Blood Between Queens (27 page)

“They won’t know. I’ll keep the door closed. And be as quiet as a mouse.”

He shook his head. “It’s not what I want for you. Nor for me, for that matter, because . . . well, there are documents here that I’m responsible for.”

The letters, she was sure! “Come, come, Will, this is
me
.”

“I know that. But the other fellows don’t. No, come along now and I’ll walk you to your lodging.”

He sounded adamant, though he was smiling. Justine’s thoughts tripped, trying to find a way to stay. Delay him? Keep him here until he was late for the session? Then he would have no time to walk her to George Street. It was her only hope. “Oh, Will, please don’t go yet. We’ve only just said hello.”

“Believe me, I don’t want to. But I must.”

She stepped close to him. “I’ve missed you so much.” It was the truth, and so was the emotion that made her voice waver. “That day we were betrothed we were so happy. But happiness was snatched from us. It’s been awful, not seeing you for months.” She brought her lips so close to his she could smell a hint of cloves on his breath. “All I want is for us to be together.”

His eyes were on her mouth. “So do I,” he said with feeling. “And we shall be.”

“But when?” She caressed his cheek, the stubble of his beard rough on her fingertips. “We’re almost married. Yet so far apart.”

“Not for long, I promise you.”

“Oh, Will, what I’m trying to tell you is . . .” She looked down, shook her head. “I’m no good at this. I’m no coquette.” She looked him in the eye. “I can only show you straight out.” She took his cloak from his arm and tossed it on the bed beside hers. She kissed him. A deep, needy kiss. The need was not a lie, for the moment his lips pressed hers, desire sparked through her.

He pulled back his head to look at her in wonder. “I want no coquette. Only you.” He kissed her with longing. “You are my love, my life. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know I want to be your wife,” she whispered. “Isn’t that what you want?”

He swallowed hard. “Nothing more.”

“I don’t want to wait. Do you?”

“I want . . .” He pulled her away to arm’s length as though forcing himself. “To get you to your lodging. Come.” He made a move for their cloaks.

She stopped him, kissing his cheek, his chin, his throat, his lips. “No. Stay. Please.”

He resisted for one moment more, then suddenly wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him with a groan. His hardness against her made her take a small gasp. The strength in his arms as he held so tightly her made her breathless. She tried to keep her mind detached enough to think ahead to the task she had come to do, but as he held her, pressing her to him,
this
was all she wanted to do. Everything in her yearned for him for his own wonderful self, his warm, hard body.

She caressed his face with both hands. He bent his head and kissed her throat. His hands were on her hips, clasping her close, then sliding up the front of her bodice and over her breasts. He tugged loose the strings of her chemise at her throat, and his lips and tongue slid over the skin of her bosom, making her shiver.

She tugged off the pearled hair band that held back her hair, and he slid his hands through her hair, all the while kissing her mouth. She fumbled to unfasten the lacings of his doublet. He wrenched the doublet off and dropped it, and she opened his shirt and spread her hands on his chest, kissing his warm skin. He unfastened the ties of her bodice and she wriggled out of her heavy garments and let them fall. Standing in her chemise, she tingled at the sudden lightness, the freedom. Her fingers brushed his erection and at her surprise and wonder he gave a quick, excited laugh. She laughed, too, knowing her inexperience made her clumsy, but wanting him so much she didn’t care. She opened her mouth to his and grabbed his hair to get more of him, and to steady her weakening legs.

He took her in his arms, lifting her, and carried her to the bed. They lay looking at each other, wide-eyed, hungry to see, to touch, to taste. His kisses were fast on her bare shoulder, her arm, her neck, his hand on her breast. Her nipple under the chemise was hard against his palm. His mouth was hot on her throat. His stubbled chin roughed her cheek. Heat surged through her.

