Blood Between Queens (24 page)

“So it’s true. Geoffrey Croft died at our hands.”

He did not like the horrified note in her voice. “Justine, that unfortunate event was our family’s only transgression. If John went too far, it was because the Thornleighs drove him to it. They are murderers.”

She looked at him fiercely. “You lie.”

“No. I never told you about it. You were a mere child. And when we moved north to Yeavering Hall, we were so far away from them I thought we were safe from their butchery. That
you
were safe.”

She recoiled at the word. “Butchery? How can you say such a thing?”

“What else would you call it? Richard Thornleigh beat my father to death. He did it with a fire iron. Beat him, a frail old man, until his face was bloody pulp. Ask Thornleigh yourself. He cannot deny it—he went to prison for it. Ask Isabel, his daughter. She was there, watching, as Thornleigh struck my father again and again with that poker until he crumpled and lay bleeding and dying at Thornleigh’s feet.”

She gaped at him, her breath stilled.

“His wife, that heretic, is a murderer just as vicious. She came into my brother John’s house when he was at supper with his family and she attacked him with a knife.”

“What? Lady Thornleigh?”

“She fell on John in front of his children. Stabbed him sixteen times. You don’t believe me? It’s all there in the public record of her trial. Over a dozen witnesses testified against her. Honor Thornleigh was convicted and she was sentenced to hang. But her bosom friend, the new queen Elizabeth, pardoned her. And then ennobled her husband. Richard Thornleigh, the murderer, was made Baron Thornleigh. Those devils took my father’s life and my brother’s life. They took Yeavering Hall. They took
you
. Justine, the blood spilled is all Grenville blood, and it is on Richard Thornleigh’s hands.”

“But they never . . . spoke a word of this.”

He took her hand that held the crucifix and held it between his hands. “It is you who have been wronged the most. My property should have been your inheritance. Instead, Thornleigh doles out largesse to you as if you are his poor relation. It grieves me, daughter. Grieves me to my soul. A father longs to provide for his child. Thornleigh robbed me even of that.”

Her hand lay motionless in his. He could see how rocked she was, how defenseless. He sensed that he no longer needed the cudgel of facts to bring her over to his side; his best weapon now was a feather. “My darling girl,” he said, slipping his arm around her shoulders. “Forgive me for troubling you with these old woes. Eight years is a long time to let fury fester. Too long, I think. It has drained me. And after all, I can do nothing to change the past. I want peace. For your sake. There is nothing in England for me, but your future lies here. I want that future to be unclouded and free, as open as your sweet face.”

He snugged her closer to him, and she, looking pale and confused, leaned against him. Luxuriating in her trust, Christopher almost did not dare move.

“I feel so . . . lost.” Her voice was as thin as a reed.

“No, my dear, you are found. Nothing can sever a father’s love, and it will be with you always, even if I cannot. Remember our happier days at Yeavering Hall? Think on that, and know that you are loved.”

She looked up at him. “Father, I was there. Not a month ago.”

“At Yeavering Hall?”

She nodded. “It felt strange . . . worse than strange.” Her voice became hushed, stricken. “My friend Alice . . . do you remember Alice Boyer?”

A shiver of caution touched his scalp. Where had this question come from? “The gardener’s daughter, wasn’t she? Didn’t you two romp together as children?”

“Yes.” Her eyes on him were troubled pools. “She was murdered. In Kirknewton. In the church.”

He forced himself to keep his arm calmly around her shoulders. “How terrible. Who could have done such a thing?”

“I don’t know. No one knows. But I have made a vow to find out. Because . . . it was my fault.”

“What? How?”

“I sent Alice there . . . arranged work for her at Yeavering Hall. If I hadn’t, she might still be alive.” She looked down at the crucifix in her lap. “Maybe it’s hopeless. All I’ve found out is that a man was seen running away from the church. I don’t know if he witnessed the murder or committed it. Or neither. They say he’s gone to London.”

The man in the churchyard! Christopher asked as calmly as he could, “But you don’t know this man’s name?”

