Blood Between Queens (17 page)

“She is not a tenth the ruler you are.”

“But more a woman. She has a bonny baby son.” Tears glinted in her eyes. “While I am barren stock.”

He saw her anguish. He took her hand and kissed it gently, wishing with all his heart that he could comfort her. She pressed his hand to her cheek and looked into his eyes and whispered, “I thank God for bringing you home.”

He pulled her to him to kiss her, but before their lips touched cheers burst from the shore. Elizabeth flinched and pulled back. Through the crack in the curtains Adam saw that they were approaching Whitehall Palace and people were jostling on the wharves for a chance to see Elizabeth. He cursed them. They had snapped his bond of intimacy with her.

She stood up with sudden vigor, banishing self-pity. She smoothed her skirt, her hair, preparing to disembark. Adam saw his chance to convince her slipping away. In a moment she would become the public person, no more the private woman. He jumped up. “What are you going to do about my murdered men?”

She turned slowly. “
Your
men? Were they not my subjects?”

There was a knock on the door. “Your Majesty?”

“I’m coming.”

Adam said, “They were indeed. Loyal Englishmen, butchered by Spain. It’s time to take action.”

She gave him a cool look. “Vengeance is not wise politics.”

It grated him. He was not a politician. “I tell you, I cannot let them get away with this.”

“We are done here,” she said dismissively. “For your misbehavior tonight with my foreign guest, my decision is that you shall bide in quiet seclusion at your house outside London until the Spaniards’ fury cools.” She swept past him to the door.

Their
fury? “Good God, Elizabeth, their foul attack on us cannot stand. I am going after their fleet, with or without your help. They are a menace to you, to all of us. I am going to stop them.”

She turned at the door. Her voice was steel. “Don’t. I have saved your skin tonight, Adam. Disobey me on this, and I promise I will have you dragged to the Tower in chains.”

T
he noonday sun was hot, the road dusty, and Justine was thirsty, her hands damp with sweat inside her riding gloves. Yet she felt a fresh, exciting sense of accomplishment as she rode with Mary across a bridge over the River Swale in the Yorkshire Dales. They trotted side by side behind Lord Scrope and his ten outriders, while his thirty men-at-arms followed as Mary’s guard. The household carts brought up the rear. Mary was being moved south, deeper into England, and Justine was responsible for the move.

Mary did not know of her involvement, of course, which made Justine cautiously proud of having managed it. At Carlisle Castle she had paid a laundress, a woman whose husband was the barman at the village tavern, to report to her any local talk about Mary, and the woman passed along what her husband had heard: that there were northern gentlemen so zealous to protect Mary and support her claim to the English throne they were murmuring about descending in force on Carlisle Castle to carry her away. Alarmed, Justine had asked for names, but the laundress had said, “I know not, mistress, and my man knows no more.” Then she had whispered with some awe, “But round here everyone knows the Scottish queen’s champion is the great earl himself.” Justine was amazed. The Earl of Northumberland! She wrote to warn Lord Thornleigh, making it clear that she had no evidence, was only doing her duty in conveying the rumor, but he had obviously thought it important enough to tell Elizabeth, because Elizabeth’s command quickly reached Lord Scrope: Mary must be moved.

Mary had not made it easy for Scrope. Justine knew how infatuated he was with his royal guest, and it was with much anxious bowing that he had informed her that his orders were to escort her to his seat of Bolton Castle eighty miles southeast. Mary had burst into tears, wailing that she did not deserve such mistrust and disrespect, that she loved Elizabeth, who should love her in return. She had flung herself down on the window seat and wept. Lord Scrope had looked almost as upset himself, and for a moment Justine thought he might capitulate to Mary. But he was no fool; despite his infatuation he was Elizabeth’s man, immovable about her command. Justine had seen Mary’s tears harden into a cold glare at him. Icily, she had agreed to the move. Justine felt a small thrill at this early measure of success in her mission.

The entourage traversed the bridge, the horses’ hooves clanking on the stone, and Justine welcomed the cool air on her face from the gurgling river. She breathed in the subtle scents of the wildflowers scattered along the green riverbanks—water violets and wood sorrel, yellow pimpernel and marsh hawk’s-beard, bluebells and bog myrtle. There was something achingly beautiful about high summer; August would soon slip into autumn, and here in the north autumn was but a short prelude to winter. Though she had lived for eight years in England’s cultivated south she had to admit that something of this wild moorland country was in her blood. It gave her a pang, a reminder of her one deep regret about the move: Bolton, though still in Yorkshire, was farther from Yeavering Hall and therefore she would be farther away from a chance to uncover information about Alice’s killer. The longer she stayed with Mary, the colder the killer’s trail would become. It grieved her. But she was committed to the mission. Doing her duty with Mary was paramount, for Elizabeth and for herself.

