Blood Between Queens (21 page)

“The succession?”

Will nodded. If Elizabeth should die childless, Mary would inherit the throne as her legitimate heir, and she would not forgive Norfolk for publicly branding her a murderer and an adulteress.

Lord Thornleigh said coolly, firmly, “Never mind Norfolk. He will not decide this. Elizabeth will.”

 

They ate supper that evening in the Duke of Norfolk’s private suite. Only the English contingent were present: Norfolk, the Earl of Sussex, Sir Ralph Sadler, Lord Thornleigh, Will representing Cecil, and the commissioners’ secretaries. The day’s session had been uneventful, with erratic depositions from a page at Holyrood Palace, an Edinburgh porter, the Earl of Bothwell’s cook, the Earl of Moray’s master of horse, and Mary’s childhood tutor. Much hearsay, few facts. Will had stayed at his uncle’s side through the session, explaining details, hoping his diligence would win back his uncle’s good regard.

The supper was very fine. As England’s sole duke, Norfolk’s rank was only slightly less exalted than a prince, and it seemed to Will that even in this temporary lodging the man held a court as if he were, indeed, royalty. He sat at the center of the table and throughout the meal people flitted around him—richly dressed kinsmen, armed retainers, fawning supporters—one delivering a note, one bending to place a word in his ear, one fetching him a fresh napkin, another a ewer of water to wash his hands between courses. Servants came and went with steaming dishes of poached bream with fennel, stewed rabbit with onions and sage, apricots in cinnamon syrup, and many decanters of claret and Burgundy. Beyond the mullioned window made fast against the chilly evening, a dog in the street barked and barked in hoarse monotony.

The commissioners’ mood was relaxed and fraternal, and now with the meal finished they sat at ease, chairs pushed back, Sussex prodding his gum with a silver toothpick, Norfolk treating a terrier at his knee to a scrap from his plate, Sadler and his secretary chuckling about a peer whose wife was famously unfaithful. A fire rippled in the hearth, one log sparking and spitting, too green. Will stood behind the table discussing a deposition with Norfolk’s secretary, but his eye was on Lord Thornleigh, who had got up and was moving toward the window. He gave Will a jerk of his chin to indicate he wanted a word with him alone. Will quickly excused himself and joined his uncle at the window.

“Keep on the good side of Norfolk and watch him,” his uncle said very quietly. “He feels underrated at court. A mighty peer feeling slighted is a headache that Elizabeth does not need.” They both looked at the duke, who was teasing his terrier with a rabbit bone dangled too high and laughing at the dog’s ineffective jumps. The trio of retainers standing behind him laughed, too. “Remember, with him, smooth words go far.”

Will felt of surge of pride at this confidence. “Good advice, sir. Thank you.”

His uncle said wryly, “Keep your flattery for Norfolk.”

Will had to smile. “Sir, about my vows with Justine, I promise you—”

“I know.” His tone softened. “Will, I’m not against this marriage. I told Justine I’m for it. As for Joan, I’ll talk to her. Maybe I can bring her round.”

Will’s hope shot up. “Thank you, sir. She’ll listen to you.”

His uncle’s look turned sober. “Now, I told you I had a job for you.”

Before Will could respond the door suddenly swung open. Everyone in the room looked in surprise as the Earl of Moray strode in.

“Sir?” said Norfolk, looking flustered.

Will was astonished. What did Moray mean by barging in like this?

“Your Grace.” Moray bowed to Norfolk. Behind him two of his fellow Scots trooped in, the Earl of Morton and Sir William Maitland. They both made respectful bows to Norfolk, Sussex, and Lord Thornleigh. They stayed behind Moray, the clear leader. “Pardon this interruption, Your Grace,” he said. “I would not so roughly intrude on your well-earned leisure if the matter were not of crucial importance. My poor apology cannot make amends, but I believe that what I bring you will.”

“Oh? What have you brought?”

Moray beckoned to Maitland, who came forward with a box about a foot long. He moved to set it down on the table before the four lords, but the surface was crowded with gravy-puddled serving platters, salvers with fish bones, a dish of almonds, and two tall candles. Morton came forward and pushed aside a platter and a candle. Maitland set down the box. Under the candle flame its features glinted clearly. It was a small coffer of silver and gilt, and its dome and sides were embossed with the letter
F
set under a royal crown.

