The yeoman brought word that her Grace feared that long disuse had spoiled her skill in archery, and that she should merely discredit Scotland if she accepted a challenge to the butts. She should have more pleasure in witnessing her hostess’s noted excellence.
While the sport proceeded, Mary of Scotland missed no point of the contest, but remarked on every shot. Yet she carried on a conversation with Felton, who kneeled by her side.
“If you have tidings for me,” she said, “use these few moments with diligence. Why so silent, with so rare an opportunity for private speech?” And she cast on him a glance which roused his spirits.
“I entreat your majesty’s pardon,” said Felton. “I must indeed rally my wits which yonder yeoman had cruelly dispersed.”
“Forget yonder yeoman,” said she, smiling: “except, indeed, that we must admire that shot of his. If he wins the prize, we shall have him here again to receive his honours.”
Felton inwardly breathed a hope that Bess might be the winner.
“Your tidings, quickly, if you have any,” her Grace demanded.
“All was prospering, up to forty-eight hours since,” said Felton. “The force from Jedburgh has already joined the Percy’s troops; and Westmoreland will meet them on the frontier of Yorkshire. My comrade will remain here to receive such news as may arrive, while I ride towards Westmoreland, to ensure the junction which is planned for Thursday night. Or he will ride, and I shall remain.”
“Which?” asked her Grace, smiling.
Felton was eagerly rising when she cautioned him to show no emotion.
“If you cannot proceed till I have answered my own question,” she continued, “I should propose that you should remain, as a nearer friend of mine: that is, supposing that the errand to the Earl of Westmoreland is one which requires no singular skill,—one to which your friend’s ability is adequate.”
“Stansbury is equal to either business,” Felton declared.
“And well disposed? You know I trust him on your assurance.”
“Only too well disposed. Your Majesty will not be offended at this chance word when I explain that it is because we are inseparable in our undertakings that he is now concerned with me in this. His homage to your Majesty is hourly becoming all that”
“Not all that yours is, I trust,” Mary said, kindly. “I would not have more noble-hearted gentlemen involved. Alas! we have forgotten our part! What is that cheer?”
“An excellent shot that—of Bess of Hardwick’s!” said one of the party who stood sentinel while the low-voiced conversation went on.
“Persuade her to show us another,” said Felton to him; “we must have a few more moments.”
Turning to Mary, he perceived that she was contemplating Stansbury. She sighed, and said that there must be success this time, for it would destroy her peace for ever if she involved in danger any brave gentleman through loyalty to his friend. It was enough, and too much, when the peril reached only her own near and dear friends.
“Your Majesty has no real fear,” Felton observed.
“I know only what I am told,” she replied, gently. “Why do you say this? If I am too bold, too little careful of my comrades in our cause, you must warn me. Is the danger greater . . .?”
“The danger is naught, madam. It is only when I think of Stansbury that it flits for a moment before my fancy.”
“And why then?”
“Because he is a man of a childlike mind, manly as he is in thought and temper. He is not made for political adventure in a time like ours.”
“He ought to have had no share in it,” Mary observed.
And Felton hastened to explain that he had striven against his friend’s sympathy till he found it was a better kindness to admit him to confidence than to separate from him. But there must be, there could be, no failure.
“Why did you say just now that I myself have no fear?” Mary again asked.
Felton bitterly repented the remark; but her Grace would have an answer. He could not meet her eye as he said that he judged by the satisfaction she showed when his Grace of Norfolk was at her feet, half-an-hour ago.
“You recognised him, then?” said she. “I feared so. It was over rash in him to appear so far from York, where also he will be missed, and your well-served Sovereign will hear of it. It is too idle of him; and you are mistaken, Mr. Felton, if you imagine that such rashness affords me any pleasure. I did indeed rebuke him.”
Felton smiled painfully at the remembrance of the rebuke, which was nothing but a tender reproach for running risks for her sake,—given with the blush and the tone which intoxicated eye and ear, and the self which lay behind them. Felton thought that he would break into every prison to which Mary could be consigned to obtain such a rebuke as was now making yonder marksman in homespun the happiest man in Derbyshire. The more pointedly did he say that his Grace of Norfolk had not made this journey without reason. He had brought news, as her Grace would soon no doubt learn. Mary’s eagerness was extreme to hear this news; but Felton could only endeavour to bring the Duke to speech with her Grace. He did not know the nature of the tidings, further than that they bore favourably on the scheme of a rising and rescue a few days hence.
Mary had no more attention for Felton now, except as far as kindness required. She was watching the shooting. She had not long to wait. The yeoman in homespun won the prize, which was a handsome tankard. The second prize, a prodigious cheese, fell to the Countess. The yeoman appeared before Mary, to receive her compliments, and he laid his tankard at her feet.
“What will you do with your prize?” she