The Spymaster's Daughter (33 page)

Robert reached to lift the keg to his shoulder.

“Nay, brewer, no man but me may see the Scots whore alone. Her wiles are well-known. The keg is not heavy,” he said, nudging Robert aside and hefting it. “You there, boy, take it upon your shoulder. I have other urgent duties.”

Robert's face did not change, though his eyes held caution and more than a little fear.

Frances touched her forelock in salute to Sir Amyas before taking up the keg as she was bidden, though the weight sat hard on her shoulder. She dared not look to Robert, though he moved closer to gentle the horses. His whisper just reached her ears: “You know what to do?”

“Aye,” she breathed, grasping the keg tighter.

Sir Amyas called a liveried servant, who was wearing a helmet, plate-armor cuirass, buckler, and broadsword. “Take this brewer's boy to the queen's apartment; then return to me and guard this dray. I want no messages passed or words spoken.”

Frances followed the servant through the great hall, noticing the luxury of the graceful Flemish furnishings. A heavily carved refectory table, which must have come from the old castle, was set before a huge fireplace. Arras hangings hung on the walls in front of her. One she swore depicted a young Essex riding with hounds toward a stag. A second hanging on the far wall showed him dancing with a circle of pretty, graceful village maids. She stopped a smile before it reached her face; how like him to want to look at himself as he feasted.

They wound up a wide staircase to a balcony and to the very last door, where two heavily armed guards barred the way.

“This lad here delivers the Scots queen's double ale.”

The guard scowled. “This ale should be for our throats, eh, and not the old whore inside.”

“Cease such poor talk,” commanded her escort. “You know Sir Amyas's orders. Respect but do not trust. Now unlock the door and stand aside.”

Frances breathed easier.

“Can you find your way back to the bailey, lad?”

“Aye, sir,” Frances said, the words trembling.

“Do not be afrighted, boy,” her guard said, slapping her across the back. “She is a kindly woman, though her Catholic soul be damned to hell.”

“Not soon enough,” another guard at the door grumbled, removing a large key from his belt and unlocking the door.

Frances stepped inside to a large chamber and hesitated, her knees weakened with uncertainty. Should she go on or wait until she was ordered forward? Several ladies-in-waiting were at their occupations, folding clothes into chests, mixing kohl and cochineal, one reading aloud in Latin and another plucking softly at lute strings. At the far end nearest the windows high in the wall was a dais. Queen Mary sat in a large chair under a cloth of estate, neither gilt nor so fine as Elizabeth's, but a clear reminder of her status as former queen of France and then of Scotland. Frances knew Mary would dispute the idea of her rule being past and done.

As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, she saw the words embroidered on the cloth of estate:
En ma Fin gît mon Commencement.
Frances translated: “In the end is my beginning.”
She knows
, Frances thought.
She has always known
.

A lady approached Frances. “Her Majesty wishes to greet you, boy. She sees few enough from the outside and has little news.”

Frances knew that Mary received much news from London and France, but this was no time to dispute the lady's words. She followed the lady forward toward the throne, trying to control her fear of discovery.

With downcast eyes, she reached the dais, and found it impossible to kneel with the keg on her shoulder. She placed it in front of her, removed her cap, bowed her head, and knelt.

A soft voice spoke before her with both a Scottish burr and a French inflection, a combination she doubted she would e'er hear again or soon forget. “You may stand, young English lad, or sit if your sagging shoulders are a sign of your weariness.”

Frances stood. Though the queen's damask gown was beautifully embroidered, the hem and sleeves were frayed, showing age and wear. She wore a triple pearl necklace of great worth, a crown centered with a large table diamond. Stroking a little dog in her lap, Mary smiled at her, a kindly smile that crinkled her hazel eyes. She had the perfect oval face so prized by Florentine painters, though her face had now grown old, with fine wrinkles despoiling its beauty. Atop that royal head, she wore a golden-red wig, very close in color to Elizabeth's. Though Queen Mary was nearing her mid-forties and had grown fleshy over the nineteen years of her captivity, she had the distinct remains of the startling physical beauty that had been remarked of her since she was a girl even by her many enemies. She had attracted the Duke of Norfolk to offer her marriage, at the cost of his head. Frances thought Mary's rumored attractiveness was one reason why Elizabeth had ever refused to meet with her. Her Majesty could tolerate no beauty contest.

Mary, though seated, was obviously tall, some said taller by much than her cousin, which had once provoked Elizabeth's angry rejoinder: “If she is taller than me, she is too tall!”

Frances believed the tale and could see Elizabeth saying such words with great relish. The thought brought a smile to her face.

Mary motioned for her to sit. “Boy, are you so eager to serve me that you smile, or are you smiling to be relieved of your burden?”

“Both, Majesty.”

The queen looked amused. “We have here a truth-speaking lad.”

Frances held her cap against her doublet to hide any evidence of her breasts and sat at Mary's feet, grateful for the relief, though yet wary of what would come next.

Mary looked down at her with kindly eyes. “We must all carry heavy burdens, if God so orders.” She crossed herself at her breast and her ladies followed suit.

Frances did the same, glad that her father would never know. She looked up at the high windows for somewhere to direct her gaze. Sunlight flooded across the ceiling, but did not reach so far below, leaving the lower chamber in dim light. Though the windows were high in the timbered wall, they were yet barred.

