accounts spoilt and impetuous, would find her unattractive too and demand her dismissal as she was demanding that of the Frenchwoman.
But to send somebody young would offend no one, someone young enough to talk and laugh with a fourteen-year-old and someone who was also young enough, praise Heaven, that the King, licentious monster that he might be, would treat her only as a child.
“You have a daughter, Sir Euan,” the, elders had said to Sheena’s father and, although he fought against the idea of dispatching his only daughter across the seas to a land in which he believed Satan reigned unchecked, he found it hard, indeed it was impossible, to resist the arguments the elders used to persuade him.
It was far more difficult, he found, to persuade Sheena.
“You don’t understand, Papa,” she said. “I shall be the very laughing stock of the Court. I have no clothes, no polished manners and no sophisticated wit. If Mama was still alive, it would be different. She would know what I was to expect and would be able to warn me.”
“If your mother was alive,” she heard her father say almost beneath his breath and saw the sudden clenching of his hands until the knuckles were white.
Her mother had been dead for ten years and yet the hurt was still there, the emptiness and the loneliness without her, while the fragrance of her scent and her personality still lingered in the grey solitude of The Castle.
“I cannot go, Papa! I cannot.”
“You must.”
He shouted the words at her and she knew it was because he was upset at the thought of losing her.
He crossed the room to her side and, when she expected him to be fierce with her, he was suddenly tender.
“The McCraggans have always been loyal to the Royal cause, Sheena,” he started. “We cannot fail Her Majesty now. Many of us have given their lives, and God knows that I am prepared to give my own whenever it may be required of me, but it is not just broadswords and claymores that can settle this. This is more subtle and more difficult to understand. We are dealing with serpents and we have ourselves to acquire the guile of serpents.”
He dropped his voice.
“So you will go to France, Sheena, and not only to do what you can for the young Queen but also to find out how far France is prepared to support Mary Stuart as the rightful Queen of England.”
Sheena was suddenly very still.
“You are asking me to be a spy, Papa?”
“I am asking you to serve your country as every man of our Clan is willing to do, not by spying but by trying to learn the truth.”
“But then, Papa, surely the King of France will support our Queen. He knows that when Queen Mary dies it is Mary Stuart who should succeed to the Throne of England.”
“Does he believe it? And if he does, what is he then prepared to do about it?” Sir Euan enquired. “We are so far away, child. How are we to know what he is thinking? How are we to know what help he will give us? Without France are we strong enough to beat England?”
Sheena felt herself shudder. It seemed to her then as if her father was voicing the fear and anxiety that beset the whole of Scotland. They surely knew that their cause was right, that Mary Stuart was the true Queen of Scotland and heir presumptive to the throne of England. But had they the arms, the money and, above all, the men to set her in her rightful place?
The thought of what she must do had lain very heavy on Sheena’s heart all through the journey. And now, as she looked round the room at the rich garments and flashing jewels of the Frenchmen hovering around her near the fire, she felt a sudden scorn.
Could they be anything but sops and effeminate, these men all dressed in silks and satins and velvets, wearing jewels and a greater profusion of feathers and laces and ribbons than any Scotswoman would have worn on her most elaborate evening gown.
A comely chambermaid in a mob cap came through the door carrying a steaming cup of chocolate, which she set down by Sheena, talking all the while in a dialect which was hard to understand.
“The Priest, God bless his soul, is better. With a little cognac in his stomach the sickness has subsided. But your maid is still in tears, madame, and says not if the King himself asked her could she put a foot onto the ground, for it is still swirling under her as if the waves had come with her from the sea itself.”
“Will you please give her something to eat and say that I shall hope to leave for Paris within the hour,” Sheena said.
It was the voice of authority. The chambermaid looked mildly surprised.
“I will tell her, madame, but I doubt we’ll get her on her feet, poor soul. She’s vomited until there’s nothing left to vomit and still her stomach is queasy.”
“I shall be grateful if you will convey my message,” Sheena said and then, turning to the gentlemen, she added, “I hope, messieurs, you will permit me to travel as soon as possible. I have a deep anxiety to reach Her Majesty and start my duties.”
“You are in a great hurry,” the Duc remarked. “Would you not be wiser to rest here tonight? The place is poor but clean.”
“In Scotland, monsieur,” Sheena said, straightening her back and looking at him full in the face for the first time since their exchange of hostilities, “we put duty first and comfort a very long way behind.”
His lips twisted at the corners and she had the impression that she had made no more impact upon his sensibilities than if she had been a fly brushing itself against his velvet coat.
“Very commendable, mam’selle,” he said. “Commendable indeed. We must all admire your persistence and, of course, your devotion to duty.”
The sarcasm in his voice was so obvious that Sheena could not help but retort. Her fiery Scottish temper, never very well controlled, flashed for a moment like lightning across her eyes.
Then she said in a tone as icy as that which she had used when she first came into the room,
“I think, monsieur, that I shall fare best without your praise, for words from a twisted tongue are often dangerous to those who have serious and important work to do.”
.Even as she spoke, Sheena was half-frightened at the challenge of her voice as well as of her words. In that moment her eyes met the Duc’s and they stared at each other,
The shabbily dressed girl with dishevelled curls and wet feet held out to the flames, and the aristocrat with his magnificent attire, flashing jewels and tired cynical eyes.
It was war between them and they both knew it. War, inescapable, deadly and pitiless. A war in which one or the other must ultimately be the victor.
As if the other people present realised that something momentous was taking place, no one spoke. Then very slowly the Duc rose to his feet. For a moment he stood towering above Sheena, his head almost seeming to touch the ceiling.
Then he swept her a magnificent and exaggerated Court bow.
“Your servant, mam’selle,” he said. “We shall meet in Paris.”
Still in silence he turned and walked from the room and the door closed behind him.
Sheena did not move, She knew that something strong, tempestuous and frightening had gone, leaving the room curiously empty.
She suddenly felt very tired and very alone.
CHAPTER TWO
They