He shoved up her chemise, cool air sweeping her thighs. His hot hand slid up the inside of her thigh. She gasped . . . could not catch her breath. The swirl of heat was all she felt, and the craving for more of him. She wriggled to get his hand higher, get his fingers to her wetness. Her mouth opened and her legs opened, every part of her spreading from the pulsing heat in her belly. She groped for his erection, which strained at his codpiece. He wrenched the codpiece aside and entered her. Fire shot into her and she gave a small cry, a sound that made him stop, his breathing hard, a glassy gleam of mastery in his eyes. At his stopping, fire licked through her, a torture of yearning for his hardness again. He thrust into her. Again and again and again. She arched and wrapped her leg around his to hold him tight, her body beyond her control. With his next thrust, the hot wave inside her crested and she clung to his back as pulses quivered through her.

After, they lay on their backs, dazzled, catching their breath. She felt him turn his head to her and she turned to look at him. Love shone in his eyes. His chest heaved, gradually calming. Justine could not speak for holding on to the thrill, her body atingle, her heart choked with love.

He ran his hand gently over her cheek. “Justine, did I . . . hurt you?”

“No. It was . . . wonderful.”

He grinned. “You.
You
are wonderful.” His face gentled. He said soberly, quietly, “Now, we are man and wife in the eyes of God.”

She could not hold back tears of joy. She had loved Will from the moment she saw him as a child of eight. The truth rose to her lips. “It’s all I ever wanted.”

He kissed her softly. “My love.”

Bells clanged. Will, startled, flopped onto his back. “Oh, Lord,” he said with a blink of dismay, “I’m late.” He bounded to his feet and turned away, fastening his codpiece, jamming his shirt into his breeches. “Justine, I’m so sorry . . . I must go. The session.”

She sat up quickly in her rucked-up chemise, throwing her bare legs over the bed’s edge. “Yes, of course you must. I understand.”

“Oh, God,” he groaned, “it’s awful to leave you like this. I’ll have to go straight to the hall.” He grabbed his doublet from the floor and thrust his arms in, turning back to her. “Can you make your way to George Street?”

“Of course. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m sorry. I meant to take you, but—”

“I think, my love, you just did.”

He laughed, happily flustered. He bent and kissed her, still tying the last lacing of his doublet. He ran his hand lovingly over her bare knee. “I’ll come to your lodging after the session. All right? We can have supper together. Where’s the house?”

She told him and gave him the name of her host. The church bells kept clanging. Will grabbed his cloak. Justine felt suddenly shy, sitting in just her chemise. She tugged it down over her knees. “I’ll let myself out.” She indicated her garments in a heap on the floor. “It will take a little time to make myself presentable.”

He looked at her as if his heart was too full to speak. He kissed her again, a lingering kiss that told her everything he could not put into words. “Until this evening,” he whispered.

Then he was gone.

Alone in the silence, Justine felt a rush of shame. She had got what she wanted—she was free now to search for the letters—but at what cost? She had used Will. Pretended and contrived and maneuvered so that he would have no choice but to leave her alone here. And she had bargained her maidenhead to do it. Her first union with Will, which should have been a moment of pure and open trust, she had degraded.

She stood up abruptly. What’s done was done. And Will, thank God, would never know. She steeled herself for her task. Idiotic not to go through with it after she had paid such a price for it. She made a vow that from that moment on, she would never dissemble to Will again.

She quickly dressed. Smoothing her hair, she looked around the room. Where to start? The desk. Shoving aside the volumes of Caesar and Aurelius, she examined the scatter of papers. Most were in Will’s handwriting. Lists of names, witnesses perhaps. There was a memorandum to himself in the form of questions and answers about the various potential conclusions of the inquiry. Many scrawled notes, apparently about witnesses’ depositions. Other papers were letters of instruction from Sir William Cecil. She unfurled a scroll. The cramped handwriting that covered it, neither Will’s nor Cecil’s, was in Latin, and though she had some knowledge of the language this was legal terminology, all but incomprehensible to her. Another scroll was the same. She opened a ledger. Accounts: money Will had spent on his room, meals, paper and ink, candles, stabling, oats for his horse.

There were two drawers. She pulled open the one on the left. More notes in Will’s hand, these in Latin. A small volume of Cicero, bristling with scraps of paper. A broken quill pen. Some walnuts. She suddenly remembered the strongbox under the bed. The most secure place for important documents.

