Blood Between Queens (23 page)

An air current touched her neck. She shivered and caught a lemony scent and opened her eyes. Mary’s French maid was slipping past her, on her way out. Justine straightened, trying to order the wildness in her heart. A wink of light jerked her gaze to the gallery above St. Anne. The dimness made the light all the more brilliant as it glinted again. It was the flash of a belt buckle. A man stood looking down, looking straight at Justine. His arm was raised, holding back the gold curtain, and his lean body dressed all in black was utterly still as if frozen at the sight of her. Justine’s heart stopped. That long, pale face. Those eyes aglint like a cat’s. She jumped to her feet. “Father!”

Gasps rose at her outburst. The priest and chaplain stared at her and the clerk kneeling at the rood screen gaped at her over his shoulder. She looked back up at the gallery. The man was gone. The curtain swayed. She blinked, disoriented by a burst of crimson sun through the stained glass. Had she imagined the man? The one word torn from her throat left it sore, as if from long shouting. The faces around her eyed her with alarm. She could not afford suspicion. They all knew that she, Lord Thornleigh’s ward, was no Catholic. She said to the priest with forced calm, “Father,” hoping he would think she had meant him before, and continued in a loud tone as though having scant respect for her surroundings, “My lady sends her thanks for your sermon last Sunday. That is all. Good day.”

She hardly knew how she made it out of the chapel with her head high, her heart was pounding so painfully. The moment she was through the doors she looked around quickly in all directions. No one. Nothing stirred along the stone corridor. She went up the staircase, trying not to hurry and draw attention to herself. At the top, the corridor led to the left where Mary’s suite was, and to the right where the gallery overlooked the chapel. From Mary’s rooms she could hear snatches of soft women’s voices and the faint clatter of cutlery. She turned right and reached the door to the gallery. It was closed. She grabbed the handle. It would not budge, rusted or stuck. A motion beyond her shoulder made her turn with a gasp. Down a corridor a black-clothed figure was hurrying up the narrow staircase to the fourth floor. She dashed after him. He glanced over his shoulder, that pale face, and in a moment disappeared around the bend in the stairs.

Justine followed, her pace so rapid up the steps she bunched her skirts in both hands to keep from tripping. She heard a creak ahead, then a thud, like a door closing. She carried on up another flight, her hands trembling. She reached a landing, a cramped space so dark she could scarcely see. A smell of dust and mice. A scarred wooden door. She put her hand on the metal latch. Without her pushing it, the door creaked open the width of a hand. Then, caught by the wind, it suddenly flew wide open and banged against the outer wall. Sunlight flooded Justine’s vision. She was on the rooftop battlements.

There was no one. Nothing but the crenellated battlements rising all around her like giant teeth and beyond them the moors stretching to the horizon. In the blue sky ragged gray clouds sailed past the sun so fast they dappled the moorland with ever-shifting shadows, giving Justine the sensation that the tower she stood on was moving. The wind snatched her skirt, tugged at her hair. Her heart was banging so hard she thought it might crack her ribs. Was she chasing a ghost?

The door clicked behind her. She twisted around.

He stood with his back against the closed door. There were tears in his eyes. He stretched out his arms to her. “My child . . . my child.”

T
he joy at seeing his daughter face-to-face choked Christopher Grenville. He had not expected this clutch of emotion, this grip on his heart. What a beauty she was! He had left a gangly child of ten and she had grown into a woman, lovely of form and face. But how startled she looked, eyes wide like a hunted doe backed up to a cliff edge. The wind gusting over the battlements flapped her skirt wildly as though alive with her distress. How could he calm her? Words crammed up in his brain. He took clumsy strides toward her and enfolded her in his arms. “My child . . . my child,” he moaned. “My darling girl.” The threat of tears constricted his throat. His voice came out rough and raw. “I could die happy . . . now that I have seen you.”

She stood rigid in his embrace. He heard her catch shallow breaths of near panic. He wanted to hold her until she calmed, but he sensed that it would frighten her even more. With a pang of regret he let her go. She staggered back a step at the sudden freedom, as though her legs had suddenly gone weak. He reached for her arm to steady her. She stared at him, dazed.

“Forgive me,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to so alarm you. I simply . . . had to see you.”

“What are you—” She fumbled the words. She swallowed. Tried again. “How can you be . . .
here?
”

“I have been watching you.” He reached out to touch her cheek. She flinched. It cut him deeply. “Are you not even a little pleased to see your father?”

“Pleased . . . ?” Her mouth suddenly trembled. Her chest heaved with the indignation of an aggrieved child. “You
left
me!”

“Justine—”

“All alone! I had no one.”

“You had kin in Essex. I thought they—”

“They did not come for me. They wanted no child of a
traitor
.”

The word stung. From his own daughter! It was a bitter thing to bear. She was breathing hard now, nostrils flaring, a redness in her eyes, her hair disheveled by the wind, and he realized with a shock,
She hates me
. Fury swept him. Not at her—she was an innocent. His fury was for the man who had turned her against him. Richard Thornleigh. He wanted to roar out his grievances to his daughter. But something cautioned him not to. He had to tread carefully. She was not ready to hear about Thornleigh. Not yet. He said, “If I had not fled they would have hanged me.” He managed a bittersweet smile. “Would that have made you happy?”

