Cicely's first thought was to send tidings to Mr. Talbot, and in this M. de Salmonnet a.s.sisted her, though his wife thought it very superfluous to drag in the great, dull, heavy, English sailor. The girl longed for a sight and speech of him all that evening in vain, though she was sure she saw the Mastiff's boat pa.s.s down the river, and most earnestly did she wish she could have had her chamber to herself for the prayers and preparations, on which Madame's tongue broke so intolerably that she felt as if she should ere long be wild and senseless, and unable to recollect anything.

She had only a little peace when Madame rose early in the morning and left her, thinking her asleep, for a brief interval, which gave her time to rally her thoughts and commend herself to her only Guide.

She let Madame dress her, as had been determined, in perfectly plain black, with a cap that would have suited "a novice out of convent shade." It was certainly the most suitable garb for a pet.i.tioner for her mother's life. In her hand she took the Queen's letter, and the most essential proofs of her birth. She was cloaked and hooded over all as warmly as possible to encounter the cold of the river: and Madame de Salmonnet, sighing deeply at the cold, arranged herself to chaperon her, and tried to make her fortify herself with food, but she was too tremulous to swallow anything but a little bread and wine. Poor child! She felt frightfully alone amongst all those foreign tongues, above all when the two amba.s.sadors crossed the court to M. de Salmonnet's little door. Bellievre, rolled up in splendid sables from head to foot, bowed down to the ground before her, almost sweeping the pavement with his plume, and asked in his deferential voice of mockery if her Royal Highness would do him the honour of accepting his escort.

Cicely bent her head and said in French, "I thank you, sir," giving him her hand; and there was a grave dignity in the action that repressed him, so that he did not speak again as he led her to the barge, which was covered in at the stern so as to afford a shelter from the wind.

Her quick eye detected the Mastiff's boat as she was handed down the stairs, and this was some relief, while she was placed in the seat of honour, with an amba.s.sador on each side of her.

"May I ask," demanded Bellievre, waving a scented handkerchief, "what her Highness is prepared to say, in case I have to confirm it?"

"I thank your Excellency," replied Cicely, "but I mean to tell the simple truth; and as your Excellency has had no previous knowledge of me, I do not see how you can confirm it."

The two gentlemen looked at one another, and Chateauneuf said, "Do I understand her Royal Highness that she does not come as the pensionnaire from Soissons, as the Queen had recommended?"

"No, sir," said Cicely; "I have considered the matter, and I could not support the character. All that I ask of your Excellencies is to bring me into the presence of Queen Elizabeth. I will do the rest myself, with the help of G.o.d."

"Perhaps she is right," said the one amba.s.sador to the other. "These English are incomprehensible!"

CHAPTER XLII.

THE SUPPLICATION.

In due time the boat drew up at the stairs leading to the palace of Richmond. Cicely, in the midst of her trepidation, perceived that Diccon was among the gentlemen pensioners who made a lane from the landing to receive them, as she was handed along by M. de Bellievre. In the hall there was a pause, during which the m.u.f.flings were thrown off, and Cicely appeared in her simple black, a great contrast to her cavalier, who was clad from neck to knee in pale pink satin, quilted, and with a pearl at each intersection, earrings in his ears, perfumed and long-fringed gloves in his hand-a perfect specimen of the foppery of the Court of France. However, he might have been in hodden gray without her perceiving it. She had the sensation of having plunged into deep, unknown waters, without rope or plank, and being absolutely forced to strike out for herself; yet the very urgency of the moment, acting on her high blood and recent training, made her, outwardly, perfectly self-possessed and calm. She walked along, holding her head in the regal manner that was her inheritance, and was so utterly absorbed in the situation that she saw nothing, and thought only of the Queen.

This was to be a private audience, and after a minute's demur with the clerk of the chamber, when Chateauneuf made some explanation, a door was opened, a curtain withdrawn, and the two amba.s.sadors and the young lady were admitted to Elizabeth's closet, where she sat alone, in an arm-chair with a table before her. Cicely's first glance at the Queen reminded her of the Countess, though the face was older, and had an intellect and a grandeur latent in it, such as Bess of Hardwicke had never possessed; but it was haggard and worn, the eyelids red, either with weeping, or with sleeplessness, and there was an anxious look about the keen light hazel eyes which was sometimes almost pathetic, and gave Cicely hope. To the end of her days she never could recollect how the Queen was arrayed; she saw nothing but the expression in those falcon eyes, and the strangely sensitive mouth, which bewrayed the shrewish nose and chin, and the equally inconsistent firmness of the jaw.

The first glance Cicely encountered was one of utter amazement and wrath, as the Queen exclaimed, "Whom have you brought hither, Messieurs?"

Before either could reply, she, whom they had thought a raw, helpless girl, moved forward, and kneeling before Elizabeth said, "It is I, so please your Majesty, I, who have availed myself of the introduction of their Excellencies to lay before your Majesty a letter from my mother, the Queen of Scots."

Queen Elizabeth made so vehement and incredulous an exclamation of amazement that Cicely was the more reminded of the Countess, and this perhaps made her task the easier, and besides, she was not an untrained rustic, but had really been accustomed to familiar intercourse with a queen, who, captive as she was, maintained full state and etiquette.

She therefore made answer with dignity, "If it will please your Majesty to look at this letter, you will see the proofs of what I say, and that I am indeed Bride Hepburn, the daughter of Queen Mary's last marriage. I was born at Lochleven on the 20th of February of the year of grace 1567," (footnote-1568 according to our calendar) "and thence secretly sent in the Bride of Dunbar to be bred up in France. The ship was wrecked, and all lost on board, but I was, by the grace of G.o.d, picked up by a good and gallant gentleman of my Lord of Shrewsbury's following, Master Richard Talbot of Bridgefield, who brought me up as his own daughter, all unknowing whence I came or who I was, until three years ago, when one of the secret agents who had knowledge of the affairs of the Queen of Scots made known to her that I was the babe who had been embarked in the Bride of Dunbar."