“A pretty casket, sir.” Norfolk sounded annoyed. “What does it do? Play a tune?”

“If it did, Your Grace, the tune would be French. This casket once belonged to King Francis. You see his crest, there, and there.” He pointed to the embossed crowns. “His wife brought it back to Scotland with her.” Now Will was interested. The late King Francis had been Mary’s first husband.

Sussex said gruffly, “Come, my lord, what cares His Grace for such trifles?”

“Hold on,” said Sadler. “Of what
consequence
is this object?”

“None, sir,” replied Moray. “It is a mere receptacle. For evidence.”

“Evidence?” Sadler leaned forward on his elbows, peering at the casket. “Of what?”

“Sin.”

Norfolk blinked at the word.

Lord Thornleigh said instantly, “Mary’s?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then let’s see.”

Moray placed his hand on the lid. “There was no key, so we had to force the lock.” He lifted the lid. Everyone leaned closer to see inside. Will saw papers. Folded, fine grained, a pale color like flesh.

“These, my lords, are letters. Eight of them. All written in her hand. All written to Bothwell. They tell of gross adultery and premeditated murder. Her sins, my lords. Her foul sins.” Moray lifted the casket and dumped out the papers. They slewed across the gravy-splotched cloth. The three astonished commissioners gaped at them, then at one another, then at Moray.

Lord Thornleigh was the first to move. He picked up a letter and unfolded it.

“Yes, my lord, do read,” Moray encouraged him. “All of you, read her own words and judge for yourselves.”

With a unanimous motion Norfolk, Sussex, and Sadler each grabbed a letter. There was a hush as they read. The green log hissed in the hearth. Will was on edge with curiosity.

Sussex said, excited, his eyes on the page, “She says here, ‘I bring the man Monday to Craigmillar.’ ” He looked up. “That’s Kirk o’ Field.”

“And here,” Sadler said, “she writes ‘Cursed be this pocky fellow that troubles me. I thought I should have been killed with his breath.’ ” He looked disturbed by this contempt of a wife for her husband.

Moray said, “As you heard in yesterday’s depositions, my lords, she had broken off carnal relations with him many months before. Then, suddenly, she offered to resume conjugal relations. That was why he joined her on the way to Edinburgh. She ordered that they stop at Kirk o’ Field, and there Darnley was murdered on the very night he was to have her again in his bed.”

Lord Thornleigh muttered, scanning the page he held, “Here she tells Bothwell she is making a bracelet for him and warns him not to let anyone see it.” He read aloud from the letter, “ ‘God knit us together forever for the most faithful couple that ever He did knit together. This is my faith. I will die in it.’ ” His face showed distaste for the florid sentiment.

Sussex and Sadler clearly felt no such compunction. They went on quoting aloud with obvious relish. Sussex read, “ ‘I remit myself wholly to your will. Send me word what I shall do. Whatever happens to me, I will obey you.’ ”

He and Sadler continued reading passages aloud, alternating, one after the other.

Sadler: “ ‘I am ill at ease and glad to write to you when other folks are asleep, seeing that I cannot sleep according to my desire, which is between your arms.’ ”

Sussex: “ ‘I am so far made yours that that which pleases you is acceptable to me, and my thoughts are so willingly subdued unto yours.’ ”

Sadler: “ ‘The most faithful lover that ever you had or shall have.’ ”

Sussex: “ ‘I end, after kissing your hands. Love me always, as I shall love you.’ ”

Sadler: “ ‘Your humble and faithful lover, who hopes shortly to be another thing unto you for the reward of my pains. Burn this letter, for it is too dangerous.’ ”

They both looked up, shocked.

Moray said darkly, victoriously, “Three months later she married him.”

They all stared at him. “Great God in Heaven, so she did,” Norfolk whispered.

Will felt such tension in the room it prickled the skin at the back of his neck. What an amazing development this evidence was!
It’s only circumstantial,
he reminded himself, trying to keep the proper perspective. Nevertheless, he could see the enormous impact it had on the commissioners.

“But, wait,” Norfolk said. He seemed to be in a battle with himself, and Will knew why. Norfolk was wary of taking a stand against Mary that might come back to haunt him. “These letters are written in English. It is a tongue the lady speaks little of.”

“We had them translated, Your Grace. The originals are in French.”

“Where are they?”

“Safe in my care. You shall have them whenever you wish.”

Lord Thornleigh said, “Her Majesty must see them.”

