Blood Between Queens (30 page)

Mary frowned in a moment of resistance, then gave it up and heaved a sigh. “Cherie, I will be sorry to see you go.”

Justine barely heard the words. Mildmay was looking at her with his amiable smile, but deep in his eyes she saw a hard glint. He said to her, “Can you be ready in the morning?”

Was he taking her to prison? Fear shot dizziness into her. The room seemed to sway. Every face was turned to her, but the only one she saw was Mildmay’s, stonily waiting for an answer. What choice did she have? She swallowed and said, “Of course, sir.”

W
hen Christopher Grenville reached the Spanish embassy in London, he was dismayed to find the place in an uproar. Men packed the corridors, arguing and shouting, many jostling to gain admittance to Ambassador de Spes’s private chambers. Secretaries were fending off the barrage of questions and demands. There was some crisis, that was clear from the alarm and anger of the petitioners. Though some of them appeared to be Spaniards, most of the voices were English, but in the din Christopher could not tell what had them so upset. He guessed it was connected to news he had heard on the road, that English pirates had stolen treasure from a Spanish ship. The pushing and shouting frayed his nerves, for he was bone-weary from hard riding on the wintry roads, and constantly on edge lest someone recognize him. Every day he spent in London moving about in public, he risked being discovered by someone who knew of his past. The ordeal left him so drained he could have slept for a week, but there was no chance of even resting until he had seen de Spes. He had brought a letter from Mary that had to go immediately to the King of Spain.

He pushed through the jostling bodies but could not get past a tight cluster of men clamoring to get close to an embassy secretary barring the door to de Spes’s rooms. The secretary mopped his brow as he tolerated the verbal abuse of a man shouting in his face. Christopher recognized the secretary from one of his clandestine visits to de Spes. “What’s happened?” he asked a scowling Londoner next to him.

“We can’t get our goods,” the man growled. “Bloody Spanish papists!” His answer explained nothing, but before Christopher could ask for more information the man barged toward the secretary.

A thought struck Christopher with alarm. Had Philip recalled his ambassador to protest the piracy? That would spell disaster for Christopher’s plan—Mary’s plan—to get Philip to support Northumberland’s imminent uprising. De Spes was a fervent defender of the Catholic faith and zealous to have the heretic Elizabeth ousted and Mary installed in her place, and Christopher had been working closely with him to get Philip’s commitment of Spanish troops. But if de Spes was leaving, Christopher’s link to Philip was broken. A new ambassador would know nothing of the plan, and possibly would be horrified if he did. Without Spanish support Northumberland would not act. Mary would not become queen. Christopher would be thrown into wretched exile again, this time forever.

Desperate to see de Spes, he squeezed through the crowd toward the beleaguered secretary. An elbow jabbed his rib as men pushed around him, and he felt a rising sense of panic. The inquiry was reconvening at Westminster, and with the so-called casket letters in hand, the commissioners would almost certainly find Mary guilty of abetting the murder of her husband by her lover. If that happened, Northumberland and Philip might both abandon her. Christopher had to get Philip’s commitment before a verdict came. He prayed that the letter he was bringing from Mary would finally push Philip to act.

Letters . . . letters. The one flicker of light in this blackness was Justine’s attempt to get copies of the casket letters. She had failed—Mary had told him—but it gave him profound satisfaction that she had tried. He wished he could tell her how proud he was of her. Richard Thornleigh had stolen her as a child and done his best to make her one of them, but she had proved herself a Grenville, loyal to Mary, and it moved Christopher. Thornleigh now had her under his thumb again, though. Justine had been called home, Mary said. It galled him.
Her home is with me. She is my daughter.
If he could ever get Thornleigh alone he would ram a dagger in the man’s heart.

The secretary spotted him. “Sir!” he cried. He beckoned Christopher with an arm raised above the heads of the petitioners. The door to the room behind him was ajar and Christopher glimpsed de Spes moving past the crack. The secretary beckoned Christopher on. He pushed through the shouting men, the secretary opened the door for him, and he shot in and quickly closed the door on the crowd. He was in de Spes’s study—a muffled place of crammed bookshelves, a desk heaped with papers, a globe, maps—and they were alone.

“Grenville, finally. I’ve been waiting.” De Spes was clearly agitated, but the expression on his narrow face looked to Christopher like excitement. The ambassador went immediately to his desk. “What kept you?”

