Barbara Cartland: The Hidden Evil

“But – but, mam’selle , you cannot be – ”

“I am Mistress Sheena McCraggan,” the girl said with a little touch of dignity that was almost incongruous because she was so small.

There was an audible gasp and then a silence which was only broken by the Duc saying suavely,

“Mistress McCraggan, may I welcome you to France? If we seem somewhat at a loss, it is merely because we expected someone older.”

“I heard what you had expected, monsieur ,” Sheena said severely, turning her face away from his so that he could only see the tip of her tiny straight nose and the clear line of her little chin.

The young gallants could scarcely prevent a smile showing on their lips. They were so used to the Duc’s harsh tongue that it was an odd experience to see him rebuffed, especially by a girl who seemed scarcely out of the schoolroom.

They made way for Sheena to come to the fire. She held out her hands towards the blaze and then with a gesture completely simple and without a trace of coquetry in it she undid the ribbons of her wet bonnet and pulled it from her head.

Just for a moment it seemed as if the sun had come out in the dingy room. Contrary to any woman’s hair they had ever seen before, Sheena’s head was covered with tiny, dancing curls, golden red, which sparkled in the firelight and seemed to make a halo that framed her little pointed face and oval forehead.

“ Mam’selle , allow me – ”

The young men sprang eagerly to bring forward a chair, to put a cushion into the back of it and to take her cloak, gloves and bonnet from her.

“A glass of wine, mam’selle ? You will need it after your journey.”

“Thank you, but I would rather have chocolate if that is possible.”

“It shall be procured immediately.”

One of the gallants hurried away, another knelt down and drew her small buckled shoes from her feet.

“Your shoes are soaking,” he said. “I will find a chambermaid and get them dried unless it is possible to unpack a part of your luggage and find another pair.”

“There will be time for them to be dried,” Sheena answered. “Father Hamish, who has accompanied me, will not be able to travel for a few hours yet. He was terribly seasick and so was his manservant and my lady’s maid. We must give them a little chance to rest. They have had no sleep for days.”

“But you, mam’sell e, you did not mind such a tempestuous sea?”

“I enjoyed it,” Sheena answered. “My home is on the sea and I am very used to being out in all weathers, sailing or fishing with my father. But I was not expecting it to be so cold.”

She held her feet out towards the blazing fire. They were very small, beautifully shaped feet but clad in thick knitted stockings. And now, almost for the first time, they realised how plainly and almost poorly dressed she was.

She wore a gown of homespun wool with no jewellery and undecorated by silk or satin or any of the frills and furbelows that were commonplace amongst the great ladies of France that men noticed them only where they did not exist.

“Tell us about your voyage, mam’selle ,” someone hazarded as if he was interrupting an awkward silence.

“There is really nothing for me to tell,” Sheena replied, “except that the sea was very rough from the moment when we left Inverness. Nevertheless the ship brought us here safely. It is a fine ship, built in Scotland as only the Scots can build ships.”

Now there was a defiant note in her voice. She looked across the hearth to where the Duc was sitting watching her, a faint smile on his lips which seemed to her almost a sneer.

She thought to herself that she had never seen a young man’s face that should have been handsome so ruined by lines of cynicism and boredom. He was just the type of man she most disliked, she thought. The type she dreaded to meet at Courts and in the company of Kings. The type that had made her exclaim to her father,

“I will not go! What use would I be in a Palace surrounded by clever people who have nothing to do but to seek their own amusement?”

“You should be grateful for the opportunity,” her father had replied.

“The opportunity for what?” she asked. “Oh, I am willing enough to serve our Queen, you know that. But is it likely that she will listen to me when there are so many other people to attract her attention?”

“Her Majesty is living in a sink of iniquity, in a place where the Devil reigns and revels in unbridled dalliance,” her father had replied. “I knew it when it was decided to send her to France, but what else could we do with Scotland being ravished by the English and the crops burned and soldiers searching everywhere for the babe?”

He paused and Sheena realised from the pain in his voice and the expression in his eyes that he was thinking of all the cruelties and horrors suffered by the farmers and peasants who had taken no part in the war against England, but who were killed, their women violated and their lands destroyed.

“We were forced to send her,” he went on, his voice now harsher and almost raw at the memory. “And we believed that those we chose to be near her would behave with decency.”

He stopped abruptly and walked away from Sheena to stand with his back to her looking out of the narrow latticed windows of The Castle.

“’Tis not right,” he muttered, “that I should talk of such things with you.”

Sheena knew all too well what he referred to.

There was not a family in the length of Scotland who, loyal to the young Queen, had not been appalled and horrified when the news came through that Lady Fleming, Governess to Her Majesty, had attracted the notice of Henri II.

“She is to bear his child.”

Sheena could still hear the whisper that was passed from mouth to mouth and ear to ear.

“Mother of the King’s bastard and she was the one we sent to France to watch over and instruct our own little Queen.”

News travelled slowly and almost before the first shock of learning what was happening had reached the North, they heard that Lady Fleming had returned to Scotland and given birth to a bouncing boy.

“What of the Queen? Who is with her? From whom is she receiving instruction?”

The information that Lady Fleming’s place had now been taken by Madame de Paroy, a Frenchwoman, was followed some months later by the news that the young Queen had taken a dislike to her new instructress.

“She has a violent temper,” the Queen’s subjects were told. “It is born in her.”

This, however, was no consolation and the wiser among the Queen’s advisers in Scotland concentrated on the more important decision as to who should replace Lady Fleming.

Strangely enough it was one of the older men who had the idea of sending to France not a strict Governess but someone who could be a companion to the young Queen.

“I don’t think it is instruction that Her Majesty needs,” he said gruffly. “There are plenty who will give her that. I believe it is someone in whom she can confide, someone with good sound common sense who will show her that the vices of the French Court are not such as can be tolerated by decent people. What is the point in sending an old person? The young never listen to the old.”

It was an idea that had not occurred to anybody before, but each one of those seated in Council realised that it was a solution to their difficulties. Lady Fleming had placed them in the unfortunate position of having to apologise for their own morals.

Easy enough to censure the French, easy enough to point a finger of scorn at a King who ruled France with his mistress and mostly ignored his wife save for the fact that she produced a child regularly every nine months.