Moray bowed. “Of course, my lord.”

Sadler narrowed his eyes at Moray. “Translated, you say? How long have you had them?”

“Since the traitor Bothwell fled to Denmark. Our forces captured some of his men, among them his tailor. Under questioning the tailor led us to this casket under a bed. It held these letters.”

“That was over a year ago,” Norfolk said. “Why did you not produce this evidence until now?”

“There seemed no need, Your Grace, since Mary had abdicated. We were loath to tarnish the reputation of Scotland by making public the foul doings of its queen.”

“Foul, indeed,” Sussex said. “The cunning strumpet.”

“Come, come, sir,” Norfolk protested. “We speak of a queen, anointed by God—”

“A queen who conceived after her husband was dead and before she remarried,” Moray cut in, dropping all deference. His eyes were fierce with resolve. “The twins she miscarried were Bothwell’s bastards.”

T
he ride from Bolton Castle to the village of Bedale was just sixteen miles, but the frigid bite of the wind gusting across the moors made Justine glad her mission took her no farther. It was only early November but already so cold. Her instructions were to rendezvous with Elizabeth’s agent and make her report, and she was waiting for him to arrive, feeling colder by the minute as she paced the wagon track that was a spine along the low hill above the village. Whoever the agent was, he could not fail to see her; she was alone on the barren hill.

The wind flapped her cloak and lashed strands of hair that had escaped her hood, and she hugged herself for warmth, treading wheel ruts made iron-hard by frost. Where was the man? She could not wait long. The reason she had given for leaving the castle had been legitimate—a wealthy local gentleman, the owner of many sheep, had sent Mary three beautifully embroidered lambswool shawls and Justine had taken him Mary’s note of thanks—but she had gone there right after breakfast and was quickly done. This rendezvous at Bedale was keeping her away. She would have to hasten through her report to the agent to get back in time to attend Mary in her suite for dinner at midday.

The sun was a misty smudge behind a moving veil of clouds. Justine’s breath as she puffed out her impatience made more mist, snatched by the wind. Her mare, tethered to a stone cairn, stomped like a signal that she, too, wanted to be gone. Justine looked down at the village that hugged the foot of the hill as though for protection. St. Gregory’s Church, with its squat Norman tower, stood like a shepherd to its flock of cottages. Smoke rising from the cottage chimneys was instantly shredded by the wind. A few people straggled along the muddy main street. A pig trotted forlornly past the churchyard wall, looking lost.

The church doors opened and a cluster of people came out. Laborers, by the look of their bulky workaday clothes in colors of straw and clay. An extended family, apparently, ranging from an old man hobbling with a cane, a half dozen middle-aged folk, and three small children. A young couple was at the family’s core, a moon-faced man and a sturdy, short woman cradling a baby bundled against the cold. Must be a christening, Justine thought. The children romped ahead, shouting with such exuberance their voices reached her like tiny bells. She had to smile. Cold didn’t bother little ones absorbed with the wonder of the world. It gave her a pang of homesickness. She had been with Mary for almost three months, doing her duty for Elizabeth, away from everyone she loved. She missed the Thornleighs’ lively household, always achatter with family, friends, visitors. Most of all she missed Will.

Faces I love,
she thought.
Alice
. Looking at St. Gregory’s tower she thought of the church belfry at Kirknewton where Alice had died so horribly. She pictured its interior that day, the shadowed space eerily festooned with bright ribbons and scarves. Who was the man who had bought all those scarves? A gentleman, Jeremy had claimed. Was he the killer? Or could it be the man the farrier had seen running through the churchyard—a London wine merchant’s agent, according to the farrier who had recognized him, saying the agent came north once or twice a year to sell to the local gentry. Was
he
the killer? Justine realized bleakly that both suspects were beyond her reach. The mysterious gentleman had disappeared, and the traveling ribbon seller who might have been able to identify him had drifted like smoke into the hills and dales of the moors. As for the wine seller, he had likely gone back to London. Even if she could get a description from one of his local gentry clients, she could not get to London to try to trace him, not while she was tied to Mary. It galled her. Her inept investigation had stopped cold. She had vowed to see justice done for Alice, but justice seemed as dead as the shriveled yellow leaves on St. Gregory’s churchyard elms.

A hollow sound rose behind her, the thud of cantering hooves. She turned. A cloaked horseman pulled his mount to a halt and swung down from the saddle. Justine’s breath caught in surprise. It was Will!