“The roads. Ice and snow.” He jerked his thumb to indicate the crowd. “What are they howling about? You’re not leaving, are you?”

De Spes snorted. “Never.” Christopher was relieved. De Spes was pawing through papers on his desk, and when he found the one he wanted he went to the door, opened it a crack, and called over the secretary. “Have this taken to the French embassy,” he said quietly. “For Monsieur Fenelon’s eyes only, you understand?” He closed the door and turned back to Christopher, rubbing his hands with a restless look. “So much to organize. Where are you staying?”

“The Savoy.” The derelict old mansion was a warren of filthy tenements and he could not wait to leave the place, but it was useful for a man who wanted to disappear.

De Spes frowned. Everyone knew the Savoy was a hideout of cutpurses and thieves. “Is it safe? No one must trace you to me.”

“It will serve.” He had considered contacting his sister, Frances. Her house was in Chelsea. But she thought he had died years ago, and he didn’t know how she would react to him turning up. More to the point, he could not be sure which way her allegiance ran. Frances, the fool, had married the enemy. Adam Thornleigh.

“Messages?” De Spes held out his hand, impatient.

Christopher cast an anxious glance toward the far door, which lay in shadow. It was open, leading into de Spes’s private rooms.

“Don’t worry, we’re alone.”

Christopher went and shut the door anyway. The letter was too incriminating for anyone else even to know about. He had helped Mary compose it. He pulled off his hat and slipped the letter out of a hidden pocket in the hat. He handed it to de Spes, who hurriedly read it. Christopher watched him, anxious. Not about de Spes, who was eagerly collaborating with them, but about those Englishmen beyond the door. They would be incensed to violence if they knew that Mary was entreating Philip to send her military aid to overthrow Elizabeth.
With your help,
she had written,
I will be queen of England in three months and mass will once again be celebrated all over this country
. God only knew what would befall Mary if Elizabeth should find out. But there was no question about what they would do to Christopher as her accomplice. English law had a special death for traitors. They would hang him until almost dead, then cut him down and disembowel him. He might still be alive when they hacked off his limbs and then his head would be stuck on a pike on London Bridge.

De Spes let out a short laugh as he finished the letter, which alarmed Christopher. “Is her request so hopeless?” he asked. Without Spain, everything fell apart.

“No, no, my mirth is born of delight, for the lady is bold.” De Spes looked exhilarated. “And she need beg no longer. The sleeping giant of Spain has been roused.”

“What?” Christopher hardly dared hope. “How so? What’s happened?”

“You haven’t heard the news?”

“I travel at night, de Spes, and I don’t stop for chat.”

A fist pounded the door. Someone yelled, “Come out here and give us some answers!” Christopher heard the secretary’s muffled stern rebuke, then English voices rising in anger. De Spes ignored the clamor. “English merchants,” he said with a snort that spoke of both satisfaction and contempt. He took the letter to his desk. Slipping a key from his pocket he unlocked a drawer, placed the letter inside, and relocked the drawer. “I have told them to press their complaints on their queen, not me. She is the one who brought this calamity on their heads.”

“What calamity? What’s
happened?
”

“Her pirates attacked a ship of ours carrying the King’s gold to pay the Duke of Alva’s troops.” Fury leapt in de Spes’s sunken eyes. “I demanded restitution from Elizabeth, but what did the Jezebel do? She took possession of the gold
herself!
A banker’s loan—that’s what she has the insolence to call it. No loyal Spaniard can allow such a gross offense to His Majesty. I recommended to him, in the most forceful language possible, that Spain retaliate with drastic action. I thank God my king listened. He acted at once. All English assets in the Netherlands have been seized. Ships, gold bullion, goods and chattels.” He shot a look at the closed door and added with righteous excitement, “Let Elizabeth’s merchants suffer for her sins. Spain cannot be tricked.”

Christopher fairly jumped at the news. What a lightning bolt of luck! Elizabeth herself had pushed Spain into his arms! Into Mary’s arms. Fresh energy coursed through him. But then a jolt of caution. Could he trust this sudden turn of fortune? A mercantile confrontation was one thing, military intervention quite another. “Is it provocation enough? Is the King angry enough? Can we hope that he will now commit troops to our cause?”

“He is
eager
to do so. His Netherlands troops can cross to England in a day.” De Spes’s own eagerness was evident, but he added sternly, “
If,
that is, our English friends can rouse themselves to action. His Majesty will not invade, but he will assist. You understand?”