"Verily, thou must be a bold wench to expect me to believe such a mere minstrel's tale," said Elizabeth.

"Nevertheless, madam, it is the simple truth, as you will see if you deign to open this packet."

"And who or where is this same honourable gentleman who brought you up-Richard Talbot? I have heard that name before!"

"He is here, madam. He will confirm all I say."

The Queen touched a little bell, and ordered Master Talbot of Bridgefield to be brought to her, while, hastily casting her eyes on the credentials, she demanded of Chateauneuf, "Knew you aught of this, sir?"

"I know only what the Queen of Scotland has written and what this Monsieur Talbot has told me, madam," said Chateauneuf. "There can be no doubt that the Queen of Scotland has treated her as a daughter, and owns her for such in her letter to me, as well as to your Majesty."

"And the letters are no forgery?"

"Mine is a.s.suredly not, madam; I know the private hand of the Queen of Scots too well to be deceived. Moreover, Madame Curll, the wife of the Secretary, and others, can speak to the manner in which this young lady was treated."

"Openly treated as a daughter! That pa.s.ses, sir. My faithful subjects would never have left me uninformed!"

"So please your Majesty," here the maiden ventured, "I have always borne the name of Cicely Talbot, and no one knows what is my real birth save those who were with my mother at Lochleven, excepting Mrs. Curll. The rest even of her own attendants only understood me to be a Scottish orphan. My true lineage should never have been known, were it not a daughter's duty to plead for her mother."

By this time Mr. Talbot was at the door, and he was received by the Queen with, "So ho! Master Talbot, how is this? You, that have been vaunted to us as the very pink of fidelity, working up a tale that smacks mightily of treason and leasing!"

"The truth is oft stranger than any playwright can devise," said Richard, as he knelt.

"If it be truth, the worse for you, sir," said the Queen, hotly. "What colour can you give to thus hiding one who might, forsooth, claim royal blood, tainted though it be?"

"Pardon me, your Grace. For many years I knew not who the babe was whom I had taken from the wreck, and when the secret of her birth was discovered, I deemed it not mine own but that of the Queen of Scots."

"A captive's secrets are not her own, and are only kept by traitors," said Elizabeth, severely.

At this Cicely threw herself forward with glowing cheeks. "Madam, madam, traitor never was named in the same breath with Master Talbot's name before. If he kept the secret, it was out of pity, and knowing no hurt could come to your Majesty by it."

"Thou hast a tongue, wench, be thou who thou mayst," said Elizabeth sharply. "Stand back, and let him tell his own tale."

Richard very briefly related the history of the rescue of the infant, which he said he could confirm by the testimony of Goatley and of Heatherthwayte. He then explained how Langston had been present when she was brought home, and had afterwards made communications to the Queen of Scots that led to the girl, already in attendance on her, being claimed and recognised; after which he confessed that he had not the heart to do what might separate the mother and daughter by declaring their relationship. Elizabeth meanwhile was evidently comparing his narrative with the letters of the Queen of Scots, asking searching questions here and there.

She made a sound of perplexity and annoyance at the end, and said, "This must be further inquired into."

Here Cicely, fearing an instant dismissal, clasped her hands, and on her knees exclaimed, "Madam! it will not matter. No trouble shall ever be caused by my drop of royal blood; no one shall ever even know that Bride of Scotland exists, save the few who now know it, and have kept the secret most faithfully. I seek no state; all I ask is my mother's life. O madam, would you but see her, and speak with her, you would know how far from her thoughts is any evil to your royal person!"

"Tush, wench! we know better. Is this thy lesson?"

"None hath taught me any lesson, madam. I know what my mother's enemies have, as they say, proved against her, and I know they say that while she lives your Grace cannot be in security."

"That is what moves my people to demand her death," said Elizabeth.

"It is not of your own free will, madam, nor of your own kind heart," cried Cicely. "That I well know! And, madam, I will show you the way. Let but my mother be escorted to some convent abroad, in France or Austria, or anywhere beyond the reach of Spain, and her name should be hidden from everyone! None should know where to seek her. Not even the Abbess should know her name. She would be prisoned in a cell, but she would be happy, for she would have life and the free exercise of her religion. No English Papist, no Leaguer, none should ever trace her, and she would disquiet you no more."

"And who is to answer that, when once beyond English bounds, she should not stir up more trouble than ever?" demanded Elizabeth.

"That do I," said the girl. "Here am I, Bride Hepburn, ready to live in your Majesty's hands as a hostage, whom you might put to death at the first stirring on her behalf."

"Silly maid, we have no love of putting folk to death," said Elizabeth, rather hurt. "That is only for traitors, when they forfeit our mercy."

"Then, O madam, madam, what has been done in her name cannot forfeit mercy for her! She was shut up in prison; I was with her day and night, and I know she had naught to do with any evil purpose towards your Majesty. Ah! you do not believe me! I know they have found her guilty, and that is not what I came to say," she continued, getting bewildered in her earnestness for a moment. "No. But, gracious Queen, you have spared her often; I have heard her say that you had again and again saved her life from those who would fain have her blood."

"It is true," said Elizabeth, half softened.

"Save her then now, madam," entreated the girl. "Let her go beyond their reach, yet where none shall find her to use her name against you. Let me go to her at Fotheringhay with these terms. She will consent and bless and pray for you for ever; and here am I, ready to do what you will with me!"