She went down on her knees and dragged out the green leather-clad box bound with bands of iron. It wasn’t large, not much bigger than one of Will’s law books, but it was heavy. She examined the lock, feeling around it, prodding the lid, thinking there must be a key somewhere, or perhaps she could somehow break it, when the lid lifted. A laugh of surprise escaped her. It hadn’t been locked! She raised the top. Inside were three seals of brass, the marks of Cecil’s office, each one the size of a goblet’s diameter. And there was a leather pouch. She tugged it open. Gold coins. Nothing else lay on the bare base of the box. No documents. No papers of any kind.

She shoved the strongbox back under the bed and pulled out the luggage, two leather satchels, and opened both. Linen shirts, breeches, hose, a pair of boots. It felt distasteful to be rooting around in Will’s things. And foolish. He was too orderly to cram important papers in with his shirts and hose.

She tried the trunk in the corner. More books. Would he put the letters inside a book? She opened the top volume and leafed through it. No papers. In any case there were eight letters, so at least that many sheets, probably more, too many to stuff inside a book.

The right-hand drawer in the desk. She had not tried it. She went back to open it and was surprised to find it locked. Excitement jolted through her. Where would he keep the key? She pawed through the items in the other drawer. No key. She looked under every document and book on top of the desk. Did he keep the key with him? She could only hope not. She jiggled the drawer, angry at its immovability, and tried to force it open, jerking it so roughly that her framed embroidery that he had propped against the candle trembled and fell. The tree of life. She felt a dart of shame and set it back in place. Her eyes fell on the little ebony box beside it. Her heartbeat quickened. She lifted the domed lid. With her fingertip she moved aside the thick lock of her hair. A key lay nestled beneath. Excited, she slid the key into the drawer’s lock and turned. It clicked. She opened the drawer.

Creamy vellum pages lay in a neat, shallow stack. On the top page, handwriting in sloping, orderly loops. Will’s handwriting.

Justine read:
I have not seen him this night for ending your bracelet.
Her heart lurched. Mary made bracelets for people she liked, men as well as women.
Send me word whether your will have it, and more money, and how far I may speak.
She scanned to the end.
Burn this letter, for it is too dangerous.
Hand trembling, she lifted the page and read on the next one,
I remit myself wholly to your will, and send me word what I shall do, and whatsoever happens to me, I will obey you.
Further on,
He has great suspicion, but nevertheless trusts upon my word.

Justine found she was holding her breath in excitement. She had found what she’d come for. Mary, writing to Bothwell. Was it genuine evidence of her guilt, or forged lies? Justine didn’t know, and right now the answer did not matter. Carefully, she scooped up the pages—it felt like about a dozen—and slid them into her schoolboy satchel.

Down the stairs she hurried, then out the front door. She headed for the spiked towers of York Minster. The city was bustling. Carts clattered in and out under the arch of Monk Bar. A farmer shouted to the cattle he walked behind, driving them in to market. Outside an alehouse, apprentices rolled barrels down a slide off a wagon. A gentleman on a tall gray horse walked his mount alongside a churchman all in black, the two of them arguing. Justine turned onto Minster Yard, passing a scatter of people coming to and from the great church. She went inside. The massive vaulted space was purpled by light filtered through the huge stained glass window in the shape of a rose. Like every great church, the Minster’s nave was a hub of business. Merchants met to trade information. Servingmen lounged, looking to be hired. Ladies met to gossip. An old woman hawked pastries from the basket on her hip. Justine went to the table where two scriveners available for hire by illiterate townsfolk sat at their portable desks amid their wares of papers, quills, and inkpots. A skinny young man wearing a leather apron crusted with dark dry blood, a butcher apparently, was dictating a letter to his mother.

Justine approached the other scrivener, a stooped man with ink-blacked fingertips and a face lined in furrows. He was sharpening his quill with a penknife. “How quickly can you copy these?” she asked, pulling the letters from her satchel.

He perused her fine clothes, gave a cursory look at the pages, mentioned an inflated price, and waited to see if she would accept.

“I didn’t ask the price, only the swiftness of your work. There’s half a crown more than you quoted if you can do it in an hour.”