“Perfectly.” Christopher’s thoughts were leaping ahead. “We must get this great news to the northern earls as fast as horse can carry it.” Northumberland and his friend the Earl of Westmorland had pledged seven thousand men. The time to muster them had come.

“But wait.” De Spes looked suddenly concerned. “Everything has happened so fast, all at once. Elizabeth has called her entire council to attend the reconvened inquiry, and Northumberland and Westmorland are councilors.”

“Good God, they’ve come to London?”

“No, not yet. But will they risk disobeying the royal summons? Elizabeth already mistrusts them for their faith.”

Christopher feared the earls would indeed obey. They were disheartened, believing they had no Spanish support, unaware that everything had suddenly changed. “We have to stop them before they leave their northern strongholds. We must tell them the time to strike is now.”

De Spes nodded. “So it is. Yes, I’ll send word. The Duke of Norfolk’s man has a relay of fast riders.”

“Norfolk? Is he reliable?” Christopher had brokered a marriage match between Norfolk and Mary, and the two had exchanged letters of intent to wed, Norfolk pledging his love.
Self
-love, of course, for the union could eventually make him king of England without lifting a finger. But that was before the casket letters surfaced.

“The marriage agreement has put backbone into him,” de Spes assured him. “I spoke to him this morning. He is with us. He wants to join the earls.”

More good fortune! Norfolk could raise thousands of men! Even better, as the country’s leading peer he would give the uprising the luster of legitimacy. Christopher felt almost light-headed. Moments ago he had thought that all was lost and he would face exile if he was lucky, a traitor’s death if he was not. Now it seemed he had mustered the might of Spain and the home-grown support of the richest nobleman in England. Success was suddenly, thrillingly, possible.

“Grenville.” Anxiety crept over the Spaniard’s face. He asked gravely, “Can you do the rest?”

Christopher had never felt such a mix of exultation and fear. His action now could mean the difference between immediate, total success and a prolonged war that Mary could lose. Immediate success was possible only if Elizabeth was dead.
Time to do my part.
He nodded:
Yes.

“Are you sure? What is your plan?”

Christopher had given it long, hard thought. At first the challenge had seemed impossible. How could he get close enough to Elizabeth to do the deed? Then, on the frigid ride to London, he had thought of the cold February night at Kirk o’ Field near Edinburgh, and Mary’s husband Lord Darnley asleep in his bed, and the explosion that had blown up the house, killing Darnley. As Christopher rode into London he had decided how he could accomplish his mission.

But he would need help. Where was he to get it? De Spes would not risk his own neck, and Mary was a virtual prisoner. As for English friends, Christopher was a stranger in his own country.

Then it struck him: Who did one turn to in times of need? Who were the only people one could ever really trust? Family. He had a daughter. He had a sister. For this crucial enterprise he would need both of them. He did not know if the bonds of kinship would prove strong enough or would snap from the strain. But they were all he had.

“Send Mary’s letter to bolster His Majesty,” he told de Spes, “and send Norfolk’s man to rouse the earls to muster. Leave the rest to me.” He went to the desk and opened a drawer and pulled out a pouch of coins. “I’ll need more later,” he said, pocketing the money.

The ambassador watched him solemnly. “Whatever you want. Beyond that, though, I cannot be involved.”

“I need only one more favor. Can you get a message to my sister?”

 

Frances’s hands and nose felt frozen. The boat’s canvas canopy kept out the gusting snow, but the air was still frigid. The four miles from Kilburn Manor in Chelsea to London could be covered quickly in fine summer weather, but everything seemed agonizingly slow in winter, her rowers included. Tonight they were sullen, too, at being put to the oars after dark. She might have ridden, but her back was sore from a painful fall on her own icy jetty two days ago and she did not think she could endure even an hour on horseback. Nevertheless, the bubble of excitement she had felt at receiving the note from Ambassador de Spes buoyed her as her boat approached the landing of Durham House, the Spanish embassy. This felt like an adventure. A rather mysterious one, too. The note had asked her to meet him “to help Holy Mother Church,” but had given no indication of what that might entail. A gift of money, Frances had assumed, but de Spes hardly needed a clandestine rendezvous to ask her for that. He knew her, and knew she would oblige him as a friend of the true faith.