She shook her head. “But I have to try to find him, because . . .” Her voice wavered. “I feel as though everyone is turning into . . . someone else. As though . . . I don’t know who I am.” She took a breath. “Alice was my friend. That is one thing that will not change. I will keep my vow. If I don’t . . . I’ll have turned into someone else, too.”

J
ustine reached the stables, her thoughts as chaotic as the wind-wild shreds of straw swirling at her feet. She made her way to the mews, the falconer’s domain tucked into an elbow of the stables where a double-door system kept the birds from escaping. She opened the first door, and once it had closed behind her she crossed the dim narrow space to the next one. As she reached for the latch she felt shaky. A door seemed to be closing on her whole world, on everything she had thought was fixed and unchanging. The kind Thornleighs . . . her lost father . . . her duty to Elizabeth . . . her future with Will. She gripped the latch hard, needing its metal coldness to ground herself. She took a steadying breath and pulled open the door to the mews.

Mary stood near the birds’ perches, and at the sound of the door she looked over her shoulder. A peregrine falcon sat on her thickly gloved hand and it jerked its head at Justine, nervous at seeing the stranger. Two freelofted birds, a gyrfalcon and a goshawk, also peered at her from their perches. Sunlight fell in stripes between the slatted partition that separated the mews from the outdoor weathering yard, and through the slats Justine saw the falconer, a grizzled old greybeard, tossing pea gravel in handfuls around the weathering yard like a farmer sowing seed.

“We missed you at dinner, cherie,” Mary said pleasantly. Using her knuckle, she stroked the falcon’s slate-gray back to soothe it. “Especially your skill on the lute,” she added with a smile in her voice. “Margaret performs an unpleasing solo.”

“Forgive me, my lady. I had cause. I have been speaking with . . . my father.”

Mary’s head jerked up. She cast a nervous glance at the weathering yard. They were speaking French, a language Justine doubted the old falconer understood. Even if he could, he was too far away to hear. Nevertheless, she kept her voice low.

“I do not mean to alarm you, my lady. Only to thank you for your trust.” She lifted the pendant crucifix from under her bodice to show her, then let it fall back inside.

Mary’s lips curved in a slow smile. “Ah.”

“My lady, may I . . . ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“How long have you known I was Christopher Grenville’s daughter?”

“Not long. Days.”

“But why did—” She stopped. It was not her place to interrogate a queen.

“Go on, cherie. You have leave.”

“Why did you not tell me he was serving you?”

“Because he is not safe in England. He has taken a great risk to come to me.”

“He is not at risk from
me
.”

A nod and a smile. “I told him so.”

Justine heard the warmth in Mary’s assurance and was moved. Again, she stammered, “Thank you.”

“Poor Justine. Was it a shock, seeing him?”

She looked down. There were no words for the tumult in her heart.

“It must have been hard for you,” Mary said, “living all these years as someone else.”

Justine had no answer. She still felt more Lord Thornleigh’s daughter than her father’s. Her father had deserted her. Lord Thornleigh had raised her, cared for her, counseled her, championed her union with Will. Yet her father’s accusations chilled her. When she pictured Lord Thornleigh beating her grandfather to death . . . Lady Thornleigh stabbing her uncle John . . . horror stalled her mind. She felt like a rider halted by fog, unsure of what lay ahead or behind. She didn’t know the truth of anything. All she knew for certain was that she could not betray her father. She would not send him to the gallows.

“We all have our crosses to bear, cherie,” Mary murmured. She turned her attention to the peregrine falcon whose yellow claws were clamped on her wrist. From one of its legs a thin leather cord looped, tethering the bird to its perch, a square of wood on a post. “This poor fellow has hurt his wing.” She gently stroked its neck. “I know how he feels. When Scrope allows me to go hawking, I am hemmed in by his men-at-arms so that I cannot fly.”

“If you could, my father says your friends in France would welcome you.”

Mary heaved a sigh, preening the bird. “So he tells me.”