He didn’t stop to tether his horse, just strode to her still holding the reins in his gauntleted hands. “You are patience itself, and I am late,” he said with a grin.

“Will! What are you doing here?”

“Making everything right with the world, my love.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him and kissed her.

She returned the kiss with dazed excitement. How had he found her? It didn’t matter—he was here! Her heart skipping, she pressed against his body, so welcoming, so warm! His horse nosed his shoulder with a sudden push that made Will stumble and break off the kiss with a laugh. He jammed the reins into his belt and made up for the lost kiss by taking Justine’s face in his hands and brushing quick kisses over her cheeks, her forehead, her mouth. Dazzled, she gave herself to the heat that pulsed from her lips down to her belly. Then rational thought surged back.
Elizabeth’s agent could arrive at any moment!
She pulled away, anxiously looking around. “Oh, Will, it’s wonderful to see you, but I’m waiting for someone, and he . . . he mustn’t see you.”

“Have I a rival?” His eyes had a mischievous sparkle that confused her.

“No, of course not. But I—”

“Good,” he said with a laugh. “
Two
agents would muddy the waters.”

“Two?” She gasped.
“You?”

“None other.” Enjoying her shock, he took the moment to lead his horse to the cairn and tether it beside her mare. He pulled off his gauntlets and tucked them in his belt, his eyes twinkling as he watched Justine.

“Good heavens!” she said following him. “My instructions came from Lord Thornleigh’s clerk. I had no idea!”

“And to his lordship I am forever indebted, for this was his idea.” His expression became serious. “Justine, he told me about your
real
mission with Mary, how you are pledged to help Her Majesty. I’m so proud of you. And now, thanks to him, I am part of that mission. That’s right, we are working together, you and I. You report to me, then I to him. He wants it, and I . . . God knows I could not want you more.” He took her in his arms again, this time with a grave expression that made his eyes shine as they had at their betrothal. His kiss was earnest, sober, making it all the more passionate. Justine held him tightly, losing herself in the kiss. The love in their embrace was so powerful it seemed to tame the very elements, for she felt the wind encircling them like protective arms.

“Tell me everything,” she said, hungry to know. “I thought you were at York, at the inquiry. When did you see your uncle?”

“He’s there, arrived yesterday as Elizabeth’s envoy. At first he railed at me for our betrothal, but only because we did it in secret. He’s on our side, Justine. That’s why he recruited me to meet you.”

Her heart swelled with love for her guardian. Clever Lord Thornleigh! Her last meeting with him rushed back to her mind and she remembered his words:
“Tell Will the truth. You cannot build a marriage on a lie.”
She caressed Will’s cheek, his skin chilly but the warmth of his kiss still tingling her lips. A new realization tingled her, too. If ever there was a perfect time to tell him about her blood family, this was it. He loved her, and he was seeing in her words and deeds what a loyal servant of Elizabeth she was. Had that been his uncle’s goal in throwing them together on this hill? She felt sure it was, and it was exhilarating. Her
real
family was Lord Thornleigh’s family, a kinship knit by cords of love, and Will was part of it. Lord Thornleigh knew that, knew her bond with his house was unshakable. Will would feel it, too.
Tell him,
she thought.
Tell him now.

“All right,” said Will, rubbing his hands together with sudden gusto, “let’s get the business out of the way. Then, my love, we can walk at our leisure and talk of
us
. Or not talk at all, just let me kiss you until it’s time for you to go back.”

Business. Mary. She had almost forgotten. Her longing to share the secret of her life was so overpowering, she felt her heart would burst with the need to have the truth out in the open, to dissolve the fence between them, invisible to him, but a barricade she ached to tear down. “Will, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“Yes, your report. Come, let’s have it. I’ll file your words up here,” he said, tapping a finger at his temple, “and tell Uncle Richard the moment I’m back at York.”

There was a new tone in his voice, the lawyer, efficient and objective, able to stand back from personal matters and briskly deal with the business at hand. Justine hesitated and felt the moment to speak her heart slipping away.