The Scots queen's gaze followed hers. She smiled. “Sir Amyas is determined I will not escape him.”

A nearby lady laughed. “Her Majesty once let herself down the side of Hardwick Manor, almost escaping the Earl of Shrewsbury. She was close held after…though never so close as now with Sir Amyas.”

“The rope was too short,” Mary said wryly, “or I was.”

All Mary's ladies smiled sadly at the memory, though the queen turned her attention back to Frances.

“You have traveled from Burton?”

Frances thought to keep her answers short. “Aye, Majesty.”

“Since the early hours?”

“Aye, Majesty.”

“You have not heard matins? I am sorry. They have taken away my priest.”

Frances did not look up.

“Then you will join us in our devotions.” It was not a question.

And be damned forever
, Frances knew her father would think, if he ever heard of it.

She bent her head forward, for a confidence. “Majesty, I dare not stay so long as will arouse Sir Amyas's interest.” Frances lowered her voice even further. “There is a new cipher for you in the keg. The men at Plough Inn fear…” Her voice trailed away; she was aware that she could say too much and expose herself as knowing more than an apprentice lad should.

Mary's eyes opened wide, a torrent of hope filling her face before it disappeared. “But the keg is full of ale.” Mary tapped the keg with her foot.

“Inside the bung, Majesty,” Frances murmured. “It has a hidey-hole.”

The queen looked about, alarmed. “Quietly, lad, these walls could hide spies' ears.” She motioned to her ladies. “Empty the ale into our stone jars.”

When the keg was returned, Frances leaned in to hold it up to the queen, who eagerly removed the bung and with a long finger reached in and up to retrieve the tiny roll of tightly wound paper wrapped in sealskin.

“Boy, how often will my ale be replenished?”

“Twice weekly, Majesty.”

One of Mary's women brought a candle. Before she read, Mary stopped to look at Frances. “Here we have a lad pretty as any lass and we do not see to his thirst.” She ordered another lady to pour Frances a cup.

“Many thanks, Your Majesty.” Mary had recognized in Frances a thirst that she herself had forgotten. Gratefully, she accepted the pewter cup.

It would be difficult for Frances to hate this queen, no matter her papist practice. She had been warned against the queen's wiles, but she saw none, only kindness to a dirty-faced apprentice. Not for the first time, she had some regret for her part in this
entrapment; nor would she ever forgive herself, at least never completely. Torn between two queens—perhaps the Plough Inn men had similar feelings.

Mary called for pen and paper and had no sooner secreted a response into the secret bunghole than the outer door banged open and Sir Amyas rushed in, through the chamber and to the dais. He did not kneel, or even bow.

“Boy, are you being kept here against your will?”

“Nay, Sir Am—”

“For shame. A lad seduced to popery by…”

Mary stood. “Sir Amyas, the boy was tired and thirsty. In Christian duty, I could not turn him back to the road with no rest or drink.”

“Madam, you have offended propriety!”

“Not a whit, Sir Amyas,” Mary said. “As a sinner I am truly conscious of having often offended my Creator, and I beg him to forgive me, but as a queen and sovereign, I am aware of no fault or offense for which I have to render account to
anyone
here below.”

“Madam, you twist words to suit your purpose. Make peace with your God. You will soon needs make peace with our Queen Elizabeth.”

Mary's face lit with hope. “Will she see me? Is she coming? If only we sister queens could meet…”

Her keeper made a growling sound deep in his throat and yanked Frances toward the door. “Listen no more to the Scots witch, boy, lest you find yourself amidst the fires of hell.”

Just able to get out an agreement, she said, “Aye, sir.”

“Hold, Sir Amyas!” A lady came up fast with the keg. “Her Majesty will need this to be refilled.”

Sir Amyas scowled but took the keg and looked it over carefully, shaking, then smelling it. Satisfied that it was hollow, he handed it to Frances.

She tried to look back, offer with her eyes some small thanks
to the proud woman on the dais who had touched her heart, but Sir Amyas pushed her through the open door and the guards slammed it shut on Mary's lonely imprisonment.

“Boy, tell your master that I am off to Greenwich tomorrow with the tally for the Scots queen's care. He will get his payment when I get mine.”

“Aye, Sir Paulet.”

In the great hall below, Frances followed the waiting guard out to the bailey. Her first sight was of Robert pacing beside the dray, his pronounced limp indicating his tiredness. He kept his face expressionless, but she could see the relief in his shoulders as they relaxed.

“Boy, is all accomplished?”

“Aye.”

“Let us away. We have long hours back to Burton.” He took the keg and placed it under the seat.

“Come, lad,” he said, loudly for other ears.

They drove through the gate and turned onto the main road before he removed the sealskin-wrapped message from the keg and put it safely in the pocket tied about his waist.

Frances looked ahead through the swirling dust. “The queen of Scots is well betrayed.”

He slapped the reins to speed the lead horses. “I sense your sympathy, but the fault is hers, not yours. Many before you have said she weaved a spell on them.” He slapped the reins again. “It is a hard business to be an intelligencer, Frances, and now you know it. I would have spared you, but you would not be spared.”

“Will she be spared?” Frances asked, looking up at him.

“No, she will not. There can be only one queen for England. Which would you have?”

She did not hesitate to name her, though speaking at all was difficult. “Elizabeth.”