Her face crumpled in confusion. “No . . . but—”

“Ah, Justine, I am more sorry than I can say if you suffered for my sake. Believe me, I have suffered, too. I have been well punished. I lost everything. Lands. Home.
You
. I have struggled as an outcast all these years. Hanging me would have been more kind.”

“Outcast . . . where? Where have you
been?
”

“France. Exiled from all that I knew and loved. Can you imagine what it is to wander foreign streets, penniless, friendless? Believing I would never see you again?”

“Is that why you’ve come back?” Bewilderment swam in her eyes, yet he thought he saw there a flicker of hope. “To see me?”

Here was the challenge! He took a breath to steady himself, to be absolutely sure. Then he answered quietly, firmly, “No.”

She blinked in surprise at the stark confession. Christopher knew he was taking a terrible chance. He had already hazarded so much by making contact with her. But he needed her help. She alone could pass along what he wanted Richard Thornleigh to believe about Mary—what he wanted Elizabeth to believe. But his heart was thudding at the risk. His daughter, so hostile thanks to Thornleigh, could instead have him arrested and sent to prison in chains. This time he would not escape the noose.

He pressed on. The truth was his best hope. “I have come to see the Queen of Scots.”

A breath of astonishment escaped her. “Ha. You lie.”

“It is true. In France, when she was queen there, she was kind to me.”

He saw in an instant that he had misjudged. She didn’t believe a word. “You’re mad,” she said, backing away as though from a dangerous animal. She shot a look behind him at the door. It was the only way down from the battlements. She bolted toward it.

Christopher caught her arm, halting her. In turning, he now faced the wind and it swept back his hair, the wig he wore to cover his disfigurement. She froze, and he knew what she was staring at: his scarred, burned, shriveled ear and the patch of raw scalp behind it. He pawed the hair back in place. Still holding her arm, he dug inside his shirt beneath his doublet and lifted out a chain. Dangling from the chain was the crucifix he had given her eight years ago as he fled—the smooth gold Christ on a rough gold cross, rubies His wounds. Christopher held it up for her to see. It was his proof.

Her eyes went wide with shock. “I gave that to Mary.” She blurted in suspicion, “You stole it from her.”

“She gave it to me. Just as you gave it to her, as a surety of the faith that binds us, we three.” Justine’s body was rigid, but he held her arm tightly. The wind flailed her skirt, wrapping it around Christopher’s leg.

“Let me go.”

“Justine, when Mary told me you were serving her I had to see you. Hear me out, that’s all I ask. Then send me to the gallows if you must.” He managed a tortured smile. “It is worth it, to have seen you one last time.”

Her arm in his grip was trembling. Weakening? He jerked his chin toward a wooden hut a few steps away, a crude, low square built in a more violent time to shelter the rooftop guards during blizzards and storms. It had no door, just a narrow entrance where a canvas flap rippled. “Come, out of this wind,” he said, tugging her gently.

She shrugged off his grip, her head high. “I am not your prisoner.”

“Heaven forbid.” He lifted the canvas flap. “You are my guest.” He beckoned her in with a wry, hopeful smile. When she still hesitated, he added, with a glance at the moors that stretched around them like the sea, “Please. Any rider out there might spot us. It’s dangerous for you to be seen with me.”

That reasoning seemed to hit home with her. Accepting, but still wary, she crossed the threshold into the hut. He followed her in, ducking his head through the low doorway.

The space was gloomy and stank of wet rotted wood, and the wind whistled shrilly through cracks. Christopher feared she might bolt out and try again to run. But he sensed the burning curiosity that held her in place. He motioned to the bench against the wall. “Come, sit.” He sat down. “Please,” he urged, patting the spot beside him on the bench.

She resisted, shaking her head. “What have you to do with Mary?”

“I’ll get to that. First, tell me this, have they mistreated you, Richard Thornleigh and his wife?”

The question seemed to startle her. “You knew I was his ward?”

“I have been attentive, from afar.”

“No, they have treated me gently. With love.” She said it almost like an accusation.

Christopher accepted her barb with a tender smile. “No more than you deserve.”

“You are wrong. It is their way. They are kindness itself.”

“You don’t know them as I do.” He put steel in his voice. “They took everything I had. Yeavering Hall is theirs now.”

“No, you forfeited it by your treason. Your property became Her Majesty’s. She bestowed it on Lord Thornleigh’s son-in-law for his brave service to her.”

“It amounts to the same thing. Their family enjoys riches and rank. We have nothing.”

“Nothing but infamy.”

“Justine, it was eight years ago. I have repented most heartily, and paid for my error. Can you not forget and forgive?”

“Forgive treason? No loyal English subject can.”

“And yet, you did not tell Richard Thornleigh that you knew I was alive.”

She stiffened. His challenge hung in the air. “How do you know I haven’t?”

A dangerous silence pulsed between them.

“Have you?”

He saw her defiance waver. She said quietly, almost a whisper, “No.”