“You’re shivering,” he said, the tenderness in his voice rushing back. “Come, out of the wind.” He slipped his arm around her shoulder and guided her into the narrow space between the two horses who stood side by side munching the scrubby grass, oblivious to their owners. The bulk of Will’s horse blocked the wind, and the bellies of both beasts, heaving breaths like shaggy bellows, gave off a comforting, humid heat. Face-to-face with Will, Justine had the sensation of being children happily huddled in a makeshift fort. The conspiratorial friendliness gave her courage.
I’ll get the moment back,
she told herself.
Business first, then tell him
.

“There’s not a great deal to report,” she began, smiling as Will extended an arm on either side of her head to grip the saddle ends so that his cloak enveloped her, warming her even more. “Mary has received several of the local gentry, but it’s all been open and aboveboard. Lord Scrope is always in attendance.”

“Names?”

She rattled off the brief list. It felt vaguely distasteful, like spreading unkind gossip about a friend. Mary
had
befriended her, had taken her into her confidence, and Justine pitied the lady for the hardships she had endured. But, as Will said, this was business.
I’m doing my duty for Her Majesty,
she told herself. And, after all, she had nothing to say about Mary that was damaging.

“All are Catholic families,” Will said, mulling the names, apparently not surprised.

“Yes. They bring her gifts. She entertains them with wine and music, then they go. They seem bewitched by her—I’ve seen that happen over and over—but they are meek withal. None has made a comment remotely seditious.”

“At least not in your presence.”

“But I am almost always with her. She has been gracious in singling me out for favor.”

“Who would not?” he murmured with feeling.

That gave her a happy rush. He admired what she was doing. He loved her. It prodded her to go on. “A Master Ligon has visited her four times, another admirer bringing gifts. A brace of partridges once, and another time a tapestry. He is a servant of the Duke of Norfolk. I’m not sure if that’s of any significance.”

Will frowned. “It may be. At the inquiry Norfolk seems unwilling to tarnish Mary’s reputation.”

“Which reminds me, she has become quite friendly with Lord Scrope’s wife. That may be more noteworthy than I’d thought, since Lady Scrope is Norfolk’s sister.”

“My uncle will certainly take note. Anything else?”

“Only idle talk. Don’t you lawyers call it hearsay?”

“Depends on the talk. Anything treasonable?”

“Hardly. Just prattle in the village by the castle. Loose talk about local gentlemen who love the old church and are planning to attack and rescue Mary, but the gentlemen spoken of are always nameless. I have heard not one fact. It’s all tavern talk.”

Will pondered this. “Does Scrope let her go out?”

“A few times, riding and hawking, which she loves, but his armed retainers are always with her. Thirty or forty of them. It would take a considerable force to overcome them.” She added wryly, “A force of nameless gentlemen.”

Will smiled at her jest, relaxing. “Scrope knows his duty. Anything else?” He asked the question with a new warmth, his voice low and intimate, as if to signal that their business was almost finished. He moved a step closer so their bodies touched. His mind was clearly no longer on Mary.

Justine’s mind was equally wayward. “No . . . she lives quietly,” she said, but all she could think of was the nearness of him. He smelled of leather and freshly laundered linen, and of horse. He bent his head and nuzzled her neck. It sent a thrilling shiver down her spine. She managed to add, “I’ve seen no threat from her to Her Majesty.” Will’s lips on her throat made her shudder with pleasure. She ran her fingers into his wind-matted hair and took a handful of it and pulled his head up, and her mouth found his. Their kiss was long and sweet and made her ache for more of him. Love dazzled her. She was so sure of
his
love.
Do it now,
she thought in exultation.
Tear down the barricade
. “Will,” she said, catching her breath as he kissed her throat. “I said I have something to tell you. It’s important.”

He straightened up, his eyes alight. “And I have something to tell you. I promised you in London that the moment the inquiry was over we would get married. Well, it’s going to be over very soon. Something’s happened.”

She saw that the something must be momentous. It gave her a quiver of excitement. “What? Is Her Majesty going to restore Mary to her Scottish throne?”

“The opposite. We have heard evidence that shatters Mary’s case.”

Justine felt an unpleasant jolt. This was the last thing she had expected. “What evidence?”

He hesitated, as though aware that he had gone as far as he should.

“Will, tell me. You said it yourself, we’re working together.”

He smiled. “So we are, my love. Well, it’s this. The commissioners have been presented with letters, eight of them, all written by Mary to Bothwell when she was queen and married to Lord Darnley. They contain damning statements of her contempt for Darnley, her adulterous passion for Bothwell, and a homicidal pact between the two of them.”