Justine took a deep breath. This was why she had come. “My lady, can I help you fly there?” She had bent her troubled mind to the problem as soon as she had left her father on the battlements. If nothing else seemed clear, this solution did. If Mary went to France, then Justine’s burdensome mission to spy on her would end and a political crisis in Scotland would be averted, all with no harm done to Elizabeth. Her father, too, could slip back to France and live out his days there, out of harm’s way, serving Mary. Clearly, having Mary out of England would be best for everyone, so Justine had decided it was up to her to make it happen. “If you will let me,” she urged, “I shall devise a ruse to get you out. A disguise, perhaps. You escaped Loch Leven dressed as a countrywoman, did you not? I know people in the village who would assist us, for gold. With a fast horse you could reach the coast overnight. My father would secure a boat to take you across the Narrow Sea. I would ride with you and stay by your side until you sail.”

A probing look from Mary. “Would you, indeed?”

“It would be an honor.”

Mary shook her head. An injured tone hardened her voice. “No. I will not sneak away like a thief in the night. Oh, I know my enemies would love to see me reduced to such meekness, bundled off to some crumbling rural château where they can shut the gate on me and have the world forget me.” She lifted her chin. “I am a queen. The inquiry’s findings will make that clear to all. I am a
queen
. Elizabeth must respect it, and my vile brother must acknowledge it.”

Her self-delusion was jarring. There was courage and dignity, too, which Justine admired, but those qualities would not help Mary in the face of what was happening at the inquiry. “My lady, are you sure? You could make a contented life for yourself in honorable seclusion in France.”

“Contented as a cow?” Mary’s look was frosty. “I have told you, no. That is my answer. Do not mention this again.”

Justine sadly realized that she should not be surprised. Mary had never once deviated from absolute insistence on her royal rights. Nonetheless, her refusal was a blow because it now forced Justine to make a decision she had been avoiding. Did her loyalty to Lord Thornleigh and to Elizabeth leave her duty-bound to watch in silence as the inquiry shredded Mary’s reputation, making her a monster in the eyes of all Europe? It was not fair, not right, and Justine could not do it.

“In that case, my lady, there is something you should know.” The sharp eyes of the falcon glared at her as if in warning. She knew the risk, and she cleared her throat and went on. “In Bedale this morning on my errand for you, I chanced to meet an acquaintance visiting from York. He is a clerk at the inquiry, and I asked him how things are proceeding.” She felt a guilty blush warm her cheeks at the lie. Will was far more than a clerk; he was Sir William Cecil’s eyes and ears, and Lord Thornleigh’s.

Mary’s interest was keen. “Ah, there is news?”

“None to cheer you, I fear. The commissioners are in possession of some new evidence. Letters you wrote to Lord Bothwell.”

Mary frowned. “Why have I heard nothing of this? Herries or Ross should have told me.”

“Your representatives were not told. The Earl of Moray showed the letters only to the Duke of Norfolk and his fellow commissioners. Over a private dinner.” She added to maintain her story about her source, “A few of their clerks were present.”

A fierceness gleamed in Mary’s eyes. “What is Moray scheming now?”

She does not deny the letters,
Justine thought with a stab of dismay. She had to be sure. “My lady,
did
you write to Lord Bothwell?”

“Of course. He was a member of my royal council. I communicated thus with all my councilors.”

“But the letters speak of a relationship far more . . . intimate.” She hesitated. This was dangerous ground.

“Tell me.” An icy command.

Justine steeled herself. She explained what Will had said, that the letters were those of a woman to her lover. That details in them identified dates, making it clear they were written while Mary was married to Lord Darnley. That the writer had coldly discussed with Bothwell a wish to murder Darnley. She plowed on, quoting a few phrases she remembered Will quoting. “I cannot sleep according to my desire, which is between your arms.... I am so far made yours that my thoughts are willingly subdued unto yours.... I am your faithful lover, who hopes shortly to be another thing to you for the reward of my pains—”

“Lies!” The shout from Mary sent the falcon on her wrist into a panic. Wings flapping, it beat into the air, but the tether on its foot snapped taut, forcing the bird down. It made another wild attempt to fly and Justine lurched back from its flailing claws. The cord snapped it back again and it collapsed on the perch, fighting for balance. Its thrashing frightened the freelofted gyrfalcon and goshawk, and they flew in crazed circles.

“Filthy lies!” Mary paced, oblivious to the birds. “Moray forged these writings. He will stop at nothing to destroy me.” She turned on Justine. “They
all
read these lies, you say?”