She glanced back at Jane de Vere and Margaret Currier, her fellow ladies-in-waiting, their horses’ flanks almost touching as the girls leaned close to talk.
About me?
Justine wondered as she caught Jane’s inquisitive glance. She was aware of the honor of riding in pride of place beside Mary. She had settled well into Mary’s household, though she’d been careful not to fall into gossiping with Jane and Margaret. Her sole aim had been to get Mary’s trust, and happily she had succeeded beyond her highest expectations. Whether it was because of her fluency in French, which was clearly a comfort to Mary, or the unstated bond of Catholicism between them, Mary was treating her as the most favored of her ladies, almost a confidante. Justine was thankful—and quite prepared to exploit the situation.
If Mary wants a friend, I’ll be that friend
. Recently, she had begun to teach Mary English. In Scotland Mary had dealt with her educated nobles in French; she had only a rudimentary knowledge of the Scots language. Her letters to Elizabeth were in French.

“River valley,” Justine said, gesturing at the lush greenery that crowded the riverbanks.
“Vallée de la rivière.”
Continuing the lessons on the journey had helped to pass the time.

“River valley,” Mary repeated, concentrating on the hard Anglo-Saxon
R
. She looked up at a scatter of swallows on the wing.
“Et comment dit-on oiseaux?”

“Birds, my lady. Swallows.”

Mary’s brow furrowed in confusion. She pointed to her neck. “Swallow? As, to drink?”

“Ah, no, that is a different swallow.”

Mary shook her head, frowning in frustration. “English.”

“I know,” Justine said, amused. “A baffling tongue.”

They shared a smile. They reached the other side of the bridge, the river burbling behind them, and trotted up to the crest of the riverbank. A deer ambled out from the woods ahead, froze at the sight of Scrope’s outriders, then bolted across the road, disappearing into the trees.

“C’est arbre, que’est-ce que c’est?”
Mary asked. What tree is that?

“An oak tree, my lady. A tough hardwood. The oak is the symbol of England.”

“England,” Mary mused, scanning the moorland that stretched before them, a rolling expanse of woodlands, grasslands, and open heath. “It is very . . . green.”

Justine heard her admiration. Was she coveting this realm, wanting to be queen of it? “You must miss your own land, my lady. Are you homesick for Scotland?”

The word was new to Mary. “Homesick?”

“Ah. No, I am thinking this is green like France.”

It made sense. Mary had lived in France for most of her life, hadn’t come to rule Scotland until she was eighteen. It struck Justine with a small shock that they had this experience in common: Both had been transplanted far away from the place of their upbringing.

“Either way, my lady,” she said, slowly so that the English words were clear, “you are far from home.”

Mary gave her a warm smile. “You teach well, cherie. It remembers me that I—”

“Reminds me,” Justine gently corrected.

“Ah,
oui, reminds
me to write letters to my English friends. You will help me with the words,
non?
”

Justine felt a pinch of excitement. What friends? About what? A plan to escape Lord Scrope’s custody? She said diplomatically, “You honor me, my lady.”

Mary looked up at the birds and melancholy stole over her face. “I would wish to be like them. To fly.”

I warrant you would,
Justine thought.
But not if I can help it
. She decided to make a bold try. “Is one of your friends the Earl of Northumberland?”

Mary gave her a sharp look. “Why should you think so?”

“He sent you that haunch of venison last week,” she said innocently. “It was delicious.”

“So he did. Yes, he has showed me kindness. Other gentlemen, too. Sir George Bowes sent a Turkey carpet.” She added bitterly, “This place where I am going, I do not know the people.”

Justine switched to French to stress her sympathy. “Bolton will not be your home for long, my lady. The inquiry commissioners will quickly dispatch this matter.” Mary herself had told Justine that the inquiry was about to begin. Not in London, but York, just fifty miles from Bolton. Elizabeth had sent a dozen commissioners to hear the case the Scots would make against Mary. The Scots, led by Mary’s half brother, the Earl of Moray, had arrived with their retinue of lawyers, while Mary had sent her loyal men Lord Herries and Bishop Leslie to lead her team. “Their findings,” Justine assured her now, “will end your purgatory in this country.”

Mary gave a mirthless laugh. “Will they, indeed?” Now that they were speaking French, her tone was both more relaxed and more pointed. She was at home in this language.

“Of course. Her Majesty’s purpose is to compel the Scottish lords to account for their conduct against you, their sovereign. I am no lawyer, but how can their actions be called anything but treasonable?”

Mary turned on her with sudden sharpness. “Do not pretend with me.”

Justine’s skin prickled with caution. “Pretend, my lady?”

“You know the purpose of this inquiry as well as I. So does all of Europe. Calling Moray to account is just the official reason. The
real
reason is to debate what everyone wants to know. Did I abet the killing of my husband.”