He exulted in her confession. He could scarcely keep seated. But he must not startle her. “There is nothing wrong with a secret, Justine, when it is done for love.”

“It was not from love—from fear. I was a child and you commanded my silence. What did I know but obedience to you?”

Their eyes locked in the dim light. Christopher forced himself to hold the challenge. “Well, you are free to tell him now.”

She looked down. “No.” It was a grudging, rancorous surrender. “I will not be your executioner.”

Relief flooded him, as great as his exultation. “Call it what you will, I call it love.”

“You said you would tell me why you’re here,” she said curtly. “I’m listening.”

He noticed a broken arrow on the floor at his foot. He picked it up. The fletched end was gone, an arrowhead on a jagged stick, lacking guidance. He rested his back against the wall, watching his daughter, turning the arrow in his hands.

“I arrived in Calais eight years ago, very ill. From this.” He pointed the arrowhead at his ear where his hair, his wig, hid the burned flesh. “It was festering. Gradually it healed and my strength returned, but every now and then, when I was exhausted from tramping the roads, or from hunger, the skin broke out again in festering sores. I tried herbs, special waters, apothecaries’ concoctions—nothing helped. I lived with the affliction. After a miserable year my wandering led me to an old friend at an abbey in Montreuil. I had studied with him many years before when I was a green student at the University of Paris, and now he was the abbot. He had friends at court. He introduced me to some gentlemen there, and I joined a group that met to study the lives of the saints. One day, Mary stopped in for a word with one of these gentlemen and deigned to sit with us for a half hour. To my mortification, my friend the abbot mentioned my affliction. The next day, Mary sent me a salve. I was astonished. But I used it and the effect was miraculous. The festering sores never returned. It is something I shall never forget, not just the healing salve, but that this tender young queen should care. I sent her a message, vowing to serve her. And I have done so, sometimes carrying letters, sometimes small gifts that she would send to friends. When the young king, her husband, died she sailed back to the land of her birth to be its queen. I visited her there and continued my services.”

“You’ve been in Scotland?”

“Coming and going, yes, between France and Edinburgh.” He added with a sigh, “Nearer to you, yet still in exile. Then, last year, Mary’s brother usurped her and imprisoned her. She escaped, thank God, and she was grateful to reach the haven of England. But, Justine, she cannot stay. Her cousin Elizabeth is a jealous queen, a dangerous queen when crossed. And she feels crossed by Mary because of the love so many people have for her. Mary needs help. That is why I am here.”

“What help can you give her?” Her wariness had vanished. Christopher saw that his tale had transfixed her. His success surprised him; he had thought it would take longer to disarm her of that shield of duty and doubt.

“I have brought her assurances from her French friends that a home awaits her in France, and security, and all the respect that is her due. They want her there. I brought Mary this news, and I am pleased to say she is considering it—an honorable retirement in France—if only Elizabeth would let her go.” He paused to let the import of his words sink into his daughter.
That’s right, my girl, report this straight to Richard Thornleigh
. “That’s when I saw that Mary had the crucifix I gave you. I remarked on it in wonder, and she told me you were here, serving her, and had given it to her. She told me to show it to you as proof of her trust in me.” A nervous look flickered over Justine’s face. He understood and was quick to reassure her. “Child, I vow to you, no one else will ever know you gave Mary the crucifix.”

She said very softly, “Thank you.”

“No, thank you. For caring for Mary. And for preserving your faith despite the heresy all around you.”

She still stood before him. He lifted the chain over his head and leaned toward her and took her hand. She did not flinch. He placed the crucifix in her palm. “It is yours. It has come home.”

Did he see a glimmer of tears in her eyes? When her fingers curled around the crucifix, it moved him so deeply he felt a hot tightness in his throat. “Justine, I cannot stay in England long. I am a hunted man. Soon I will return to France and never trouble you again. My exile will keep me from you to my last hour on this earth. Please, won’t you sit with me for just a moment? Our last time together?”

Shyly, she sat down beside him. “It is so strange . . . to see you, yet now you will be gone again.”

“A day has not passed in these eight years that I have not thought of you. And I will do so until the day I die.”

She looked at him as though searching his soul. “Father, will you—” She stopped, looking struck by her own word.
Father
.

Christopher said with affectionate encouragement, “Go on, child.”

“Will you . . . answer a question?”

“If I can.”

“Did you take any part in killing Geoffrey Croft?”

It startled him. “Who?”

“Lord Thornleigh’s kin. The husband of his sister.”

“I’ve never heard of the man.”

“Don’t pretend you know nothing of the feud between the Grenvilles and Thornleighs.”

“Know it? I
lived
it. The Thornleighs spilled so much Grenville blood.”

She frowned, disbelieving. “It is Lord Thornleigh’s brother-in-law whose blood was spilled. Three arrows in his chest. An attack on the Thornleighs’ home in Essex.”

“Speedwell House?”

“Yes.”

“I had no part in that. My brother John was overzealous. But he had cause, Justine. We
all
had cause, we Grenvilles. And do not think the Thornleighs suffered like saints in that day’s violence. They used their weapons with a vengeance. We lost good men too.”