“The letters were passed around, yes, and each man read parts aloud. So I was told.”

“Villains!” She yanked off her glove and hurled it. It slapped the far wall. The gyrfalcon flapped and shrieked, “Kak! Kak! Kak!”

“What’s amiss?” the old falconer cried, hobbling in from the weathering yard. His rheumy eyes took in the birds’ distress. “Your Grace, be you hurt?” He looked terrified that her wrath would fall on him.

“Get out,” she said.

“No hurt has come to my lady,” Justine assured him. “Please, go. She and I must speak in private.”

He shuffled out, bewildered, bowing abjectly. Mary continued to pace in furious indignation. “Moray is out to make me look a fiend. So are they all!” The falcon she had been stroking thrashed feebly on its perch, in pain from its injured wing. Mary walked past it. The other two alarmed birds sought perches farther away. “No doubt they will send these letters to Elizabeth.”

“So I was told.”

She suddenly halted. “Wait.” She seemed afire with fresh energy. “This may not be so bad, then. Once I have seen the forgeries I will rip Moray’s so-called evidence to shreds. I will make him tremble at his perjury. Yes! Elizabeth will be honor-bound to give me justice.”

“My lady, it pains me to tell you this. You are not to be shown the letters.”

Mary looked stricken. “Not . . . ? But how can I fight something I cannot even
see?
What kind of justice is that?”

Justine parroted Will’s words, ashamed of them. “They say the rules of evidence do not apply because this is not a trial.”

Mary’s face was pale. “Done in secret, then? I see now . . . a conspiracy to ruin me.” She covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders heaved. “Dear God in heaven.” She was sobbing. “These men have sealed my doom.”

Justine watched, pity reaming her heart, hating that she had no comfort to offer. She wrapped her arm around Mary. It was a liberty, embracing this royal person like a close friend, but Mary’s plight touched a chord in her that sadly sang of Alice. “Would it make a difference if you
could
see the letters?”

The pale face lifted. “Of course. All the difference.”

“You could prove they are forgeries?”

“I am sure I could. The counterfeiters will have made mistakes. Details of phrasing, or names, or places . . . something. I would root out the errors and prove that I am innocent.”

Innocent. Thank goodness.
“Then, my lady, there may be a way.” Justine’s heart beat wildly at the offer she was about to make.
Does this make me a traitor?
With a pang she thought of her father fleeing Yeavering Hall eight year ago.
Is treason in my blood?
But Mary’s tearstained face was answer enough. Giving her a chance to fight the inquiry’s secret dealings was the opposite of treason. It was mere justice.

“Take heart,” she said. “If you need the letters, I will get them for you.”

 

Christopher slipped into the Bolton Castle chapel at midnight. He had come silently through the priest’s darkened room and the first thing he saw was Mary kneeling before the altar. Head bowed, she had not seen him. He glanced around to make sure they were alone. He could not afford to have anyone see him here. Especially Justine.

In the gloom a few votive candles flickered. The chapel was silent. Outside, the wind had died. He and Mary were alone.
Let her finish her prayer,
he thought. He had news for her, but he still felt shaken by his talk with Justine. He had arrived back from London this morning and had waited for nightfall to meet Mary here, but any hope of a quiet few hours of rest had been blasted by seeing his daughter. What a wondrous and disturbing reunion! Wondrous because he felt sure he had begun to win her over, win her back from Thornleigh’s thrall. But disturbing because of what she had said about Alice Boyer. About the man seen running away. A witness—that’s what Christopher dreaded. How much had the man seen? Who was he? He had apparently disappeared, but could Justine track him? She did not know his name, and if he had gone to London, as she said, he would be next to impossible to trace, especially since she was hundreds of miles away, here with Mary.
Mary
—all Christopher’s hopes returned to her, as always. If she became queen of England his guilt would be moot. She could pardon any crime. Ennoble him to be a peer of the realm. His past subsumed in a glorious future.

“My lady,” he said eagerly as he saw her get to her feet.

She whirled around. Her face looked drawn, fretful. “Where have you been? I’ve been
waiting
.”