Justine was stunned. No one in Mary’s retinue ever mentioned the murder of Lord Darnley to her face. But what an opportunity! She quickly gathered her wits. “That tragedy is past, my lady. I know the talk continues, but Her Majesty’s intention is to put an end to it.”

“Bah. It has just begun.”

“Then you shall stop it. With the truth.”

Mary looked her dead in the eye. “Will I? Do you know the truth?” Her tone was a challenge, almost a taunt. “Go ahead. Ask me.”

Justine was itching to do it.
Did you order your husband’s death?
She opened her mouth to say the words.

“Dinner, my lady,” a man’s voice rang out.

Startled, both women turned. Lord Scrope was trotting back to them. “We’ll set the tables under those trees,” he said, pointing to a shady copse of holly and hazel. Justine could have screamed at him for interrupting. Mary had been so close to answering! Now the moment was lost. Already, Scrope’s men of the vanguard were turning their horses off the road.

“Thank you, my lord, you are kind,” said Mary, suddenly all charming complaisance. The instant change in her unnerved Justine. It was as though their dangerous talk of murder had not happened.

Scrope wiped sweat off his upper lip with the back of his gloved hand. “I warrant you are saddle weary, my lady, so rest as long as you like.”
What a fool he is,
thought Justine. Mary was an excellent horsewoman, known to love hunting and hawking, and her smooth face bore not a trace of fatigue. She could probably outride Scrope. Justine glanced nervously at the woods that flanked the road ahead. If Mary’s supporters intended an ambush, they would find their prize ready and willing to ride.

 

Bolton Castle, a fortress staked on the moors, was a quadrangle of four gray stone ranges around a central courtyard, with bulky rectangular towers rising at each corner. The entourage rode in before nightfall. No ambush. No mishap. Nothing but tired ladies and bored men-at-arms looking forward to a tasty supper and soft feather beds in the comfortable chambers of Lord Scrope’s castle.

Justine helped Jane and Margaret unpack Mary’s wardrobe as maidservants bustled to lay fresh linen sheets on the royal guest’s bed, tack up the final tapestry on the wall, scatter sweet herbs among the floor rushes, and light candles in the deepening dusk. Mary lounged in a bath.

It was dark by the time she and her ladies finished a light but succulent meal of roast capon and fig tart. During it, Mary had given an audience to Scrope’s chamberlain and the captain of his castle guard, both of whom seemed in awe of her poise and beauty. Justine was used to seeing men gaze slack-jawed at the Queen of Scots. Women, too.
How little it takes to impress people,
she thought. Surface glitter. Yet she had to admire Mary’s gentle way with inferiors. Haughty she was, always the queen, but with a mildness of manner, never raising her voice to servants, that seemed to make maids and footmen stand taller in her presence.

“Stay with me, cherie,” she murmured to Justine as Margaret and Jane moved to the door, dismissed for the night.

“Of course, my lady.” Justine hid her surprise and delight. Hoping to resume their conversation cut short on the road, she had been about to ask if Mary wanted her to stay and read to her. “Shall we continue with Sir Thomas Wyatt’s sonnets?”

“No, no,” Mary said with a sigh, “enough of English.” She strolled to the casement where the window stood open letting in the evening breeze, earthy with the smells of cut hay and ripening fruit. Torchlight winked in the distance across the fields. “We’ll sit here, cherie. And sew.”

Justine fetched her embroidery hoop and basket of silk yarns and Mary’s cherrywood box of beads. She had seen Mary at work on bracelets for friends, male and female, eye-catching creations that were her own design. Justine pulled their chairs to the window and they sat side by side, rummaging through the yarn and beads, discussing which colors to choose. Justine settled back to ply her needle through the stretched linen while Mary worked at stringing a bracelet of garnet beads and tiny glass pearls. Justine was all thumbs at embroidery; she had no knack. Mary’s needlework was superb, as was her skill with these bracelets, and Justine told her so.

Mary’s smile was rueful. “A skill I honed in the long days at Loch Leven.” Justine understood: her eleven months as a prisoner in a tower on an island in Loch Leven. Mary added bitterly, “As Moray’s guest.”

She always called her half brother “Moray,” which sounded odd to Justine, as though the two were not kin. They had had the same royal father, James V, but while Mary’s mother had been his wife and queen, he had sired this son between adulterous sheets. The boy had been raised almost on an equal footing with Mary, though, and given the best education, and they had once been close; in the early days of her reign she had ennobled him as the Earl of Moray. Then rivalry for power had shattered their friendship. Each was now the other’s mortal enemy.

Mary said, while slipping a shiny pearl onto the silver wire, “He’ll be as eager as a new-trained hawk now that Elizabeth has cut him loose from her jesses. This inquiry is his grand chance to ruin me.”